The organic kingdom seems to be little else than a system of means,
resisting for a short period only the laws which govern inanimate
matter, and then yielding to their power. Wherever the contemplative
mind turns among the innumerable tribes of animals, which have been
revealed by the scrutiny of man, it beholds them all struggling a
little while for a sentient existence, and then sinking down, to form
a part of that mingled mass, which has given them, and continues to
give their successors, sustenance. It is not however animated matter
only which thus for a moment attracts, and then passes from our
observation. In each individual of all this numberless multitude, we
behold the glimmering of intelligence, and in some species it seems
to fall but little below the uncultivated reason of man; nay more, in
their architecture, in their fabrics, in their modes of subsistence
and defence, many are known to rival the utmost stretch of human
ingenuity. This intelligence also, and this ingenuity, vanishes from
before us. The theory has indeed been formed, that this appearance of
reason, wherever found, or however feeble, is but the commencement of
an immortal existence; but it is not thus that the mass of mankind view
the subject. They are accustomed to look upon the whole animal kingdom
as progressing to a period, when, not only the sensations of their
bodies will cease, and their organs be left, without exception, to
decay, but when all their intelligence and skill also will be swallowed
up in annihilation. If then the reason of brutes is the reason of man,
how strong, how complete the analogy, and how natural the conclusion,
that the mind of man too, with the decease of his body ceases to exist!
Living therefore as the most intelligent of these animals do, in the
midst of us, and seeming to think and reason every day as really as
ourselves, reason itself seems to be constantly persuading us that
our end is the same. Indeed, if man differs from the brute only in
the degree of intellect which he possesses, it is almost demonstrably
certain, that annihilation or immortality alike await us. That animals
are immortal, however, it is impossible to believe; for if this may be
predicated of one individual, it may be predicated of every species in
which animal life can be proved to exist. From the highest intelligence
which exists among them, to the meanest insect that crawls in the dust,
or the dullest inhabitant of a shell that clings to a rock, there
is not a point where the line of separation can, with any degree of
plausibility, be drawn, and we might almost extend the chain to the
plant that shrinks from the touch, and the flower that follows the sun.
This theory therefore we reject as unnatural and absurd. Hence we are
reduced to the necessity of allowing, either that man is not immortal,
or that his reason is different, not only in degree, but in its nature,
from that of brutes. Although if the latter be true, it does not follow
that the former is false, yet one of the most powerful arguments in
support of it falls to the ground, and leaves other evidence to produce
a conviction of the truth of its opposite. It is then an object of no
little importance to discover, if possible, whether there is sufficient
difference between the faculties of men and animals, to justify the
conclusion that their destinies are so different.
In endeavoring to accomplish this object, we propose to consider
brutes, in the first place, as they exist in their natural state, and
afterwards, as they are when trained by man. Let us go, then, to the
forest where the bird sits upon her nest, and the beast rests in his
lair in undisturbed repose--or rather, if you please, where air, earth
and water, teem with countless multitudes, all alive with activity,
and all closely devoted to the peculiar employments for which Nature
has fitted them. Compare now this busy scene, with that where the
same elements groan under the burden imposed upon them by man, in his
highest state of cultivation. Mark the aerial artist as she proceeds in
the construction of her edifice, which in its execution and adaptation
to its situation, defies all imitation by man. Without a model, and
without instruction or experience, she fabricates a nest, which, in
materials and construction, as near as circumstances permit, resembles
those of all her predecessors. Where there is no possibility of a
communication, precisely the same process is followed, and the same
result is produced in every instance. Neither does age, observation
or experience, produce the least improvement, but it more frequently
happens, that the first product of this instinctive skill excels all
that succeed. The same appears to be true of every species of the
brute creation as we find them in the wilds of nature. All come into
existence endowed with a species of intellect; a practical ingenuity,
apparently far superior to any thing which man possesses, previous to
observation.
If, therefore, the mental endowments of brutes are to be estimated by
the readiness with which they arrive at certain practical results, man
sinks below them. Among the whole human race, we find not a single
instance of such instinctive knowledge. Man springs into existence
of all animals the most helpless, and the most ignorant of the means
of his support or his happiness. He is compelled to learn and direct
every step of his course by observation and experience. He is left
to deliberate and choose without any previous bias of the mind, and
hence arises that vast diversity of manners and customs, scarcely
greater between the most civilized and the most barbarous people,
than between those who are buried in an equal depth of barbarism.
On the other hand, throughout each particular species of the brute
creation, all appear to be guided by one mind, and urged on by some
irresistible power to the same definite ends. In the state in which we
are now considering them, there is no variation in their habitudes,
and seems to be no possibility of their choosing a different course
from that so universally pursued. It is as natural to them as to live;
as involuntary as their breath. This is instinct--a faculty to man
denied--a pilot whose absence leaves him to the winds and waves of
circumstances, while its presence impels as well as guides the animal
creation in all their intricate manœvres.
There are traits, however, in which man and the most intelligent of
other animals closely resemble each other. Present, for instance,
a pleasing object to the eye of man, and the countenance will
involuntarily kindle into a smile. Present to the half-famished
wanderer an article of food, and the flowing saliva and the beseeching
look, will testify, in spite of him, his eagerness to receive it.
Tear from the fond mother her darling offspring, and plunge into its
unprotected breast the glittering steel, and an agony unutterable will
give her wings to fly to its rescue, and a thousand tongues to call for
aid, or drive her to madness with despair.
This is a species of action, exhibited to an actual extent, perhaps,
though in different ways, by both animals and men. It evinces a power
which it is not in the nature of man wholly to resist, and under the
full operation of which we use neither deliberation nor judgment. Such
seems to be the power which gives rise to a large part of the actions
of the most intelligent animals. It differs little in its nature from
that instinct which guides them in their mechanical labors, and, in
connection with it, is sufficient to account for all the phenomena
which, as sentient beings, in their natural state, they exhibit to
us. It is the influence of the passions--the feelings--the heart. In
brutes, apart from instinct, (if this be not considered instinct,) it
holds universal sway. The objects which excite the passions, and give
rise to action, may not, indeed, in all cases be present. They may be
called up by circumstances in all the vividness of reality, through
the powerful memory with which brutes are endowed, yet the motives of
the action are the same as if the real object supplied the place of
the imaginary one. The principle is the same, and the result is still
produced by the influence of the animal feelings, excited by sensible
objects. But in man there is displayed a moving power which exists
independently of instinct, of love, or hate, or hope, or fear, and
which is capable of exercising a control over all, unless it be the
very strongest of human passions. In the exercise of it, the passions
are, as it were for the moment annihilated, and the intellect rises
into a sphere where all tangible, sensible objects, vanish, and the
mind converses with objects beyond the reach of mere animal perception.
The question may now arise, how are we to account for all that variety
of movement and action, which animals acquire under the instruction
of man? If instinct and passion are the only influences to which
they are subject, we should reasonably suppose that their actions
would be as invariable as the motives from which they originate. Had
they never been subject to a higher order of beings, this would be
found universally true. But that class of animals which we denominate
domestic, and indeed almost all upon which the hand of man has laid its
controlling influence, exhibit a species of action, which indicates
a capability of improvement, and for which it would be impossible
to account upon the principles which have been considered. There is
another principle which is seen alike in animals and man, and might
with propriety be denominated an artificial instinct. It is habit--a
state in which we are led to act with reference to definite ends, and
yet act involuntarily. By a frequent repetition of some motion of the
hand, the foot or the whole person, we come at last to do the same
unconsciously, and it is by this means that we perform so readily
many of the intricate processes which the arts require. It is this
which explains the secret of attachment to places and things. Even the
prisoner, after a long-continued confinement to a gloomy cell, finds,
at his departure, a magic charm binding him to the dreary habitation.
The tender threads of affection have become entwined around the objects
so constantly before him, and he is obliged to summon his reason,
to break through the silvery web that is formed around his heart.
Observation teaches us that animals are subject to the same influence.
After a period of confinement and familiarity with man, the door of
their enclosure may be opened, and almost without exception, they will
leave it, only to return again of their own accord--not because a
judgment teaches them that such a condition is preferable, but because
a new influence is thrown over them which they cannot shake off. It is
obviously upon this principle that they perform all the manœvres, and
answer all the purposes, which they are made to do by man.
These three causes--instinct, passion, and habit, are believed to be
sufficient to account for all the varieties of action exhibited by
animals. We no where discover any of that power of origination, that
freedom of thought and action, which renders man capable of endless
improvement, and worthy of presiding over the brute creation. Nor any
where do we find that power of abstraction, by which, from evidences of
design which are displayed among terrestrial and celestial objects, we
are able to reason our way up to an Infinite Being whom we have neither
seen nor heard. These are the characteristics of man, which render him
an accountable being--give him a conscience, and stamp him with the
impress of immortality.