CHAPTER I.

Of THE NATURE OF ANIMALS.

As all our knowledge turns upon the relations by which one object

differs from another, if there existed no brute animals, the nature of

the human being would be still more incomprehensible. Having considered

man in himself, ought we not to derive every assistance, by comparing

him with the other parts of the animal creation? We will proceed then

to examine the nature of animals, to compare their organization, to

study their general economy, thereby to make particular applications,

to mark resemblances, to reconcile the differences; and from the

assemblage of those combinations, to distinguish the principal effects

of the living mechanism, and to make a further progress in that

important knowledge of which man is the object.

We will begin by reducing within its proper limits a subject which,

at first view, appears to be immense. The properties of matter which

animals possess in common with inanimate beings come not within our

present consideration, and which we have already fully treated upon.

For the same reason we shall reject such qualities as are found equally

to belong to the vegetable and to the animal. As in the class of

animals we comprehend a number of animated beings, whose organization

is highly different from that of man, as well as from more perfect

animals, so we shall wave the consideration of them, and confine

ourselves to those animals which have evidently the greatest affinity

to us.

But as the nature of man is superior to that of animals, so of that

superiority we shall study to demonstrate the cause, in order that we

may distinguish what is peculiar to man, from what belongs to him in

common with other animals.

Previous to an examination of the minute parts of the animal machine,

and their peculiar functions, let us view the general result of this

mechanism, and, without at first reasoning upon causes, confine

ourselves to an elucidation and description of effects.

An animal has two modes of existence; that of motion, or awake, and

rest, or asleep; and which, while life lasts, succeed each other

alternately. In the former, all the springs of the machine are in

action; in the latter, there is only a part of them so, and this part

acts as well while the animal is asleep as while it is awake, and is

therefore absolutely necessary since the animal cannot exist without

it. It is also independent of the other, as it acts of itself; the

former, on the contrary, depends on the latter, as it cannot exercise

itself alone. The one is a fundamental part of the animal economy,

since it acts continually and without interruption; the other is less

essential, since it acts but by internals.

The first division of the animal economy appears general and well

founded. An animal when asleep is more easy to be examined than when

awake and in motion. This difference is essential, and not a simple

change of situation as in an inanimate body, which may be equally and

indifferently at rest or in motion; for in either of these states

it would perpetually remain, unless constrained to quit it by some

external power or resistance. By its own powers the animal changes its

condition; and naturally, and without constraint, it passes from repose

to action, and from action to repose. The period for awaking returns

as necessarily as that for sleep, and both arrive independent of any

foreign cause; since in either state the animal cannot exist but for

a certain time, and an uninterrupted continuity of either would be

equally fatal, to life.

In the animal economy, therefore, we may distinguish two parts; the

one acts perpetually without interruption, and the other acts only by

intervals. The action of the heart and lungs in animals that breathe,

and of the heart in the foetus, seem to constitute the former as

does the action of the senses, and the movements of the members of the

latter.

If we imagine beings endowed by nature with only the first part of this

animal economy, though deprived of sense and progressive motion, would

yet be animated, and differ in nothing from animals asleep. An oyster

which appears to have no external sense or progressive motion, is a

being formed to sleep for ever. In this sense a vegetable is merely

a sleeping animal, and in general every organized being destitute of

sense and motion may be compared to an animal doomed by Nature to a

perpetual sleep.

In animals, then, sleep is not an accidental state, occasioned by the

exertions of their functions while awake. It is, on the contrary,

an essential mode of existence, which serves as a basis to an

animal economy. By sleep our existence begins; the foetus sleeps

continually, and the infant is more often asleep than awake. Sleep,

therefore, which seems to be a state purely passive, resembling that

of death, is, on the contrary, that which a living animal first

experiences, and is the very foundation of life.

Confined solely to that part which acts continually, the most perfect

animal will not appear to differ from those beings to which we can

scarcely give the appellation of animal. As to external functions,

it would be nearly upon a level with a vegetable; for however

different the internal organization of animals and vegetables may

be, the inferences will be the same. They each receive nourishment,

grow, expand, have external motions, and a vegetating life. But of

progressive motion, action, and sentiment, they will be equally

destitute; nor be endowed with any interior or apparent character

by which animal life may be distinguished. Investing, however, this

internal part with senses and members, animal life will presently

manifest itself; and the more this cover shall contain of sense and

members, the more will the animal life be perfect. It is by this

investment that animals differ from each other. The internal part

belongs, without exception, to all animals; and is nearly the same in

all which have flesh and blood. The external cover, however, is widely

different; and it is at its extremities that the greatest differences

subsist.

In order to elucidate this argument, let us compare the body of a man

with that of a horse or an ox. In each the heart and lungs, or the

organs of circulation, and of respiration, are nearly the same; but the

external cover is highly different. The materials of the animal body,

though the parts are similar to those of the human, vary greatly as to

number, size, and position; and thereby the dissimilitudes in their

respective forms are rendered very wide. Besides, we shall find that

the greatest differences are at the extremities; for in dividing the

body into three principal parts, the trunk, the head, and the members,

we find, that in the head and members, which are the extremities of

the body, consist, the most material difference between man and other

animals. We discover that the greatest difference in the trunk is at

the two extremities; since in men there are clavicles at the upper

extremity, which in animals are wanting; and the under extremity of

animals is terminated by a tail, consisting of a certain number of

exterior vertebræ, which the human body is without. The inferior

extremity of the head also, as the jawbones, and the upper extremity,

as the bones the forehead, differ prodigiously in man and beast.

Finally, by comparing the members of a man with those of other animals,

we plainly perceive it is at the extremities they differ most, as no

two things bear less resemblance to each other, than the human hand

with the foot of a horse or an ox.

Taking the heart then for the centre of the animal machine, we find in

that and other adjacent parts, there is a perfect resemblance between

man and other animals: but the more we remove from this centre,

the more they become different; and when in the centre itself there

is found any difference, then the animal is infinitely more distant

from man, and possesses nothing in common with those animals we are

now considering. In most insects, for example, there is a peculiar

organization of this principal part of the animal economy. Instead of

heart and lungs, they have parts which, being subservient to the vital

functions, have been considered as analogous to those viscera, but

which in reality widely differ from them, both in structure and result

of action, and therefore are insects to the last degree different from

man and other animals. A minute difference in the centrical parts is

always accompanied with an infinitely greater in the exterior parts.

The tortoise, whose heart is of a peculiar structure, is a very

extraordinary animal, and has not the smallest resemblance to any other

animated being.

In considering men, quadrupeds, birds, cetaceous animals, fishes,

reptiles, &c. what prodigious variety do we find in the figure and

proportion of their bodies, in the number and position of their

members, in the substance of their flesh and bones? Quadrupeds have

generally tails and horns; cetaceous animals live in another element,

and though their mode of generation is similar to that of quadrupeds,

yet they differ greatly from them in form, having no inferior

extremities; birds differ still more by their beaks, feathers, wings,

and their propagation by eggs; fishes and amphibious animals are yet

farther removed from the human form, and reptiles have no members.

In the whole exterior covering there is the greatest diversity, the

interior conformation being nearly the same; they have all a heart, a

liver, a stomach, intestines, and organs for generation; these ought to

be considered as parts the most essential to the animal economy, since

they are the most fixed, and least subjected to variation.

But it is to be observed that, even in the cover, there are some parts

more fixed than others. Of all the senses none of these animals are

divested. We have already explained what may be their sensation of

feeling. What may be the nature of their smelling and taste we know

not, but we are assured they all enjoy the sense of seeing, and perhaps

that of hearing also. The senses may be considered, then, as another

essential part of the animal economy, as well as the brain, from which

sensation derives its origin. Even insects, which differ so much in

the centre of the animal economy, have a part analogous to the brain,

and its functions resemble those of other animals; and such as the

oyster, which seems to be deprived of a brain, ought to be considered

as only half-animated, and as filling up an intermediate space between

the animal and the vegetable kingdoms.

As the heart is the centre of the interior part of the animal, so is

the brain the centre of the cover. In like manner as the heart, and

all the interior parts, communicate with the brain and exterior cover,

by means of the blood-vessels, the brain communicates with the heart,

and with all the interior parts, by means of the nerves. This union

appears to be intimate and reciprocal, and though of these two organs

the functions are absolutely different, yet they can never be separated

without the instant death of the animal.

The heart and the whole interior part acts continually without

interruption, and independent of any exterior cause; but the senses

and exterior part act only by alternate intervals, when affected by

external causes. Objects act upon the senses, the senses modify this

action, and carry the impression modified into the brain, where it

becomes what we term sensation. In consequence of this impression

the brain acts on the nerves, and communicates the vibration it has

received; and this vibration it is which produces progression, and all

the other exterior actions of the body. Whenever a cause acts upon a

body, we know that the body also acts upon the cause. Thus objects act

upon animals by means of the senses, and animals act upon the object by

its exterior movements. In general action is the cause, and re-action

the effect.

It may be said, that in solid bodies, which follow the laws of

mechanism, the re-action is always equal to the action; but that in the

animal body it appears that the re-action is greater than the action,

and that the other exterior movements ought not to be considered

as simple effects of the impression of objects upon the senses. To

this objection I reply, that though in certain cases effects appear

proportioned to their causes, there is in Nature an infinite number of

cases where the effects bear no kind of proportion to their apparent

causes. By a single spark of fire a magazine of powder may be set in

flame, and a citadel be blown up. By electricity a slight friction

produces a violent shock, which is communicated to great distances, and

if a thousand persons touch each other, they would all be almost as

much affected by it as if the shock had been confined to each of them

individually. It is not, then, extraordinary that a slight impression

on the senses should produce in the animal body a violent re-action,

and should manifest itself by exterior movements.

The causes we are qualified to ascertain, and the quantity of whose

effects we can precisely estimate, are less numerous than those whose

mode of action is unknown, and of whose proportional relation with

their effects, we are entirely ignorant. Now most effects in Nature

depend on a number of causes differently combined, whose actions vary,

and seem to be determined by no established law, consequently we can

only form a conjectural estimate by endeavouring to approximate the

truth by the means of probabilities.

I pretend not, then, to assert as a demonstrative fact, that

progressive and other exterior movements of animals, are caused solely

by the impression of objects upon the senses. I mention it merely as

likely, and founded on principles of analogy, since all organized

beings, which are destitute of sense, are likewise destitute of

progressive motion, and that all those which possess the one have also

the other.

To illustrate these observations let us briefly analyze the physical

principles of our actions. When an object strikes any of our senses,

and the sensation it produces is agreeable, it creates a desire, which

desire must have a relation to some of our qualities or modes of

enjoyment. The object we cannot desire but either to see, taste, hear,

smell, or to touch. We desire it merely that we may render the first

sensation still more agreeable, or to excite another which is a new

manner of enjoying the object; for if in the moment that we perceive

an object we could enjoy it fully, through all the senses at once, we

should have nothing to desire. The source of desire, then, is our being

badly situated with respect to the object perceived, our being either

too far from, or too near to it. This being the case we naturally

change our situation, because at the same time that we perceive the

object, we likewise perceive the cause which prevents our obtaining a

full enjoyment of it. From the impression which the object produces

upon our senses, then, the motion we make in consequence of that

desire, and the desire itself, solely proceeds.

An object we perceive by the eye, and which we desire to touch, if

within our reach, we stretch forth our hands, and if at a distance

we put ourselves in motion to approach it. A man deeply immersed in

thought, if he is hungry, and there is a piece of bread before him,

he will seize it, and even carry it to his mouth and eat it, without

being conscious that he has done so. These movements are a necessary

consequence of the first impressions of objects, and would never fail

to succeed this impression if other intervening impressions did not

often oppose this natural effect, either by weakening or by destroying

the action of the first.

An organized being void of sensation, as an oyster, whose sense of

feeling is probably very imperfect, is deprived not only of progressive

motion, but even of sentiment and intelligence, as either of these

would produce desire, which would manifest itself by exterior movement.

That such beings are divested of a sense of their own existence I will

not assert, but at least that sense must be very imperfect, since they

have no perception of the existence of others.

It is the action of objects upon the senses which creates desire, and

desire progressive motion. In order to render this truth still more

sensible, let us suppose a man, at the instant his will incites him

to approach an object, suddenly deprived of all his members, his body

reduced to a physical point, to a globular atom, and, provided the

desire still subsists, he will exert his whole strength in order to

change his situation. The exterior and progressive movement depends

not, then, upon the organization and figure of the body and members,

since whatever be the conformation any of being it will not fail to

move, provided it has senses, and a desire to gratify them.

On this exterior organization, indeed, depends the facility, quickness,

direction, and continuity of motion, but the cause, principle, action,

and determination, originate solely from desire occasioned by the

impression of objects upon the senses; and if a man was deprived of

them he would no longer have desire, and consequently remain constantly

at rest, notwithstanding he might possess the faculties for motion.

The natural wants, as that of taking nourishment, are interior

movements, which necessarily create desire or appetite. By these

movements exterior motions may be produced in animals, and, provided

they are not deprived of exterior senses relative to these wants, they

will act to satisfy them. Want is not desire; it differs from it as

the cause differs from the effect. Every time the animal perceives an

object, relative to its wants, desire begins, and action follows.

The action of external objects must produce some effect; and this

effect we readily conceive to be animal motion, as every time its

senses are struck in the same manner, the same movements always follow.

But how shall we comprehend the action of objects creating desire or

aversion? How shall we obtain knowledge of that which operates beyond

the senses, those being the intermediate between the action of objects,

and the action of the animal; a power in which consists the principle

of the determination of motion, since it modifies the action of the

animal, and renders it sometimes null, notwithstanding the impression

of objects?

This question, as it relates to man, is difficult to be resolved, being

by nature so different from other animals. The soul has a share in

all our movements, and to distinguish the effects of this spiritual

substance, from those produced by the powers of our material being

alone, is an object of very great difficulty, and of which we can form

no judgment but by analogy, and by comparing our actions with the

natural operations of other animals. But as man alone is possessed of

this spiritual substance, which enables him to think and reflect, and

as the brute is a being altogether material, which neither thinks nor

reflects, nevertheless acts, and seems to determine, we cannot doubt

but that the principle of the determination of motion is in the animals

an effect altogether mechanical, and absolutely dependant upon its

organization.

I conceive, therefore, that in the animal the action on objects on the

senses produces another on the brain, which I consider as an interior

and a general sense, which receives every impression that the exterior

senses transmit to it. This internal sense is not only capable of being

agitated by the action of the senses, but also of retaining for a

length of time the agitations thus produced; and in the continuity of

the agitation consists the impression, which is more or less deep in

proportion as the agitation is more or less durable.

In the first place, then, the interior sense differs from the exterior

senses, in the property which it has of receiving all impressions,

while the exterior senses receive them merely as they relate to their

conformation; the eye, for example, being no more affected by sound

than the ear is by light. Secondly, the interior differs from the

exterior senses, by the duration of the agitations produced by exterior

causes; but in every other respect they are of the same nature. The

interior sense of the brute, as its exterior, is entirely material, and

the effect of mechanical organization. We have, like the animal, this

material sense; and we possess, moreover, a sense of a nature highly

superior, which resides in the spiritual substance, and which animates

and guides us.

The brain of the animal is, therefore, a general sense, which receives

all impressions the external senses transmit to it, and these

impressions continue much longer in the internal than in the external

senses: for instance, the agitations which light produces in the eye,

continues longer than that which sound produces on the ear.

It is on this account that the impressions, which the former transmits

to the interior sense, are more strong than those transmitted by the

latter; and that we represent to ourselves the things which we have

seen much more forcibly than those which we have heard. It is even

found, that of all the senses, the eye is that in which the agitations

are the most durable, and in which, of consequence, though seemingly

they are more explicit, the strongest impressions are formed.

The eye may therefore be considered as a continuation of the interior

sense. It is, indeed, nothing more than one large nerve expanded, and

a prolongation of the organ, in which the interior sense resides. That

in its nature there should be a greater affinity to this internal sense

is not then surprising; and in effect not only its impressions are more

durable, but its properties more eminent than those of the other senses.

The eye represents outwardly the inward impressions. Like the internal

sense, it is active, and expresses desire or aversion, while all the

other senses are wholly passive; they are merely organs formed for

the reception of exterior impressions, but incapable of retaining or

reflecting them.

When with violence, however, and for a length of time any sense is

acted upon, the agitation subsists much longer than the action of the

exterior objects. This is, however, felt most powerfully in the eye,

which will retain the dazzling impression made by looking for a moment

on the sun, for hours and even days.

The brain also eminently enjoys this property, and not only retains the

impressions it receives but propagates their actions, by communicating

the vibrations to the nerves. The organs of the exterior senses, the

brain, the spinal marrow, and the nerves, which are diffused over every

part of the body, ought to be considered as one continued substance,

as an organic machine, in which the senses are the parts acted upon by

the external objects. But what renders this machine so different from

all others is its fulcrum not only being capable of resistance and

re-action, but is itself active, because it long retains impressions it

has received; and the brain and its membranes being of great capacity

and sensibility, it may receive a number of successive agitations, and

retain them in the order in which they were received, because each

impression agitates one part of the brain only, and the successive

impressions agitate the same or contiguous parts, in a different manner.

Should we suppose an animal which had no brain, but possessing an

exterior of great sensibility and extension; an eye, for example, of

which the retina was as extensive as that of the brain, and had the

property of retaining, for a long space, the impressions it might

receive: it is certain, that the animal so endowed would see at the

same time not only the present objects, but also those it had seen

before; and seeing thus the past and the present with one glance, it

would be determined mechanically to act according to the number or

force of the agitations produced by the images which accorded with, or

were contrary to this determination. If the number of images calculated

to create an appetite surpassed those that would produce disgust or

loathing, the animal would necessarily be determined to move, in order

to satisfy that appetite: but if their number and force were equal,

having no particular cause for motion, it would remain perfectly at

rest; and if the number or the force of the images of the former are

equal to the number or the force of the images of the latter, the

animal will remain undetermined, and in an equilibrium between these

two equal powers, nor will he make any movement either to obtain

or to avoid. This I say it would do mechanically, and without the

intervention of memory; for as the animal sees at the same time all

the images, they consequently act, and those which have an affinity

to appetite and desire, counteract those which have an affinity to

antipathy and disgust; and it is by the preponderance of either, that

determines it to act in this or in that manner.

It is evident, therefore, that in brutes the interior sense differs

in nothing from the exterior but in the property of retaining the

impressions it has received, a property by which alone all the actions

of animals may be explained, and some idea obtained of what passes

within them; a property which likewise demonstrates the essential and

infinite difference which subsists between them and us, and from which

may be distinguished in what respects they are similar.

The degrees of excellence in the senses do not follow the same order in

the brute as in the human species. The sense which has the strongest

affinity to thought, is the touch. This is enjoyed by man in greater

perfection than by animals. That which has the strongest affinity

to instinct and appetite, is that of smelling; a sense in which man

must acknowledge an infinite inferiority. Man, then, has the greatest

tendency to knowledge, and the brute to appetite. In the former, the

sense first in point of excellence, is the touch, and smelling the

last; and this difference corresponds with the nature of each. The

sense of seeing is at best uncertain, without the aid of the touch,

and therefore less capable of perfection in the brute than in man. The

ear, though perhaps as perfect in the former as in the latter, is of

much less use to the animal, from the want of speech, which in man is

an appendage to the sense of hearing, an organ of communication which

renders it an active sense; whereas in the other hearing is a sense

almost entirely passive. Man, then, enjoys the senses of feeling,

seeing, and hearing, more perfect, and the sense of smelling more

imperfectly than other animals; and as the taste is an inferior smell,

and has also a stronger relation to appetite than any of the other

senses, there is a sufficient probability to suppose that animals

enjoy it in a more exquisite degree than man. Of this a proof might

be adduced from the repugnance which animals have to certain kinds of

food, and from their natural appetite for such as are proper for them;

while man, unless informed of the difference, would eat the fruit of

one tree for that of another, and even hemlock for parsley.

The excellence of the senses proceeds from Nature; but art and habit

may render them still more perfect. A painter sees, at the first

glance, numbers of shades and differences, which another person will

pass over unnoticed. A musician, always habituated to harmony, receives

a lively sensation of pain from discord. In like manner are the senses,

and even appetites of animals rendered more perfect. Birds may be

taught to repeat words, and imitate tunes; and the ardour of a dog for

the chace may be increased by accustoming him to a certain reward.

In proportion as these senses are acute and perfect does the animal

shew itself active and intelligent. In man the improvement is not

so conspicuous, because he exercises his ear and his eye by means

more rational and ingenious. Those persons who see, hear, or smell,

imperfectly, are of no less intellectual capacity than others; an

evident proof that in man there is something more than an internal

animal sense. This is the soul of man, which is a superior sense, a

spiritual substance, entirely different in its essence and action from

the nature of the external senses.

From this, however, we are not to deny that there is in man an internal

material sense corresponding with the external senses. But what I

maintain is, that the latter is infinitely subordinate to the other;

that the spiritual substance governs it, and either destroys or creates

its operations. In the animal this sense is the determinating principle

of motion, but in man only the means, or the secondary cause.

Let us endeavour to clear up this important point, and let us see what

power this internal material sense possesses, and what it is capable

of producing. The internal material sense receives promiscuously all

the impressions the external senses transmit to it. These impressions

proceed from the action of objects; they only pass over the external

senses, and produce in them but an instantaneous vibration; they

rest, however, upon the internal sense, and produce in the brain,

which is its organ, durable and distinct agitations. These vibrations

create appetite or disgust, inclination or repugnance, according

to the present state and disposition of an animal. An animal, the

instant after its birth, begins to breathe, and to feel the want of

nourishment; the smell, which is the sense of appetite, receives the

emanations of the milk which is contained in the teats of its mother.

The vibrations which this sense undergoes, from the odoriferous

particles, are communicated to the brain, which acting, in its turn,

upon the nerves, the animal is stimulated to open its mouth, to obtain

that sustenance of which it feels the want. The sense of appetite being

less acute in man than in brutes, the infant at its birth feels only

the desire of receiving nourishment, which it announces by its cries,

but it cannot obtain it of itself; it receives no information from the

smell, and is obliged to have its mouth put to the nipple, when the

agitations, excited by the touch and smell, are communicated to the

brain and nerves, and the child makes the necessary motions for sucking

in its nourishment. Solely by the smell and taste, the senses of

appetite, can the animal be informed of the presence of its food, and

of the place where it is, as its eyes are still closed, and would, even

if they were open, in no degree contribute towards the determination of

motion. Vision has a greater relation to knowledge than to appetite,

and in man the eye is open from the moment of his birth; in most

animals it is shut for several days, but in whom the senses of appetite

are far more expanded, and more perfect.

The same remark is alike applicable to progressive motion, and to all

the other exterior movements. A new-born infant can hardly move its

members, and it is a long time before it attains strength sufficient to

change its place, but in a very little time does a young animal acquire

these faculties. In the animal these powers relate solely to the

appetite, which is vehement, quickly developed, and the sole principle

of motion; in man the appetite is weak, more slowly developed, and can

have less influence than knowledge upon the determination of motion;

man is necessarily, in this respect, more backward than the animal.

Every thing concurs then to prove, even in a physical sense, that

brutes are actuated by appetite alone, and that man is governed by a

superior principle. If doubts still exist, it is from our imperfect

conception how appetite alone is capable of producing, in animals,

effects so much resembling those which knowledge produces among

ourselves; and from the difficulty we have to distinguish what we do

in virtue of knowledge, from what we do by the mere force of appetite.

Yet, in my opinion, it is not impossible to dispel this uncertainty.

The internal material sense retains for a long time the agitations it

receives; it is a sense of which the brain is the organ, and by which

all the impressions are received that each of the exterior senses

transmits to it. When, therefore, an exterior impression proceeds from

the senses of appetite, the animal will advance to attain, or draw

back to avoid, the object of this impression. This motion, however, is

liable to uncertainty when produced by the eye or the ear; because,

when an animal sees, or hears, for the first time, he will be agitated

by light or by sound; yet this agitation will be uncertain, since

neither have any relation to appetite. It is only by repeated acts of

seeing and hearing, added to the senses of taste and feeling, that

it will actually advance or recede from objects which become relative

to its appetite. A dog, for instance, who has been tutored, however

violent his appetite, will not seize what might satisfy that appetite,

although he will use every gesture to obtain it from the hand of its

master. Does not this animal seem to reason between desire and fear,

nearly as a man would do, who was inclined to seize upon the property

of another, but was withheld by the dread of punishment? Though this

analogy may be just; yet to render it in effect well-founded, should

not animals be capable of performing the same actions that we perform?

Now the contrary is evident; as nothing do animals either invent or

perfect; in every thing they have an uniformity, and consequently no

reflection. Of this analogy then we may doubt its reality, and may with

propriety enquire, whether it is not by a principle different from

ours that brutes are directed? and whether, without being under the

necessity of allowing them the aid of reflection, the senses they enjoy

are not sufficient to produce the actions they perform?

Whatever relates to their appetites strongly agitates their interior

sense; and on the object of this appetite the dog would instantly

rush, did not this very sense retain the impressions of pain which had

formerly accompanied this action. By exterior impressions the animal

has been modified. This prey is not presented to a dog simply, but

to one which has been chastised every time it obeyed this impulse of

appetite; the agitations of pain, therefore, are renewed when those of

appetite are felt, having been constantly felt at the same time. The

animal being thus impelled at once by two contrary powers, two powers

destructive of each other, remains between them in an equilibrium; and,

as the determinate cause of its motion is counterbalanced, it makes no

effort to attain the object of its appetite. Though the agitations of

appetite and repugnance, or of pleasure and pain, destroy the effect

of each other, in the brain a third vibration takes place, which

accompanies the other two, and this is occasioned by the action of its

master, from whose hand the animal has often received its food; and

as this is in no degree opposed or counterbalanced, it becomes the

determinative cause of motion; and the dog is therefore determined to

move towards its master, and to remain in motion till its appetite is

entirely satisfied.

In the same manner, and upon the same principles, may we explain,

however complicated they appear, all the actions of animals, without

allowing them either thought or reflection; the internal sense being

sufficient to produce all their movements. The nature of their

sensations alone remains to be elucidated, which, from what we have

asserted, must be widely different from ours. "Have animals, it may

be said, no knowledge, no consciousness of their existence? Do you

deprive them of sentiment? In pretending to explain their actions upon

mechanical principles, do you not in fact render them mere machines, or

insensible automatons?"

If I have been rightly understood, it must have appeared that, far from

divesting animals of all powers, I allow them every thing, thought

and reflection excepted. Feelings they have, in a degree superior to

ourselves. A consciousness they also have of their present, though not

of their past existence. They have sensations, but they have not the

faculty of comparing them, or of producing ideas: ideas being nothing

more than associations of sensations.

Each of these objects let us examine in particular. That animals have

feelings, and in a degree even more exquisite than ourselves, I think

we have already evinced, by what we have said of the excellence of

their senses relative to appetite. Like ourselves then, animals are

affected by pleasure and pain; they do not know good and evil, but they

feel it; what is agreeable to them is good, what is disagreeable is

bad, and both are nothing more than relations, suitable, or contrary to

their nature and organization. The pleasure of tickling, and the pain

from a hurt, as they depend absolutely on an action more or less strong

upon the nerves, which are the organs of sentiment, are alike common

to man and other animals. Whatever acts softly upon these organs, is a

cause of pleasure, and whatever shakes them violently, is a cause of

pain. All sensations, then, are sources of pleasure, while they are

moderate, and natural; but so soon as they become too strong, they

produce pain, which, in a physical sense, is the extreme, rather than

the opposite of pleasure.

A light too bright, a fire too hot, a noise too loud, a smell too

strong, coarse victuals and severe friction, excite in us disagreeable

sensations; whereas a delicate colour, a moderate heat, a soft sound,

a gentle perfume, a fine savour, and light touch, please and move

us with delight. Every gentle application to the senses, then, is a

pleasure, and every violent shock a pain; and as the causes which

occasion violent, happen more rarely in Nature than those which produce

mild and moderate effects; and as animals, by the exercise of their

senses, acquire in a little time the habit of avoiding every thing

offensive or hurtful to them, and of distinguishing, and of approaching

such as are pleasing; so without doubt they enjoy more agreeable

sensations than disagreeable ones, and the amount of their pleasures

exceed the amount of their pain.

In man, physical pleasure and pain form the smallest part of his

sufferings or enjoyments. His imagination, never idle, seems

perpetually employed to increase his misery; presenting to the mind

nothing but vain phantoms, or exaggerated images. More agitated by

these illusions, than by real objects, the mind loses its faculty of

judging, and even its dominion; the will, of which it has no longer the

command, becomes a burthen; its extravagant desires are sorrows; and,

at best, its prospects are delusive pleasures, which vanish as soon as

the mind, resuming its place, is enabled to form a judgment of them.

In searching for pleasure, we create ourselves pain; and seeking to

be more happy, we increase our misery; the less we desire, the more

we possess. In fine, whatever we wish beyond what Nature has given is

pain; and nothing is pleasure but what she offers of herself. Nature

presents to us pleasures without number; she has provided for our

wants, and fortified us against pain. In the physical world, there is

infinitely more good than evil; and therefore it is not the realities

but the chimeras which we have to dread: it is not pain of body,

disease, nor death that are terrible; but the agitation of the soul,

the conflict of the passions, the mental anxiety, are those only we

need apprehend.

Animals have but one mode of enjoying pleasure; the satisfying their

appetite by the exercise of their sensations. We likewise enjoy this

faculty, and have another mode of acquiring pleasure, the exercise of

the mind, whose appetite is knowledge. This source of pleasure would

be the more pure and copious did not our passions oppose its current,

and divert the mind from contemplation. So soon as these obtain the

ascendancy, reason is silenced; a disgust to truth ensues; the charm

of illusion increases; error fortifies, itself, and drags us on to

misery; for what misery can be greater than no longer seeing things as

they are; to have judgment perverted by passions; to act solely by its

direction, to appear in consequence unjust or ridiculous to others; and

when the hour of self-examination comes, of being forced to despise

ourselves?

In this state of illusion and darkness we would change the nature of

our soul. She was given us for the purposes of knowledge, and we would

employ her solely for those of sensation. Could we extinguish her

light, far from regretting the loss, with pleasure should we embrace

the lot of idiots. As we no longer reason but during intervals, and

as these intervals are troublesome, and spent in secret reproaches,

we wish to suppress them, and thus proceeding from one illusion to

another, we at length endeavour to lose all knowledge and remembrance

of ourselves.

A passion without intervals is madness; and a state of madness is

the death of the soul. Violent passions with intervals are fits of

folly, a malady of the mind, whose danger consists in its duration and

frequency. In those intervals alone it may be said to enjoy health by

the resumption of wisdom, but prevents it being a state of happiness,

by reflecting on and condemning the past follies.

The generality of those who call themselves unhappy, are men of violent

passions, or rather madmen, who have some intervals of reason; and as

in exalted stations there are more false desires, more vain pursuits,

more unruly passions, more abuses of the mind, than in the inferior,

the rich man, beyond a doubt, is the most unhappy.

But let us turn from these gloomy objects, these humiliating truths,

and take a view of the man of wisdom, who alone is worthy our notice.

Contented with his situation, he who is entitled to this character

wishes not to live but as he has always lived: happy within himself,

he stands in little need of other resources; continually occupied in

exercising the faculties of his mind, he perfects his understanding,

cultivates his talents, acquires new knowledge, and without remorse and

disgust, he enjoys the whole universe by enjoying himself.

A man like this is undoubtedly the happiest being in Nature. To the

pleasures of the body, which he possesses in common with other animals,

he adds those of the mind, which he enjoys exclusively. He has two

methods of being happy, which aid and fortify each other: and if by

indisposition or accident he is subject to pain, his sufferings are not

great: his strength of mind supports him, reason consoles him, and he

feels a satisfaction that he is enabled to suffer.

The health of man is more precarious than that of any other animal; he

is indisposed more frequently, and for a greater length of time, and

dies at all ages; while brutes travel through life with an even and

steady pace. This difference seems to proceed from two causes, which,

though widely distinct, contribute to the same effect. The first is,

the unruliness of our internal material sense; the passions have an

influence on the health, and disorder the principles which animate

us. Almost all mankind lead a life of timidity or contention, and the

greatest part die of chagrin. The second is the imperfection of those

of our senses which have an affinity with the appetite. Brute animals

have a better perception of what is suitable to their nature; they

are not liable to deception in the choice of their food; they are not

guilty of excess in their pleasures; and guided solely by a sense of

their present wants, they satisfy these without seeking new modes of

gratification. As for man, independent of his propensity to excess,

independent of that ardour with which he endeavours to destroy himself,

by endeavouring to force Nature; he hardly knows how to distinguish

the effect of this or that nourishment; he disdains simple food,

and prefers artificial dishes, because his taste is depraved, and

because, from being a sense of pleasure, he has rendered it an organ of

debauchery, which is never gratified but when it is irritated.

It is not surprising, therefore, that we are more subjected than

animals to infirmities; since we know not so well as them, what may

contribute to preserve or destroy health, our experience being less

certain than their perception; nay we abuse the very senses of the

appetite, which they enjoy in such superior excellence, these being to

them the means of preserving health, and to us causes of disease and of

destruction. By intemperance alone more men sicken and die, than by all

the scourges incident to human nature.

From these reflections it would appear, that animals have a more

certain, as well as a more exquisite sensation of feeling than men.

In support of this superior strength of sentiment, we may advert to

their sense of smelling, which some animals enjoy to such a degree that

they can smell further than they can see. A sense like this is an eye

which sees objects, not only where they are, but even where they have

been; it is the sense by which the brute animal distinguishes what is

suitable or repugnant to its nature, and by which it perceives and

chooses what is proper for the gratification of its appetite.

In greater perfection, then, than man, do animals enjoy the senses

which relate to appetite: and though of their present existence they

have a consciousness, of their past they have none. This second

proposition, as well as the first, is worthy consideration. The

consciousness of existence is composed in man of the sensation of his

present, and of the remembrance of his past existence. Remembrance

is a sensation altogether as present as the first impression, and

sometimes affects us more strongly. As these two kinds of sensations

are different, and as the mind possesses the faculty of comparing and

forming ideas from them, our consciousness of existence is the more

certain and extensive, as remembrance more frequently and copiously

recalls past things and occurrences; and as by our reflections we

compare and combine them with those past and present occurrences.

Every man retains within himself a certain number of sensations

correspondent with the different existences or states through which

he has passed; and these sensations, by the comparison which the mind

forms between them, at length become a succession, and a series of

ideas. In this comparison of sensations consists the idea of time;

and indeed all other ideas. But this series of ideas, this chain of

existences, is often presented to us in an order very different from

that in which our sensations reached us; and in this it is that the

difference principally consists in the genius and disposition of

mankind.

Some men have minds particularly active in comparing and forming ideas.

These are invariably the most ingenious, and, circumstances concurring,

will always distinguish themselves. There are others, and in a greater

number, whose minds are less active, allow all sensations which have

not a certain degree of force to escape, and who only compare those by

which they are strongly agitated. In points of ingenuity and vivacity

these yield to the former. Others still there are, and they form the

multitude, in whom there is so little activity of mind, so little

propensity to think, that they compare and combine nothing, at least at

the first glance; sensations of force, and repeated a thousand times,

are required before their minds will be influenced to compare them, and

form ideas.

The consciousness of our existence being composed, then, not only of

our actual sensations, but of the train of ideas which gave rise to the

comparison of our sensations, and of our past existences, it is evident

that the more ideas we have, the more certain we are of our existence;

that the more we have of intellectual capacity, the more we exist; that

it is by the power of reflection alone that we are certain of our past

existence, and view our future one; the idea of futurity being nothing

more than a comparison of the present with the past inverted, since in

this light the present is past, and the future present.

This power of reflection being denied to animals, it is certain they

cannot form ideas, and consequently their consciousness of existence

is less sure, and less extensive than ours. Having no idea of time,

no knowledge of the past, nor conception of the future, their

consciousness of existence is simple, depends solely on the sensations

which actually affect them, and consists in the internal sentiment

which these sensations produce.

May we not conceive what this consciousness of existence is in animals,

by reflecting on our own state when strongly occupied with some object,

or violently agitated by some passion, which banishes every reflection

upon self? This state we familiarly express by saying, the man is

absent or beside himself; and people are in reality beside themselves,

when they are occupied with sensations actually present to them,

especially if those sensations are so violent and rapid as to allow the

mind no time for reflection. When thus situated we feel pleasure and

pain in all their varieties; therefore, though seemingly without the

participation of the mind, we have a consciousness of our existence.

This state, to which we are occasionally exposed, is the habitual state

of animals; deprived of ideas, and furnished with sensations, they

_know_ not their existence but _feel_ it.

To render more sensible this difference, let us consider minutely the

faculties of brutes, and compare them with the actions of man. Like us

they have senses, and receive impressions from exterior objects; they

have also an interior sense, an organ which retains the agitations

occasioned by those impressions, and consequently sensations which,

like ours, are renewable, and are more or less strong and durable. But

they have neither ingenuity, understanding, nor memory; because they

are denied the power of comparing their sensations, and because these

three faculties of the mind depend on this power.

Have animals no memory? It will be replied, the contrary seems

demonstrably evident. After a considerable absence do they not

recognize the persons with whom they had lived, the places where they

resided, and the roads which they had frequented? Do they not recollect

the punishments, the caresses, the lessons they had received? Though

deprived of imagination and understanding, every thing seems still to

evince they have a memory active, extensive, and perhaps more faithful

than our own. However persuasive these appearances may be deemed, and

however strong may be the prejudices created by them, I presume I can

demonstrate, that they deceive us, and that brute animals have no

knowledge of past events, no idea of time, and of consequence no memory.

In man memory flows from the power of reflection, for the remembrance

of things past supposes not only the duration of the impressions on

our internal material sense, or renovation of former sensations, but

also the comparison which the mind has made of those sensations, or

the ideas it has formed. If memory consisted merely in the renovation

of past sensations, those sensations would be represented to our

internal sense without leaving any determined impressions; they would

present themselves without order or connection, as they do in a state

of intoxication, or in dreams, when they are so incongruous, and so

incoherent, that we immediately lose all recollection of them. Of such

things only as have a relation to others, which preceded or followed

them, do we retain a remembrance; and every solitary sensation, however

powerful, passes away without leaving the smallest trace on the mind.

Now it is the mind which establishes these relations of objects, by

the comparison it makes between them, and connects our sensations by a

continued thread of ideas. As memory consists, then, in a succession of

ideas, so it necessarily supposes the power by which ideas are produced.

But, if possible, to leave no doubt on this important point, let us

enquire into the nature of that remembrance left by our sensations when

they are accompanied with ideas. Pain and pleasure are pure sensations,

and the strongest of any, yet we but feebly recollect them, and with

confusion. All we remember is, that we were pleased or hurt; but

this remembrance is not distinct; we cannot represent to ourselves

either the kind, the degree, or the duration of those sensations by

which we had been so violently agitated; and the less are we capable

of representing those we had but seldom felt. A pain, for example,

which we have experienced but once, which only lasted a few minutes,

and differed from all former pains, would be soon forgotten; we might

recollect we felt great pain, yet, though we distinctly recollected

the circumstances which accompanied it, and the period at which it

happened, we should have but an imperfect remembrance of the pain

itself.

Why is almost every thing forgotten that passed during our infancy?

Why have old men a more distinct remembrance of what happened in

their prime of life than what occurred in their more advanced

years? Can there be a stronger proof that sensations alone are not

sufficient to produce memory, and that it exists solely in the train

of ideas which our minds derive from those sensations? In infancy the

sensations are as lively and rapid as in manhood, yet they leave few

or no traces, because at this era the power of reflection, which

alone can form ideas is almost totally inactive; and because in the

moments it does act, its comparisons are only superficial. In manhood

reason is completely developed, because the power of reflection is

in full exercise; we then derive from our sensations every possible

advantage, and form many orders of ideas, and chains of thought,

whereof each, from being often revolved, forms so durable and indelible

an impression, that when old age comes on, those very ideas present

themselves with more force than those derived from present sensations,

because at that period the sensations are feeble, slow and dull, and

the mind itself partakes of the languor of the body. In infancy, the

time present is every thing; in manhood, we equally enjoy the past, the

present and the future; in old age we have little sense of the present,

we turn our eyes to the future, and exist in the past. In the infant

that prattles, and the old man that dotes, reason is alike imperfect,

because they are alike void of ideas; the former is as yet unable to

form them, and the latter has ceased.

An idiot, whose corporeal senses and organs appear to be sound, has,

like us, sensations of all kinds; he will also have them in the

same order, if he lives in society, and is obliged to act as other

men. As these sensations do not create in him ideas, as there is no

correspondence between his mind and his body, and as he is incapable

of reflection, so he is necessarily destitute of memory, and all

knowledge of himself. In nothing does such a man differ from a brute,

as to the exterior faculties, for though he has a soul, and possesses

the principle of reason, yet as this principle remains in a state of

inaction, and receives nothing from the corporeal organs, it can have

no influence upon his actions which are like those of an animal, solely

determined by its sensations, and by a sentiment of its existence and

present wants. Thus the idiot and the brute are beings whose operations

are in every respect the same, because the one has no soul, and the

other makes not any use of it; they are both destitute of the power of

reflection, and of course have neither understanding nor memory.

Should it still be said, "Do not the idiot and the brute often act

as if they were determined by the knowledge of things past? Do they

not distinguish persons with whom they have lived; places where they

have resided; and perform many other actions, which necessarily imply

memory? And does not all this prove that memory proceeds not from the

power of reflection?"

It must already have been perceived, that I distinguish two kinds

of memory, infinitely different in their causes, though somewhat

similar in their effects. The one consists in the impressions of our

ideas; and the other, which I would rather term reminiscence than

memory, is nothing more than the renovation of our sensations, or of

the vibrations by which they were occasioned. The former issues from

the mind, and is much more perfect in man than the latter; which is

produced merely by the renovation of the vibrations of the internal

sense, and is the only memory possessed by brutes or idiots. Their

preceding sensations are renewed by their present ones; the present,

and principal, calls forth the former, and the accessory images; they

feel as they have felt, and therefore they act as they have acted; they

behold together the present and the past, but without distinguishing or

comparing, and consequently without knowing them.

As another proof of the existence of memory in animals, I may be

told of their dreams. It is certain that brutes, while asleep, have

the things represented to them with which they have been occupied

while awake. Dogs bark when they are asleep; and though this barking

is feeble, yet it is easy to distinguish in it the cry of the chace,

accents of rage, sounds of desire, of murmur, &c. It is not to be

doubted, then, but that dogs have a lively and active memory, different

too from that of which we have now been speaking, since it acts

independent of any exterior cause.

To clear up this difficulty, it is necessary to examine the nature

of dreams, and to inquire whether they proceed from the mind, or

depend entirely on our internal material sense. If we could prove

that they reside solely in the latter, it would be an answer to the

objection, and another demonstration, that in brutes there is neither

understanding nor memory.

Idiots, whose minds are without action, dream like other men; therefore

dreams are produced independent of the mind. Let any person reflect

upon his dreams, and endeavour to discover why the circumstances are

so unconnected, and the events so extravagant. To me it appears, that

it is principally because they turn solely upon sensations, and not

upon ideas. With the idea of time, for example, they have no affinity.

Persons are represented whom we never saw, and even those who have

been dead for many years, as alive, and as they formerly were when

living; but we indifferently connect them with things and persons of

the present, or of a different period. Thus it is also with the idea

of place; we must perceive objects where they are not, or we should

not see them at all. Did the mind act in a single instant it would

give order to this incongruous train of sensations. Instead of which

it allows the representations to succeed each other in disorder; and

though each object appears in lively colours, the succession is often

confused, and always chimerical. If the mind is rather roused by the

enormity or force of these sensations, it will in the midst of this

darkness produce a spark of light, and create in the midst of chimeras

a real idea. We then dream, or rather we will think so, for though this

action is but a small sign of the soul, it is yet neither a sensation

nor a dream; it is a thought, a reflection, but being too weak to

dispel the illusion, it mixes with and forms a part of the dream, and

prevents not the representations from succeeding; insomuch, that on

awaking, we imagine we had dreamed the very things we had thought.

In dreams we see much, though we but seldom understand; we are

powerfully agitated by our sensations, images follow each other,

without the least intervention of the mind, either to compare or

reconcile them. We have sensations, then, but no ideas, the latter

being comparisons of the former; so dreams must reside solely in the

internal material sense; and as the mind does not produce them, they

must form a part of that animal reminiscence, of which we have already

treated. Memory, on the contrary, cannot exist without the idea of

time, without a comparison of ideas, and as these extend not to dreams,

it seems to be obvious that they can neither be a consequence nor an

effect, nor a proof of memory. But though it should be maintained

that to some dreams ideas certainly belong; and as a proof of it,

those people be quoted who walk, speak, and converse connectedly while

asleep; still it would be sufficient for my argument, that dreams may

be produced by the renovation of sensations alone, for in consequence

thereof the dreams of animals must be merely of this species, and such

dreams, far from supposing memory, indicate nothing but a material

reminiscence.

By no means am I inclined to believe, that persons who walk and

converse while asleep are in reality occupied with ideas. In all such

actions the mind seems to have no concern. Sleep-walkers go about,

return and act, without reflection or knowledge of their situation or

danger; alone are their animal faculties exercised, and even of these

some remain unemployed; and while in this state, a sleep-walker is of

course more stupid than an idiot. As to persons who speak while asleep,

they never say any thing new. An answer to certain common questions, a

repetition of a few familiar expressions, may be produced, independent

of the principle of thought or action of the mind. Why should we not

speak without thought when asleep, since when most awake, and under the

influence of passion, man utters numberless things without reflection.

As to the occasional cause of dreams, by which former sensations

are renewed without being excited by present objects, it is to be

observed, that we never dream when our sleep is sound: every thing is

then in a state of inaction, and we sleep both outwardly and inwardly.

The internal sense, however, falls asleep the last, and awakes the

first, because it is more active, and more easily agitated, than the

external senses. It is when our sleep is less sound that we experience

illusive dreams, and former sensations, those especially which require

not reflection, are renewed. The internal sense being unoccupied by

actual sensations from the inaction of the external senses, exercises

itself upon its past sensations. Of these the most strong appear the

most often; and the more they are strong, the more the situations are

extravagant; and for this reason it is, that almost all dreams either

terrify or charm us.

That the internal material sense may act of itself, it is not necessary

that the exterior senses should be absolutely in a state of repose: it

is sufficient if they are without exercise. Accustomed regularly to

resign ourselves to repose, we do not easily fall asleep: the body and

the members, softly extended, are without motion; the eyes veiled by

darkness, the tranquillity of the place, and the silence of the night,

render the ear useless; alike inactive are the other senses; all is at

rest, though nothing is yet lulled to sleep. In this condition, when

the mind is also unoccupied with ideas, the internal material sense is

the only power that acts. Then is the time for chimerical images and

fluttering shadows. We are awake, and yet we experience the effects

of sleep. If we are in full health, the images are agreeable, the

illusions are charming; but if the body is disordered or oppressed,

then we see grim and hideous phantoms, which succeed each other in a

manner not more whimsical than rapid. It is a magic lanthorn, a scene

of chimeras, which fill the brain, when destitute of other sensations.

We remember our dreams, from the same cause that we remember sensations

lately experienced; and the only difference which subsists between us

and brutes is, that we can distinguish what belongs to dreams, from

what belongs to our real ideas or sensations; and this is a comparison,

an operation of the memory, to which the idea of time extends. While

brutes, who are deprived of memory, and of this power of comparison,

cannot distinguish their dreams, from their real sensations.

I presume, that in treating of the nature of man, I have

demonstratively shewn that animals enjoy not the power of reflection.

Now the understanding, which is the result of that power, may be

distinguished by two different operations. The first is the capacity

to compare sensations, and form ideas from them; the second is

the faculty to compare ideas themselves, and form arguments or

conclusions thereon: by the first we acquire particular ideas, or

the knowledge of sensible objects; by the other we form general

ideas, which are necessary for the comprehension of abstract truths.

Neither of these faculties do the animals possess, because they are

void of understanding; and to the first of these operations does the

understanding of the bulk of men seem to be limited.

Were all men equally capable of comparing ideas, of rendering them

general, they would equally manifest their genius by new productions,

always different from, and sometimes more perfect than those of others;

all would enjoy the power of invention, or at least the talents for

improvement. This, however, is far from being the case. Reduced to a

servile imitation, the generality of men execute nothing but what they

see done by others; they only think by memory, and in the same stile

as others have thought, and their understanding being too confined for

invention, they proceed to follow imitation.

Imagination is likewise a faculty of the mind. If, by _imagination_,

we understand the power of comparing images with ideas; of giving

colours to our thoughts; of aggrandizing our sensations; of perceiving

distinctly all the remote affinities of objects; it is the most

brilliant and most active faculty of the mind of which brutes are still

more destitute than of understanding or memory. But there is another

kind of imagination which depends solely upon the corporeal organs,

and which we possess in common with brutes; it is that tumultuous

emotion, excited by objects analogous or contrary to our appetites;

that lively and deep impression of the images of objects, which is

constantly and against our inclinations, renewed, and forces us to

act without reflection; this representation of objects, which is more

active than even their presence, exaggerates and falsifies every thing.

This imagination is forever hostile to the human mind; it is the source

of illusion, the parent of these passions, which, in defiance of the

efforts of reason, bear us away, and expose us to a continual combat,

in which we are almost always worsted.

_HOMO DUPLEX._

The interior man is double, being composed of two principles different

in their nature, and contrary in their action. The soul, that principle

of all knowledge, is perpetually opposed by another purely material

principle. The former is a pure light, accompanied with serenity and

peace, a salutary source, whence flow science, reason, and wisdom;

the latter is a false light, which never shines but in the midst of

darkness and hurricane, an impetuous torrent fraught with error and

passion.

The animal principle is first developed. As it is altogether material,

and consists in the duration of vibrations, and the renovation

of impressions formed in the internal material sense, by objects

analogous, or contrary to our appetites, it begins to act as soon

as the body is capable of feeling pain or pleasure. The spiritual

principle manifests itself much later, and is developed and perfected

by means of education; it is by the communication of the thoughts

of others that the infant becomes a thinking, a rational being; and

without this communication it would be fantastic or stupid, according

to the degree of activity or inactivity of its internal material sense.

Let us consider a child, when at liberty, and far from the eye of his

master. By his exterior actions we may judge of what passes within him.

A stranger to thought or reflection, he acts without reason; treads

with indifference through all the paths of pleasure; obeys all the

impressions of exterior objects; amuses himself like a young animal,

in running and bodily exercise; all his actions and motions are without

order, or design. Called on by the person who has taught him to think,

he composes himself, directs his actions, and proves that he has

retained the thoughts which have been communicated to him. In infancy,

the material principle is predominant, and would so continue, were not

education to develop the spiritual principle and to put it in motion.

The existence of these two principles is easily discovered. In life

there are moments, nay, hours and days, in which we may not only

determine of the certainty of their existence, but also of the

contrariety of their action. I allude to those periods of languor,

indolence, or disgust, in which we are incapable of any determination,

when we wish one thing and do another; I mean that state, or distemper,

called _vapours_; a state to which idle persons are so peculiarly

subject. If in this situation we observe ourselves, we shall appear as

divided into two distinct beings, of which the first, or the rational

faculty, blames every thing done by the second, but has not strength

sufficient effectually to subdue it; the second, on the contrary, being

formed of all the illusions of sense and imagination, constrains, and

often overwhelms the first, and makes us either act contrary to our

judgment, or remain inactive, though disposed to action by our will.

While the rational faculties reign, we are calmly occupied with

ourselves, our friends, and affairs. But when the material principle

prevails, we devote ourselves with ardour to dissipation, to all the

pursuits and passions it creates; and are hardly capable of reflecting

upon the very objects by which we are so engrossed. In both these

states we are happy; in the former we command with satisfaction, and

in the latter, we are still more pleased to obey. As only one of these

principles is then in action, and acts without opposition from the

other, we feel no internal contrariety; our self appears to be simple,

because we experience but one impulse. In this unity of action consists

our happiness; for, whenever our reason condemns our passions, or,

from the violence of our passions, we attempt to discard reason, from

that minute we cease to be happy; the unity of our existence, in which

consists our tranquillity, is destroyed; the internal contrariety

commences, and the two contending principles are manifested by doubts,

inquietude and remorse. Of all states, that is the most unhappy in

which these two sovereign powers of human nature are both in full

motion, and produce an equilibrium. Then it is man feels that horrible

disgust which leaves no desire but that of ceasing to exist, no power

but to effect his own destruction, by coolly plunging into himself

the weapons of despair and madness. What a state of horror! in its

blackest colours it is here presented; but by how many gloomy shades

must it be preceded? all the situations approaching an equilibrium

must necessarily be accompanied with melancholy, irresolution, and

unhappiness. From these internal conflicts the body suffers; and from

the agitation it undergoes, languishes and decays.

The happiness of man consists in the unity of his internal existence.

In infancy he is happy, for then the material principle rules alone

and acts almost continually. Constraints, remonstrances, and even

chastisements, affect not the real happiness of children, but are

only accompanied with a momentary sorrow, for as soon as they find

themselves at liberty they resume all the activity and gaiety which

the vivacity and novelty of their sensations can give them. If a

child was left to himself he would be completely happy, but this

happiness would cease and be productive of misery ever after; it is,

therefore, necessary that he should be constrained, though it gives him

a momentary grievance, as it is, in fact, a prelude to all his future

happiness in life.

In youth, when the spiritual principle begins to act, and is capable

of conducting us, a new material sense appears, which assumes an

absolute sway over our faculties, the soul itself seems with pleasure

to incline to the impetuous passions which it produces. The material

principle has, then, more power than ever, for it not only effaces

reason but perverts it, and uses it for its own gratification. We only

think and act to encourage and to gratify some passion; and while this

intoxication lasts we are happy. The external contradictions, and

difficulties, seem to render the unity of the interior existence still

more firm; they fortify the passion, and fill up the languid intervals;

they call forth our pride, and direct all our views towards one object,

all our powers towards effecting one end.

But this happiness passes away as a dream; the charm disappears,

disgust ensues, and a horrid vacuity of sentiment succeeds. Hardly,

on rousing from this lethargy, is the soul capable of distinguishing

itself; by slavery it has lost its strength, and the habit of

commanding; of that slavery it even regrets the privation, and longs

for another master, a new object of passion, which presently disappears

in its turn, and is followed by another passion more transitory still.

Thus excess and disgust succeed each other; pleasure flies, the organs

decay, and the material sense, instead of commanding, has no longer

strength to obey. After a youth like this, what is there left for a

man? A body enervated, a mind enfeebled, and the inability to make use

of either.

It is remarked, that at the middle period of life men are chiefly

subjected to those languors, or vapours. At this period we still run

after the pleasures of youth, not from an absolute propensity but

from habit. In proportion as we advance in years, our ability for the

enjoyment of pleasure decreases, and so often are we humiliated by our

own weakness, that we cannot help condemning our actions and desires.

Besides, it is at this age that the cares and solicitudes of life

begin; we then, whether by accident or by choice, assume a certain

character which it is alway disgraceful to abandon, and dangerous to

support. Full of pain, we tread between contempt and hatred, two rocks

alike formidable; by the efforts we make to avoid them we weaken our

powers, and sink into despondency, for after having experienced the

injustice of mankind, we contract a habit of accounting it a necessary

evil; when we have accustomed ourselves to have less regard for the

opinions of the world than for our own repose, and when the heart,

hardened by the wounds it has received, has become insensible, we

easily attain that state of indifference, that indolent tranquillity,

of which, a few years before, we should have been ashamed. Glory, that

powerful motive of great souls, which seen at a distance appears as

the most desirable object, and excites us to perform great and useful

actions, loses its attractions upon a near approach. Sloth assumes

the place of ambition, and seems to present to us paths less rugged,

and advantages more substantial; but it is preceded by disgust, and

followed by discontent, that gloomy tyrant of every thinking mind,

against which wisdom has less influence than folly.

It is, therefore, from being composed of two opposite principles,

that man has so much trouble to be reconciled with himself; and hence

proceeds his inconstancy, irresolution, and languor. Brute animals,

on the contrary, whose nature is simple, and altogether material,

experience no interior combats, no compunctions, no hopes, nor any

fears.

If we were divested of memory, understanding, and every faculty

belonging to the soul, the material part alone would remain, which

constitutes us animals, and we should still have wants, sensations,

appetites, pain, pleasure, and even passion; for what is passion but a

strong sensation, which may be renewed at every instant?

But the great difficulty is to distinguish the passions which belong

solely to man, from those which he possesses in common with the brutes.

Is it certain, or probable, that the latter have passions? Is it not,

on the contrary, allowed, that every passion is an emotion of the soul?

Ought we, therefore, to search any where else, but in this spiritual

principle, for the seeds of pride, envy, ambition, avarice, and of

every other passion by which we are governed?

To me it appears, that nothing which governs the mind forms any part of

it; that the principle of knowledge is not the principle of sentiment;

that the seeds of the passions is in our appetites; that illusions

proceed from our senses, and reside in our internal material sense;

that the mind is at first passive with respect to them; that when it

countenances them, it is subdued, and when it assents to them, it is

perverted.

Let us then distinguish in the human passions, the physical from the

moral; that is, the cause from the effect. The first emotion is in

the internal material sense; this the mind may receive but cannot

produce. Let us likewise distinguish momentary from durable emotions,

and we shall immediately perceive, that fear, horror, rage, love, or

rather the desire of enjoyment, are sensations which, though durable,

depend solely on the impressions of objects upon our senses, combined

with the remaining impressions of our preceding sensations; and that,

of consequence, those passions we enjoy in common with the brutes. I

mention the actual impressions of objects, as being combined with the

impressions that remain of our former sensations, for neither to man

nor beast nothing is horrible, nor attractive, when seen for the first

time. Of this we have proof in young animals, who will run into the

fire the first time it is presented to them. By reiterated acts, of

which the impressions subsist in their internal sense, do they alone

acquire experience; and though this experience is not natural, it is

not less sure, and is even on that account more circumspect. A violent

motion, a great noise, an extraordinary figure, which is seen or heard

suddenly, and for the first time, produces in the animal a shock of

which the effect is similar to the first movements of fear. But this

sentiment is only instantaneous; for as it cannot be combined with any

preceding sensation, so it must communicate to the animal a transitory

vibration, and not a durable emotion, such as the passion of fear

supposes.

A young and peaceful tenant of the forests, who suddenly hears the

sound of the huntsman's horn, or the report of a gun, leaps, bounds,

and flies off, by the sole violence of the shock which it has

experienced. Yet if this noise is without effect and ceases, the animal

distinguishing the wonted silence of Nature, composes itself, halts,

and returns to its tranquil retreat. But age and experience render

it circumspect and timid, and having been wounded after a particular

noise, the sensation of pain is retained in its internal sense, and

when the same noise shall be again heard, it is renewed, combines

itself with the actual agitation, and produces a permanent passion, a

real fear; the animal flies with all its might, and frequently never

returns to its usual abode.

Fear, then, is a passion of which brute animals are susceptible, though

they have not, like us, rational or foreseen apprehensions. Of horror,

rage, and love, they are also susceptible; but they have not our

aversions, founded on reflection, our durable hatreds, or our constant

friendships. These passions in brutes imply no knowledge, no ideas, and

are founded solely on the experience of sentiment, or repetitions of

pain and pleasure, and renovation of preceding sensations of the same

kind. Fury, or natural courage, is remarkable in animals which have

experienced and ascertained their strength, and found it superior to

ours; fear is the portion of the weak, but love belongs to all. Love!

thou innate desire! thou soul of nature! thou inexhaustible principle

of existence! thou sovereign power, by which every thing breathes, and

every thing is renewed! thou divine shame! thou seed of perpetuity

infused by the Almighty into all which has the breath of life! thou

precious sentiment, by which alone the most savage and frozen hearts

are softened! thou first cause of all happiness, of all society! thou

fertile source of every pleasure, of every delight! Love! why dost thou

constitute the felicity of every other being, and bring misery alone to

man?

The reason is obvious. Considered in a physical sense, this passion

is good; in a moral one, it is attended with every evil. In what

does the morality of love consist? in vanity; vanity in the pleasure

of conquest, an error which proceeds from our putting too high a

value upon it; the vanity of desiring exclusive possession, of which

jealousy, a passion so base that we are ashamed to own it, is the

constant attendant; vanity in the very mode of enjoying, or even

relinquishing the object of our desires, if the wish of separation

originates with ourselves; but if, instead of forsaking, we are

forsaken by the beloved object, the humiliation is dreadful! and the

discovery that we have been duped and deceived, not unoften hurries us

into despair.

From all these miseries brutes are free. They seek not to obtain

pleasure where it is not to be found: guided by sentiment alone,

they are never deceived in their choice; their desires are always

proportioned to their power of gratification; they feel as much as they

enjoy, and seek not to vary or anticipate them. But Man, in striving

to invent pleasure, only depraves nature; in struggling to create

sentiment, he perverts the intention of his being, and creates in his

heart a vacuum which nothing can afterwards fill.

Every thing good in love belongs to the brutes as well as to man, and

even they, as if this sentiment could never be pure, seem to have a

small portion of jealousy. Among us, this passion always implies some

distrust of ourselves, some distant knowledge of our own weakness,

while brutes are never jealous but in proportion to their strength,

ardour for, and propensity to pleasure. The reason is, that our

jealousy depends on our ideas, and theirs on sentiment. Having once

enjoyed, they desire to enjoy again; and feeling their strength, they

drive away all that would occupy their place. Their jealousy is without

reflection, they turn it not against the object of their love: of their

pleasures alone are they jealous.

But are animals confined merely to those passions we have described?

Are fear, rage, horror, love, and jealousy, the only durable affections

they are capable of experiencing? To me it appears that, independent

of these passions, which arise from their natural feelings, they have

others, which are communicated to them by example, imitation, and

habit. They have a kind of friendship, pride, and ambition, and though

we may be convinced, that in all their operations there is neither

reflection nor thought, yet as all their habits seem to imply some

degree of intelligence, and to form the shade between them and man, it

requires, in a peculiar manner, our strict examination.

Is there any thing exceeds the attachment of the dog to its master?

On the grave that contained his dust has this animal been known to

breathe its last. But (without quoting prodigies or heroes) with what

fidelity does he accompany, follow, and defend his master! With what

eagerness does he solicit his caresses! With what docility does he

obey him! With what patience does he suffer his bad humours, and his

frequently unjust corrections! With what mildness and humility does he

endeavour to be restored to favour! What emotion and anxiety does he

express when his master is absent! and what joy when he returns!--From

all these circumstances it is possible not to distinguish true marks of

friendship? Even among the human species it is expressed in characters

of superior energy.

This friendship is the same as that of a female for her favourite bird,

or of a child for its play-thing. Both are equally blind and void of

reflection; that of the animal is more natural, since it is founded

on necessity, while that of the other is only an insipid amusement,

in which the mind in no degree partakes These childish habits subsist

merely by idleness, and are more or less strong as the brain is more or

less vacant.

Real friendship, however, supposes the power of reflection; it is of

all attachments the most worthy of man, and the only one by which he is

not degraded. Friendship flows from reason alone. It is the mind of a

friend which we love, and to love a mind it is necessary to have one,

and to have made use of it in the attainment of intelligence, and in

comparing the congeniality of different minds. By friendship, then, not

only is implied the principle of knowledge, but also, from reflection,

the actual exercise of that principle.

Thus, while friendship belongs solely to man, attachment may be

possessed by animals; as sentiment alone is sufficient to attach them

to persons whom they often see, and by whom they are fed and nourished.

The attachment of females to their young is produced by the trouble

they have had in carrying them in the womb, and in producing and giving

them suck. If, among birds, some males seem to have an attachment to

their young, and to take care of the females while they are sitting, it

is because they have been employed in the construction of the nest, and

continue to enjoy pleasure with their females long after impregnation.

Among other animals, with whom the season of love is short, that

elapsed, the male is no longer attached to the female; where there is

no nest, no employment, in which they may be mutually engaged, the

fathers, like those of Sparta, have no care for their progeny.

The pride and ambition of animals proceed from their natural courage;

that is, from their sense of their strength, agility, &c. Large ones

hold the small in defiance, and seem to contemn their insulting

audacity. This courage may also be improved by instruction, for, reason

alone excepted, of every thing are brute animals susceptible. In

general they will learn to perform the same action a thousand times; to

do without intermission what they did by intervals; to continue for a

length of time what they at first ended in a moment; to do cheerfully

what at first was the effect of force; to do by habit what they once

have done by chance; and to perform of themselves what they have seen

done by others. Of all the operations of the animal machine imitation

is the most admirable. It is its most delicate and most extensive

mobile, and exhibits the truest copy of thought, and though the cause

of it in animals is altogether material, yet by its effects our wonder

is excited. Men never more admire an ape than when they see it imitate

the actions of men. In fact it is not easy to distinguish some copies

from some originals. Besides, there are so few who can distinctly

perceive the difference between a reality and a counterfeit, that to

the bulk of mankind an ape must always excite astonishment.

Though apes have the art of imitating the actions of men, they are not

a degree superior to other brutes, who all more or less possess the

talent of imitation. In most animals this talent is confined to the

imitation of their own species; but the ape, though he belongs not to

the human species, copies many of our actions; and this he is enabled

to do from his organization being somewhat similar. So nearly, indeed,

do they sometimes carry the resemblance, that many have ignorantly

ascribed that to genius and intelligence, which is nothing but a gross

affinity of figure and organization.

It is from the relations of motion that a dog learns the habit of its

master, from the relations of figure that the ape counterfeits the

gestures of a man, and from the relations of organization, that one

bird repeats airs of music and another imitates speech, which forms

the greatest external difference between man and man, as between

man and other animals, since language in some indicates a superior

understanding and an enlightened mind, in others it barely discovers

a confusion of borrowed ideas, and in the idiot, or the parrot,

it indicates the last degree of stupidity, plainly shewing their

incapacity for reflection, although they may possess every necessary

organ for expressing what passes within.

With ease may it be rendered apparent, that imitation is a mere

mechanical effect, of which the perfection depends on the vivacity

with which the internal material sense receives the impression of

objects, and on the facility of expressing them by the similitude

and the flexibility of the exterior organs. Persons whose senses are

delicate and easily agitated, whose members are active and obedient,

make the best actors, the best mimics, the best apes. Children,

without perceiving it, imitate the habits, gestures, and manners of

those they live with; they have also a great propensity to repeat, and

to counterfeit every thing they hear and see. Young persons who see

nothing but by the corporeal eye, are wonderfully ready in perceiving

ridiculous objects: every fantastic form affects, every representation

strikes, every novelty moves them. The impression is so strong, that

they relate them with transport and copy them with facility and grace.

In a superior degree do they enjoy the talent of imitation, which

supposes the most perfect organization, and to which nothing is more

opposite than a large portion of good sense.

Thus, among men, those who reflect least are the most expert at

imitation: and therefore it is not surprising that we meet with it

in animals, who have no reflection. These ought to possess it in a

higher degree of perfection, because they have nothing within them

to counteract it; no principle by which they may have the desire to

be different from each other. Among men, it is from the mind that

proceeds the diversity of our characters, and the variety of our

actions. Brute animals, by having no mind, have not that _self_ which

is the principle of the difference, the cause which constitutes the

individual. Of necessity, then, when their organization is similar,

or they are of the same species, they must copy each other, do the

same things in the same manner, and imitate each other with a greater

degree of perfection than one man can imitate another. This talent for

imitation, therefore, far from implying that animals have thought and

reflection, is a proof that they are absolutely destitute of both.

For the same reason it is that the education of animals, though short,

is always attended with success. Almost every thing the parent knows

they quickly learn by imitation. The young are modelled by the old:

they perceive the latter approach or fly, when they hear certain

sounds, when they see certain objects, or smell certain odours; at

first they approach or fly without any determinative cause whatever,

but imitation; and afterwards they approach or fly of themselves, in

consequence of their having acquired a habit of doing so whenever they

feel the same sensations.

Having compared man with the brute animal, taken individually, let us

now compare them together collectively, and endeavour at the same time

to ascertain the source of that kind of industry which we observe in

certain species of animals, and those even the meanest and the most

numerous. For this industry, what encomiums have not been bestowed

on particular insects. The wisdom and talents of the bee, observers

speak of with admiration; they are said to possess an art peculiar

to themselves, that of perfect government. A beehive, they add, is

a republic, in which the labour of each individual is devoted to

the public good, in which every thing is ordered, distributed, and

shared, with a foresight, an equity, and a prudence, which is really

astonishing. The government and policy of Athens itself, were not more

exemplary. But I should never have done, were I barely to skip over

the annals of this commonwealth, and to draw from the history of this

insect all the incidents which have excited the admiration of its

different historians.

What can we think of the excess to which the eulogiums on this animal

have been carried? Among other great qualities they are said to possess

the most pure republican principles, an ardent love for their country,

a disinterested assiduity in labouring for the public good, the

strictest economy, the most perfect geometry and elegant architecture.

Notwithstanding these eulogies, a bee ought to hold no greater rank

in the estimation of naturalists than it does in nature; and, in the

eye of reason, this marvellous and so much extolled republic will never

be any thing more than a multitude of small animals, which have no

affinity to man but that of furnishing him with wax and honey.

Let people examine with attention their little manoeuvres,

proceedings, and toils; let them describe exactly their generation,

their multiplication, their metamorphoses, &c.--These are objects

worthy of the attention of a naturalist; but to hear the morals of

insects cried up is insufferable; and I am fully convinced, that by a

strict and rational observer it would be found, that the origin and

superstructure of the various wonderful talents ascribed to bees,

arises from the mother bee producing 10,000 individuals at one time,

and in the same place, which necessarily obliges them to arrange

themselves in some order for the preservation of their existence. Is

not Nature sufficiently astonishing of herself, without attempting

to render her more so, and without attributing to her miracles which

have no existence but in our own imagination? Is not the Creator

sufficiently great by his works; and do we believe we can render him

more so by our weakness? This, were there a possibility, would be the

way to debase him. Who, in effect, has the most exalted idea of the

Supreme Being, he who beholds him create the universe, arrange every

existence, and establish nature on invariable and perpetual laws; or he

who sees him attentive in conducting a republic of insects?

Certain animals unite into societies, which seem to depend on the

choice of those that compose them, and which of consequence has in it a

far greater degree of intelligence and design than the society of bees,

of which the sole principle is physical necessity. Elephants, beavers,

apes, and many other species of animals, assemble together in bodies,

assist, and defend each other. Did we not so often disturb these

societies, and could we observe them with as much ease as those of the

bees, we should, doubtless, meet with a multitude of other wonders;

which still, however, would amount to nothing more than so many

physical relations. A great number of animals, of the same species,

being assembled in the same place, there will necessarily result a

certain arrangement, and a certain order of common habits. Now every

common habit, far from having enlightened intelligence for its cause,

implies nothing more than a blind imitation.

Among men, society depends less on physical agreements than on moral

relations. Man at first measured his strength, his weakness, his

ignorance and his curiosity; he felt that, of himself, he could not

satisfy the multiplicity of his wants; he discovered the advantage he

should have in society; he reflected on the idea of good and evil, he

engraved it in his heart, by the help of the natural light communicated

to him through the bounty of the Creator; he saw that solitude was a

state of danger, and of warfare; he sought for security and peace in

society; there he augmented his power and knowledge, by uniting them

with those of others: and this union is the noblest use he ever made of

his reason. Solely from governing himself, and submitting to the laws

of society, it is that man commands the universe.

Every thing has concurred to render man a social being; for though

large and civilized societies depend on the use, and sometimes on the

abuse of reason, yet they were doubtless preceded by smaller societies,

whose sole dependence was on nature. A family is a natural society,

which is more permanent, and better founded, because their wants

and sources of attachment are more numerous. Far different is man

from other animals: when he is born he hardly exists; naked, feeble,

incapable of action, his life depends on the assistance he receives.

This state of infantine weakness continues for a length of time; and

the necessity of assistance becomes a habit, which alone is sufficient

to produce an attachment between the child and parent. In proportion

as the child advances, he is enabled to do without assistance; the

affection of the parent continues, while that of the child daily

decreases; and thus love ever descends in a much stronger degree than

it ascends: the attachment of the parent becomes excessive, blind,

idolatrous, while that of the child remains cold and indifferent, till,

by the influence of reason, the seed of gratitude has begun to take

root.

Thus society, considered even in the light of a single family, supposes

in man the faculty of reason; among animals which seem to unite

together freely, and by mutual agreement, society supposes experience

and sentiment; and among insects which, like the bees, assemble

together involuntarily, and without design, society implies nothing;

and whatever may be the effects of such associations, it is evident,

they were neither foreseen, nor conceived by those that execute them,

and that they depend solely on the universal laws of mechanism,

established by the Creator.

Let the panegyrists of insects say what they will in their favour,

those animals which, in figure, and organization, bear the strongest

resemblance to man, must still be acknowledged superior to all others,

with respect to internal qualities; and, though they differ from those

of man, though, as we have evinced, they are nothing but the effects,

exercise, experience, and feeling, still are they, in a high degree,

superior to insects. As in every thing that exists in nature there is

a shade, a scale may be established for determining the degrees of the

intrinsic qualities of each animal, by which, when opposed with the

material part of man, we shall find the preference due to the ape,

the dog, the elephant, and, in different degrees, to all the other

quadrupeds. Next to them will rank the cetaceous animals, which, like

the quadrupeds, have flesh and blood, and, like them, are viviparous.

In the third class will be the birds, because they differ more from man

than either the quadrupeds, or the cetaceous animals; and, were it not

that there are beings which, like the oyster and the polypus, seem to

differ from him as much as is possible; the insects would occupy the

lowest class of animated beings.

But if animals are destitute of all understanding, all memory, and all

intelligence; if all their faculties depend on their senses, and are

confined to their experience; whence proceeds that foresight we remark

in several of them? By sentiment alone can they be prompted to provide

in the summer provisions sufficient for their subsistence during

winter. Does not this suppose a comparison of seasons, a rational

inquietude concerning their future support? Why should birds build

nests if they did not know that they should have occasion for them to

deposit their eggs, and to rear their young?

Admitting the truth of these, and many other circumstances which might

be produced; admitting that they are so many proofs of presentiment,

of foresight, and even a knowledge of futurity, in animals, must it

follow, on that account that they are intelligent beings? Were this the

case their intelligence would far surpass our own, for our foresight

is always conjectural. Our notions, with respect to futurity, are, at

best, doubtful; and all the light we have is founded on probabilities

of future things. Brute animals, then, who see the future with

certainty, since they determine beforehand and are never deceived, must

have within them a principle of knowledge greatly superior to man, must

have a soul far more penetrative and acute, a consequence, which, I

presume, is equally repugnant to religion and to reason.

By an intelligence similar to that of man it is impossible that brutes

can have any certain knowledge of futurity, since in that respect, his

ideas are always imperfect, and full of doubt. Then why, on such slight

grounds, invest them with a quality so sublime? Why, without necessity

degrade the human species? Is it not unreasonable to attribute their

source to mechanical laws, established, like all the other laws of

Nature, by the will of the Creator? The certainty with which brutes

are supposed to act, and be determined, might alone convince us, that

every thing they do is merely mechanical. The essential characteristics

of reason are, doubt, deliberation, and comparison; but motions and

actions, which announce nothing but decision and certainty, exhibit at

once a proof of mechanism and stupidity.

Previous, however, to the full admission of these asserted facts,

which seem to lessen those ideas we ought to maintain of the power

and will of our Divine Creator, ought we not to enquire whether they

really exist, or have sufficient ground to support the supposition?

The boasted foresight of ants in collecting sustenance for the winter

is an evident error, since it has been found that during that season

they remain in a torpid state; therefore, this pretended foresight,

supposes them to provide that which it also must have informed them

would be entirely necessary. Is not the sensation that they enjoy their

food with more quiet and tranquillity in their fixed residence, alone

sufficient to account for their conveying thither more than they can

possibly make use of? The same applies to bees, in collecting more wax

and honey than their necessities require. Does not this evince they are

actuated by feeling, and not intelligence, especially if we reflect

that if it proceeded from former experience, that would teach them to

decline such unnecessary labour; which so far from being the case, they

continue to extract wax and honey as long as there is a succession of

fresh flowers, and were it possible to continue that their labours

would never cease.

Field-mice have also been instanced, whose abodes are generally

divided; in one hole they deposit their young, in the other their

food, the latter of which they constantly fill; but here it should be

observed that when they provide those apartments for themselves, the

latter are always small, yet if they find a large hole under a tree

which they chuse for their abode, they fill that also; a fact which

renders it clear they have no intelligence of the nature of their

wants, but are guided by the capacity of the place they select for

depositing their food.

From the same cause may be traced the pretended foresight attributed

to the feathered race; nor is it necessary to suppose the Almighty has

conferred on them any particular law to account for the construction

of their nest. Love is the grand sentiment that excites them to the

laborious undertaking; the male and female feel a mutual attachment,

they wish to be alone, and therefore seek retirement from the bustle

and annoyances of the world; and having sought the most obscure part

of a forest, to render that privacy the more comfortable they collect

straws, leaves, &c. to form a common habitation, wherein they may

enjoy themselves with perfect tranquillity. Some, however, content

themselves with holes in trees, or nests they find which have been

formed by others. But all this does not prove a presentiment of future

wants, but are rather the effects of feeling and organization. A strong

evidence of their ignorance with respect to futurity, nay, even of the

past, or present, may be drawn from a hen's not having the power to

distinguish her own from the eggs of another bird, and not perceiving

that the young ducks which she has hatched, belong not to her; nay, she

will even sit with the same assiduous attention upon chalk eggs, as

upon those from which a produce may be expected. Neither do domestic

poultry make nests, although they are constructed by the wild duck and

wood hen, and this most probably from feeling that security in being

familiarized, which the latter seek for in a retreat and solitude.

The nests of birds, therefore, in my opinion, any more than the cells

of bees, or the food collected by the ant and field-mouse, cannot be

attributed to any particular laws to each species, but depend upon

those feelings arising from the general laws of nature, and with which

every animated being is endowed.

It is not surprising that man, who knows so little of himself, who so

frequently confounds his sensations with his ideas, who so imperfectly

distinguishes the productions of the mind from the produce of his

brain, should compare himself to the brute animals, and admit the

only difference between them depended on the greater or less degree

of perfection in the organs; it is not surprising that he should

make them reason, determine, and understand, in the same manner with

himself, and that he should attribute to them not only the qualities

which he has, but even those he has not. When man, however, has once

thoroughly examined and analyzed himself, he will discover the dignity

of his being, he will feel the existence of his soul, he will cease to

demean his nature, and, with a single glance, he will see the infinite

distance which the Supreme Being has put between him and the brutes.

God alone knows the past, the present, and the future; eternal is

his existence, and infinite is his knowledge. Man, whose duration is

but for a few moments, perceives but those moments: by a living and

immortal Power are those moments compared, distinguished, and arrayed;

and That Power it is which enables man to know the present, judge of

the past, and foresee the future. Deprive him of this divine light and

you deface and obscure his being, you render him merely an animal,

ignorant of the past, without conception of the future, and barely

affectable by the present.