[Note: This is the remainder of the "Dissertation on the Nature of Animals." The essay was over 100 pages long, so I divided it to make it a bit easier to navigate. Click here for the first part]
In man, consciousness of existence is composed of the perception of actual existence, as well as remembrance of past existence. Remembrance is a perception equally present with the first impression; it even sometimes affects us more strongly than actual sensations. As these two species of sensation are different, and as the mind has the faculty of comparing and forming ideas from them, the consciousness of our existence is more certain and extensive, in proportion to the number and frequency of past objects recalled by the memory, and to the frequent combining and comparing of them with each other, and with present objects. Each object is accompanied with a certain number of sensations, or different existences, relative to the different states in which it was originally perceived. This number of sensations, by the comparison made between them by the mind, becomes a succession or train of ideas. The idea of time, and indeed every other idea, originates from the comparison of our sensations. But this train of ideas, or of [247] existences, often presents itself to us in an order or arrangement very different from that in which our sensations were received. It is the arrangement of our ideas that we perceive, and not the order of our sensation; and in this consists chiefly the differences of character and of genius; for two men, though similar in organization, and educated in the same manner, and though they received their sensations in the same order, might, notwithstanding, think very differently. As the temperament of their minds was not the same, and as each combined and compared similar sensations in a manner peculiar to himself, the general results of these comparisons, or the ideas, genius, and character acquired, would likewise be different.
Some minds are peculiarly active in comparing sensations and forming ideas. Such men are always the most ingenious, and, if not prevented by circumstances, make the most brilliant figure in life. There are others, whose minds being more obtuse, allow every sensation to escape, but such as make strong impressions: These men have less genius and vivacity than the former. Lastly, there are other men, and these constitute the multitude, who have so little activity of mind, and so great an aversion from thinking, that they never compare or combine sensations, at least, quickly. The sensations must be strong, and repeated a thousand times, before their minds can be roused to compare [248] them, or to form ideas. These men are exceedingly stupid, and only differ from the brutes by the small number of ideas which their minds have formed with so much labour.
The consciousness of our existence being thus composed not only of our actual sensations, but of the train of ideas which results from a comparison of our sensations, and of our past existences, it is evident, that the more ideas a man possesses, he is more certain of his existence; that his existence is proportioned to his genius; and that, by the power alone of reflection, we are conscious of our former existence, and that we will continue to exist, the idea of future being only the inverse comparison of the present with the past; for, in this view, the present is past, and the future is present.
Now, the power of reflection being denied to brutes, it is obvious, that they cannot form ideas, and, consequently, that their consciousness of their existence must be less certain and less extensive than ours; for they have no idea of time, no knowledge of the past, or of the future. Their consciousness of existence is simple; it depends solely on the sensations which actually affect them, and consists of the internal feelings produced by these sensations.
We may, perhaps, acquire some notion of the consciousness of existence which animals possess, by reflecting on our own condition, when [249] strongly occupied with any object, or so violently agitated with passion as to preclude every reflex idea of ourselves. This condition is expressed by saying, A man is absent, or out of himself. We are out of ourselves when fully immersed in actual sensations, and especially when these sensations are violent, rapid, and leave the mind no leisure to reflect. In this state, we feel every degree of pleasure and pain; we even retain the consciousness of our existence without any sensible participation of the mind. This condition, in which we have only momentary impressions of our existence, is the habitual state of animals; deprived of ideas, and furnished with sensations, they know not their existence, but they feel it.
To illustrate the difference more fully, let us compare the powers and actions of brute animals with those of man. Like us, they have senses, and receive impressions from external objects. They have also an internal sense, an organ which retains the vibrations excited by these impressions; and, consequently, sensations, which, like ours, may be renewed, and are more or less strong and durable. Still, however, they have neither imagination, understanding, nor memory; because they possess not the power of comparing their sensations, and because these three faculties of the mind depend upon this power. [250]
Have brute animals no memory? The contrary, I shall be told, is demonstrably evident: Do they not recollect, after long absence, the persons with whom they have lived, the places where they dwelt, the roads they frequented? Do they not remember the chastisements they had suffered, the caresses they had received, the lessons they had been taught? Every thing concurs in showing that, though deprived of imagination and reason, they possess an active, extensive, and, perhaps, more faithful memory than our own. But, however striking these appearances may be, and however strong the prejudices to which they have given rise, I imagine it is capable of demonstration that they are deceitful, and that the brutes have no knowledge of past events, no idea of time, and, of course, no memory.
In man, memory originates from the faculty of reflection; for our remembrance of past events supposes not only a continuation of the impressions made upon the internal material sense, or a renewal of former sensations, but likewise the comparison the mind makes between its sensations, or the ideas it forms. If memory consisted not in the renovation of past sensations, these sensations would be represented in our internal sense, without leaving any determined impressions; they would be exhibited without order or connection, like the ravings of persons made or intoxicated, where objects are so de- [251] ranged and confused, that no remembrance of them is retained; for we cannot remember things that have no relation to those which have preceded or followed them. No isolated sensation, however strong, can leave any traces on the mind. Now, it is the mind alone that ascertains the relations of objects, by the comparison it makes between them, and connects our sensations by continued train of ideas. Memory, therefore, consists in a succession of ideas, and necessarily supposes the existence of the power by which they are produced.
But, to leave no room for doubt on this important point, let us examine that species of remembrance left by our sensations, when unaccompanied with ideas. Pain and pleasure are sensations of the purest and strongest kind; yet our recollection of these feelings is feeble and confused. We only remember that we felt pleasure or pain; but our remembrance is indistinct: We cannot figure either the species, the degree, or the duration of those feelings which affected us so powerfully; and still less are we able to have clear ideas of those which have been seldom repeated. A violent pain, for example, which is felt but once, continues only a few moments, and differs from all former pains, would necessarily be soon forgot. We might recollect that we felt a great pain; but, while we distinctly remembered the circumstances which attended it, [252] and the time when it happened, we would have only a faint impression of the sensation itself.
Why is every thing that passed in our infancy entirely obliterated? Why do old men recollect what happened in their youthful years better than what occurred during their old age? Can there be a stronger proof that sensations alone are insufficient for the production of memory, and that it has no existence but in the train of ideas which the mind forms from its sensations? In infancy, our sensations are perhaps as lively and rapid as in middle age; yet they leave little or no traces behind them; because, at this period, the power of reflection, which alone forms ideas, is almost totally inactive; and, when it does act, its comparisons are superficial, and it is incapable of reducing objects to any regular arrangement. At the age of maturity, reason is fully unfolded, because the power of reflection is at its meridian. We then derive from our sensations all the fruit they can produce, and we form various orders of ideas and chains of thought, each of which, by being frequently revolved, makes an impression so deep and indelible, that, when old age arrives, the same ideas recur with more force than those derived from present sensations; because, at that period, our sensations are slow and feeble, and the mind itself participates the languor of the body. Infancy is totally occupied with the present time: In mature years, we enjoy equally the past, the present, and the future; [253] and, in old age, we have but slight feelings of the present, we turn our eyes to futurity, and only live in the past. Do not these differences depend entirely on the arrangement the mind has made of its sensations; and are they not more or less connected with the faculty we possess, at different ages, of forming, acquiring, and retaining ideas? Neither the prattling of the child, nor the garrulity of old age, have the tone of reasoning, because they are equally deficient in ideas; the first is yet unable to form them, and the last has lost the faculty.
An idiot, whose senses and bodily organs appear to be perfectly sound, possesses, in common with us, every kind of sensation, and, if he lived in society, and were obliged to act like other men, he would possess them in the very same order. But, as these sensations give rise to no ideas; as there is no correspondence between his mind and his body; and, as he has not the faculty of reflection; he is, of course, deprived of memory, and of all knowledge of himself. With regard to external powers, this man differs not from the brutes; for, though he has a soul, and possesses the principle of reason, as this principle remains inactive, and receives no intelligence from the bodily organs, it can have no influence on his actions, which, like those of the brute animals, are solely determined by his sensations, and by the consciousness of his actual existence and present wants. Thus, an idiot and a brute [254] are beings whose operations are in every respect the same; because the latter has no soul, and the former makes no use of it: Both want the power of reflection, and, consequently, have neither understanding, imagination, nor memory; but they both possess sensations, feelings, and the faculty of moving.
If it shall still, however, be asked, Do no idiots and brutes often act as if they were determined by the knowledge of past objects? Do they not recollect the person with whom they have lived, the places where they dwelt, &c.? Do not these actions necessarily imply the exertions of memory? and, does not this prove that memory flows not from the power of reflection?
The reader ought to recollect, that I have already distinguished two species of memory, which, though they resemble each other in their effects, proceed from very different causes: The first is occasioned by the impressions of our ideas; and the second, which I would rather call reminiscence than memory, is only a renewal of our sensations, or of the vibrations that produced them. The first is an emanation of the mind, and, as already remarked, is more perfect in man than the second. But the latter is only a renovation of the vibrations of the internal material sense; and it alone is possessed by idiots and brute animals. Their former sensations are renewed by actual sensations; the principal and [255] present recall the accessory and past images; they feel as they formerly felt, and consequently act as they formerly acted; they perceive the present and the past; but they have not the capacity of distinguishing, or comparing objects, and, of course, have no proper knowledge of them.
I am aware that dreams will be adduced as another proof of the memory of brutes. It is undeniable, that the objects which occupy animals when awake, are likewise presented to them during sleep. Dogs bark in their sleep; and, though this barking be feeble, it is easy to distinguish the sounds peculiar to the chace [sic], to anger, to desire, to complaint, &c. It is, therefore, unquestionable, that dogs have a lively and active memory, and very different from what has been above described, since it acts independent of external causes.
To obviate this difficulty, we must examine the nature of dreams, and inquire whether they proceed from the mind, or depend solely on our internal material sense. If we can prove that they reside entirely in the latter, the objection will not only be removed, but a new demonstration will be furnished against the understanding and memory of brutes.
Idiots, whose minds are totally inactive, dream like other men: Dreams, therefore, are produced independent of the mind. Brute animals, though they have no mind, not only dream, but [256] I am tempted to think that all dreams are independent of mind. Let any man reflect upon his dreams, and endeavour to discover why the parts of them are so ill connected, and the events so ridiculous and absurd. The chief reason, I have always thought, proceeds from this circumstance, that dreams are entirely derived from sensations, and not from ideas. The idea of time, for example, never enters into dreams: Persons whom we never saw are represented; we even see those who have been long dead in the same form as when they were alive; but they are always connected with present objects and persons, or with those which are past. It is the same with the idea of place: In dreams we never see persons where they are; objects must be seen where they are not, or they cannot be perceived at all. If the mind acted, it would instantly reduce this chaos of sensations to order. But, instead of acting, the mind generally allows these illusory representations to succeed each other in the order they occur; and, though each object appears in lively colours, the succession is often confused, and always chimerical. If, however, the mind be half roused by the absurdity of the representations, or by the mere force of the sensations, a glimmering of light breaks in upon the darkness, and produces a real idea in the midst of chimeras; we then begin to dream, or rather to think, that the whole may only a dream. Though this action be only a feeble exertion of [257] the mind, it is neither a sensation nor a dream; it is a real thought or reflection; but, as it has not strength enough to dissipate the allusion, it mixes with, and becomes part of the dream, and allows the succession of images to proceed; so that, when we awake, we imagine we have dreamed what we in reality thought.
In dreams we see much, but seldom understand: Though we feel in the most lively manner, we never reason: Images and sensations succeed each other; but the mind never unites or compares them. We have, therefore, sensations, but no ideas; for ideas are the results of compared sensations. Hence dreams reside only in the internal material sense; they are produced without the intervention of the mind; and, therefore, constitute a part of that material or purely animal reminiscence which we have formerly mentioned. Memory, on the contrary, cannot exist without the idea of time, without the actual comparision of former ideas; and, since ideas enter not into dreams, it is obvious, that they can neither be a consequence, nor an effect, nor a proof of memory. But, though ideas should sometimes accompany dreams, though the somnambulists, who walk, speak sensibly, answer question, &c. in their sleep, should be quoted to prove that ideas are not so entirely excluded from dreams as I pretend, it is sufficient for my purpose that dreams may be produced by the renewal of sensations alone, without the intervention of mind: For then brute animals [258] can only have dreams of this species; and these dreams, instead of supposing the existence of memory, indicate, on the contrary, nothing more than a material reminiscence.
I am, however, far from believing that somnambulists are really occupied with ideas: The mind seems to take no part in their actions; for, though they go about and return, they act without reflection or knowledge of their situation. They are neither conscious of the dangers nor inconveniencies which accompany their expeditions. The animal faculties are alone employed, and even not the whole of them. A somnambulist, therefore, is in a more stupid state than that of an idiot; because he exerts only a part of his senses; but an idiot employs the whole, and enjoys extensively every species of feeling: And as to the people who speak during sleep, they never say any thing new. The answering some trivial questions, the repetition of some common phrases, prove not the action of the mind: All this may be performed independent of the thinking principle. Why may not a man asleep speak without thinking, since persons fully awake, especially when occupied with passion, utter many things without reflection?
With regard to the occasional cause of dreams, or the reason why former sensations are renewed, without being excited by present objects, it may be remarked, that we never dream during a profound sleep. Every thing is then extin- [259] guished; we sleep both externally and internally. But the internal sense sleeps last, and awakes first; because it is more active, and more susceptible of impressions than the external senses. We dream most, when our sleep is least perfect and profound. Former sensations, especially those which require no reflection, are renewed. The internal sense, occupied with actual sensations, on account of the inactivity of the external senses, exercises itself with its past sensations. The strongest always present themselves first; and the stronger they are, the supposed situations become more keenly interesting. It is for this reason that dreams are almost perpetually either dreadful or ravishing.
It is not even necessary that the external senses should be absolutely lulled, before the internal sense can exert its independent powers: The simple inaction of these senses is sufficient to produce this effect. The habit of going to repose at stated times often prevents us from sleeping easily. The body and its members are softly extended without motion; the eyes are involved in darkness; the tranquility of the place, and the silence of the night, render the ear useless; the other senses are equally inactive; all is in a state of repose, but nothing as yet entirely lulled or asleep. In this condition, and when the mind is also unoccupied with ideas, the internal material sense alone exerts itself. This is the season of illusive images and fleeting shades. We are a- [260] wake, and yet we feel the effects of sleep. If we be in health and vigour, the succession of images and illusions is enchanting. But, when the body is disordered, or fatigued, the images are of a different nature: We are then tormented with hideous and threatening phantoms, which succeed each other with equal whimsicalness and rapidity. This scene of chimeras may be called a magic lanthorn [sic] which fills the brain with illusions, when void of all other sensations: The objects of this scene are more lively, numerous, and disagreeable, in proportion to the weakness of the body and delicacy of the nerves; for, the vibrations occasioned by real sensations being, in a state of weakness or disease, much stronger and more disagreeable than in a healthy state, the representations of these sensations, produced by a renewal of the same vibrations, must likewise be more lively and painful.
In fine, we remember dreams for the same reason that we remember former sensations: The only difference between us and the brutes is, that we can distinguish dreams from ideas or real sensations; and this capacity of distinguishing is a result of comparison, an operation of memory, which includes the idea of time. But the brutes, who are deprived of memory and of the faculty of comparing past and present time, cannot distinguish their dreams from their actual sensations. [261]
In the article concerning the nature of man, I imagine I have proved, in a satisfactory manner, that animals possess not the power of reflection. Now, the understanding, which is a result of this power, may be distinguished by two different operations: The first is the faculty of comparing sensations, and forming ideas from them; and the second is the power of comparing the ideas themselves, the forming a chain of reasoning. By the first operation, we acquire particular ideas, or the knowledge of sensible objects: By the second, we form general ideas, which are necessary for the acquisition of abstract truths. The brute animals possess neither of these faculties, because they have no understanding; and the understanding of the bulk of mankind seems to be limited to the first of the above operations.
If all men were equally capable of comparing and generalizing ideas, they would equally exhibit their ingenuity by new productions, which would be always different from those of others, and often more perfect; all men would be endowed with inventive powers, or, at least, with the capacity of improving and perfecting. But this is by no means the case: Reduced to a servile imitation, most men execute only what they have seen performed by others; they think only from memory, and in the same order as others have thought; their understanding is limited en- [262] tirely to form and imitation, and their power of reflecting is too feeble for invention.
Imagination is another faculty of the mind: If, by imagination, we understand the power of comparing images with ideas, of illuminating our thoughts, of aggrandizing our sensations, of painting our sentiments, in a word, of perceiving with rapidity all the qualities and relations of objects, this power is the most brilliant and most active faculty of the mind, and the brutes are still more devoid of it, than either of understanding or memory. But there is another species of imagination, which depends solely on corporeal organs, and is common to us with the brutes, namely, that tumultuary [sic] emotion excited by objects analogous or opposite to our appetites, that lively and deep impression of the images of objects, which perpetually and involuntarily recurs, and forces us to act, like the brutes, without deliberation or reflection. By this representation of objects, which his more active than their presence, every thing is exaggerated, and painted in false colours. This species of imagination is the grad enemy of the human mind: It is the source of illusion, the mother of those passions which, in spite of the efforts of reason, rule over us, and render us the unhappy theatre of a perpetual combat, in which we are almost constantly vanquished. [263]
The internal man is double. He is composed of two principles, different in their nature, and opposite in their action. The mind, or principle of all knowledge, wages perpetual war with the other principle, which is purely material. The first is a bright luminary, attended with calmness and serenity, the salutary source of science, of reason, and of wisdom. The other is a false light, which shines only in tempest and obscurity, an impetuous torrent, which involves in its train nothing but passion and error.
The animal principle is first unfolded. As it is purely material, and consists in the duration of vibrations, and the renewal of impressions formed in the internal material sense, by objects analogous or opposite to our appetites, it begins to act, and to guide us, as soon as the body is capable of feeling pain or pleasure. The spiritual principle appear much later, and is only unfolded and brought to maturity by means of education: It is by the communication of others [sic] thoughts alone that the child becomes a thinking and rational creature. Without this communication, it would be stupid and fantastical, according to the natural inactivity or activity of its internal material sense. [264]
Let us view a child when left at full liberty, and removed from the observation of his guide. We may judge of what passes within him from his external actions. He neither thinks nor reflects. He follows indifferently every path to pleasure. He obeys all the impressions of external objects. He acts without reason. Like the young animals, he amuses himself by running and bodily exercise. He goes and returns, without design or preconceived project. His actions are desultory, and without order or connection. But, when called upon by his parents, or those who have learned him to think, he instantly composes himself, gives a direction to his actins, and shows that he has retained the thoughts which had been communicated to him. The material principle has absolute sway during infancy, and would continue to reign alone through life, if the spiritual principle were not unfolded and put in motion by education.
It is easy, by reflection, to perceive the existence of these two principles. There are moments, and even hours and days, in which we can distinguish with certainty both their existence, and the contrariety of their action. I refer to those times of indolence, of fatigue, or disgust, when we are unable to form any determination, when our actions and desires are diametrical opposite; to that condition or disease called vapours, with which the sedentary and idle are so often affected. If we examine ourselves [265] when in this state, we will seem to be divided into two distinct beings, the first of which, or the rational faculty, blames what is done by the second, but has seldom force enough to overcome it; the latter, on the contrary, being composed of all the illusions of sense and imagination, commands, and often overpowers the former, and forces us to act contrary to our judgment, or makes us remain idle, though we have a desire of acting.
When the rational faculty reigns, a man feels a tranquil possession of himself and his affairs; but he perceives, at the same time, that this is only acquirable by a kind of involuntary abstraction from the presence of the other principle. But, when the irrational principle assumes the dominion, we resign ourselves with ardour to dissipation, to appetite, and to passion, and hardly reflect upon the very objects which occupy us so entirely. In both these states, we are happy: In the first, we command with satisfaction; and, in the second, we have still greater pleasure in obeying. As only one of these principles is then in action, and is not opposed by the other, we are sensible of no internal conflict; our existence appears to be simple, because we feel but one impulse: It is in this unity of action that our happiness consists; for, whenever reason accuses our passions, or when the violence of passion makes us hate the admonitions of reason, we then cease to be happy; we lose the unity of [266] our existence, in which alone tranquillity [sic] consists; an internal conflict commences; the two persons oppose each other; and the two principles manifest themselves by producing doubts, inquietude, and remorse.
We may hence conclude, that the most miserable of all states takes place, when these two sovereign powers of human nature exert equally their greatest efforts, and produce an equilibrium. This is that ultimate point of disgust, which makes a man abhor himself, and leaves no other desire but that of ceasing to exist, no other power but that of arming with fury against himself.
What a dreadful condition! I have painted its darkest shade. But how many black clouds must precede? All the situations adjacent to this state of equilibrium, must be replete with melancholy, irresolution, and misery. Even the body itself falls a victim to the agitations produced by these internal conflicts.
The happiness of man consists in the unity of his internal frame: During infancy, he is happy, because the material principle reigns alone, and is in perpetual action. The constraints, remonstrances, and even the chastisements of parents, affect not the basis of happiness in children. No sooner do they obtain their liberty, than they resume all the spring and gaiety which they receive from the novelty and vivacity of their sensations. If a child were entirely left to himself, [267] his happiness would be complete; but it would cease, and be succeeded with a long train of misery. We are therefore obliged to lay him under certain restraints, which frequently make him uneasy; but these transitory pains are the germs of all his future good.
In youth, when the mental principle begins to act, and might even serve for our guide, a new material sense springs up, and assumes such an absolute dominion over all our faculties, that the soul seems to yield itself a willing victim to the impetuous passions excited by this sense. The material principles now gains a more complete command than it formerly possessed; for it not only subdues reason, but perverts it, and employs it as an instrument of gratification: We neither think nor act, but with a view to approve and to satisfy this passion. As long as this intoxication continues, we are happy: External opposition and difficulties seem to corroborate the unity of this internal principle; they fortify the passion; they fill the intervals of languor; they rekindle the flame, and turn all our views to the same object, and all our powers towards the accomplishment of the same end.
But this happy scene passes away like a dream; the charm vanishes; and disgust and a frightful void succeed the plenitude of agreeable feelings with which we had been occupied. The mind, when roused from this lethargy, recognises [sic] itself with difficulty. It has lost by slavery the habit [268] of commanding, together with its strength. It even loves servitude, and goes in quest of a new tyrant, a fresh object of passion, which, in its turn, soon disappears, and is succeeded by another, whose duration is still shorter. Thus excess and disgust continue to multiply; pleasure flied from our embrace; the organs are debilitated, and the material sense, in place of governing, has not even the power to obey. After a youth spent in this manner, nothing remains but an enervated body, a feeble and effeminate mind, and a total incapacity of employing either.
It has been remarked, that, in the middle period of life, men are most subject to those languors of mind, that internal malady which is distinguished by the name of vapours. At this age, we still search after the pleasures of youth. This is the effect of habit, and not of any natural propensity. In proportion as we advance in years, instead of pleasure, we more frequently feel the incapacity of enjoyment. Our desires are so often contradicted by our weakness, that we condemn both our actions and the passions which we wish in vain to gratify.
It is, besides, at this age, that cares and solicitude arise: We then assume a certain state, or, in other words, either from chance or choice, we enter upon a particular course of life, which it is always shameful to abandon, and often dangerous to pursue. We proceed, therefore, between two rocks equally formidable, contempt and a- [269] version. The efforts we make to avoid them weaken our powers, and throw a damp upon our spirits: For, after long experience of the injustice of men, we acquire the habit of regarding every individual as necessarily vicious; and, after we are accustomed to prefer our own repose to the opinions of the world, and after the heart, rendered callous by the frequent wounds it has received, has lost its sensibility, we easily arrive at that state of indifference, that indolent tranquillity [sic], of which we would formerly have been ashamed. Ambition, the most powerful motive of elevated minds, which is regarded at a distance as the noblest and most desirable of all objects, and which stimulates us to the performance of great and useful actions, has no attractions to those who have approached it, and proves a vain and deceitful phantom to those who fall behind in the pursuit. Indolence takes place of ambition, and seems to offer to all men an easier acquisition of more solid good. But it is preceded by disgust, and followed by languor, that dreadful tyrant of thinking minds, against which wisdom has less influence than folly.
It is hence apparent, that the difficulty of reconciling man to himself originates from his being composed of two opposite principles; and that this is the source of his inconstancy, irresolution, and languor.
Brute animals, on the contrary, whose nature [270] is simple and purely material, feel no internal conflicts, no remorse, no hopes, no fears.
If we were deprived of understanding, of memory, of genius, and of every faculty of the soul, nothing would remain but the material part, which constitutes us animals. We would still have wants, sensations, pleasure, pain, and even passions; for what is passion but a strong sensation, which may every moment be renewed? Now, our sensations may be renewed in an internal material sense; we would, therefore, possess all the passions, at least all those which the mind, or principle of intelligence, can neither produce nor foment.
But the great difficulty is to distinguish clearly the passions peculiar to man from those which are common to him and the brutes. Is it certain, or even probable, that the animals have passions? Is it not, on the contrary, agreed, that every passion is a strong emotion of the mind? Ought we not, therefore, to search somewhere else, than in the spiritual principle, for the seeds of pride, of envy, of ambition, of avarice, and of all the other passions which govern us?
To me it appears, that every thing which governs the mind is extraneous to it; that the principle of intelligence is not the principle of sentiment; that the seeds of the passions exist in our appetites; that all illusions proceed from the senses, and reside in our internal material sense; that, at first, the mind has no participation in [271] these illusions, but by its silence; and that, when the mind does give any countenance to them, it is subdued, and, when is assents, it is totally perverted.
Let us then distinguish man’s physical from his moral passions: The one is the cause; the other the effect. The first emotion originates in the internal material sense: The mind may receive, but it cannot produce this emotion. Let us likewise distinguish instantaneous emotions from those that are durable, and we shall, at once, perceive, that fear, horror, anger, 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 subsisting impressions of our former sensations; and, consequently, that those passions must be common to us and the other animals: I say, that the actual impressions of objects are combined with the subsisting impressions of our former sensations; for nothing is horrible or alluring, either to man or the brutes, when seen for the first time. This is fully proven by experience: A young animal will run into the flames the first time a fire is presented to it. Animals acquire experience only by reiterated acts, the impressions of which remain in their internal sense; and, though their experience be not natural, it is not less sure, and even renders the animal more circumspect; for a great noise, a violent motion, an extraordinary figure, sud- [272] denly, and for the first time, seen or presented, produce in the animal a shock, the effect of which resembles the first expressions of fear: But this feeling is instantaneous; and, as it cannot be combined with any former sensation, it can only excite a momentary vibration, and not a durable emotion, which the passion of fear necessarily implies.
A young inhabitant of the forest, when suddenly struck with the sound of a hunter’s horn, or with the report of a gun, starts, bounds, and flies off, solely from the violence of the shock which he felt. But, if this noise ceases, and has been attended with no injury, the animal recognises [sic] the ordinary silence of nature; he composes himself, stops, and returns to his peaceable retreat. But age and experience soon render him timid and circumspect. If he feels himself wounded or pursued, after hearing a particular sound, the painful sensation is preserved in his internal sense; and, whenever he again hears the same noise, the painful sensation is renewed, and, combining with the actual impression, produces a durable passion, a real fear; the animal flies with all his speed, and often abandons for ever his former abode.
Fear, then, is a passion of which brute animals are susceptible, though they feel not our rational or foreseen apprehensions. The same remarks apply to horror, anger, and love; though brutes have none of our reflex aversions, our [273] durable resentments, or our constant friendships. Brute animals possess all those primary passions, which suppose no intelligence, no ideas, and are founded only on the experience of sentiment, or repeated feelings of pleasure and pain, and a renewal of former sensations of the same kind. Anger, or natural courage, is remarkable in those animals who have exerted their strength, and found it superior to that of others. Fear is the offspring of weakness; but love is common to all animals. Love is an innate desire, the soul of nature, the inexhaustible fountain of existence, the germ of perpetuity infused by the Almighty into every being that breathes the breath of life. It softens the most ferocious and obdurate hearts, and penetrates them with a genial warmth. It is the source of all good; by its attractions it unites the most savage and brutal tempers, and gives birth to every pleasure. Love! Thou divine flame! Why dost thou constitute the happiness of every other being, and bring misery to man alone? Because this passion is only a physical good. Notwithstanding all the pretences of lovers, morality is no ingredient in the composition of love. Wherein does the morality of love consist? In vanity; the vanity arising from the pleasure of conquest, an error which proceeds from our attempts to exalt the importance of love beyond its natural limits; the vanity of exclusive possession, which is always accompanied with jealousy, a passion so low, that we u- [274] niformly wish to conceal it; the vanity proceeding from the mode of enjoyment, which only multiplies efforts, without increasing our pleasures. There is even a vanity in relinquishing the object of our attachment, if we first wish to break it off. But, if we are slighted, the humiliation is dreadful, and turns into despair, after discovering that we have been long duped and deceived.
Brute animals suffer none of these miseries. They search not after 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 the power of gratification. They relish all their enjoyments, and attempt not to anticipate or diversity them. But man, by endeavouring to invent pleasure, destroys those which correspond to his nature; by attempting to force sentiment, he abuses his being, and creates a void in his heart which nothing can afterwards fill up.
Thus, every thing that is good in love belongs to the brutes as well as to man; and, as if this passion could never be pure, the animals even seem to feel a small portion of jealousy. Jealousy, in the human species, always implies some distrust of ourselves, a tacit acknowledgment of our own weakness. The animals, on the contrary, seem to be jealous in proportion to their force, ardour, and habits of pleasure; because our jealousy proceeds from ideas, and theirs from [275] sentiment. They have enjoyed, and they desire to enjoy more. They feel their strength, and they beat off all that endeavour to occupy their place. Their jealousy is not the effect of reflection. They turn it not against the object of their love. They are only jealous of their pleasures.
But, are animals limited solely to those passions we have described? Are fear, anger, horror, love, and jealousy, the only permanent affections they are capable of feeling? To me it appears, that, independent of these passions, of which natural sentiment, or rather the experience of sentiment, renders animals susceptible, they possess other passions, which are communicated by education, example, habit, and imitation. They have a species of friendship, of pride, and of ambition. And though, from what has been said, it is apparent that the operations they perform are not the effects of thought or reflection; yet, as the habits we have mentioned seem to suppose some degree of intelligence, and to form the shade between man and the brute creation, this subject merits a careful examination.
Can any thing exceed the attachment of a dog to his master? Some of them have been known to die on the tomb in which he had been laid. But, (not to quote prodigies or heroes), with what fidelity does the dog attend, follow, and protect his master! With what anxiety does he seek his caresses! With what doci- [276] cility [sic] and alacrity does he suffer his ill humour, and even his chastisements, though often unjust! With what gentleness and humility does he endeavour to regain his favour! In a word, what agitation and chagrin does the dog discover when his master is absent; and what excess of joy on his return! In all these expressions, is it possible to mistake the genuine characters of friendship? Are these characters equally strong and energetic, even in the human species?
This friendship, however, is the same with that of a lady for her goldfinch, or of a child for its toy, or a dog for its master. Both attachments are equally blind and void of reflection: That of animals is only more natural, because it arises from their wants; while that of the other is nothing but an insipid amusement, in which the mind has no share. These puerile attachments are kept alive by habit, and acquire all their strength from a vacancy of brain. A taste for whims, the worship of idols, and, in a word, an attachment to inanimated objects, indicate the highest degree of stupidity; and yet there are many makers and worshippers of idols; and many are fond of the soil which they have tilled.
All attachments, therefore, are acquired without the intervention of the mind; for they uniformly arise when we think least, and they acquire force, and become habitual, by want of reflection. If an object pleases our senses, we instantly [277] love it; and, if this object continues for some time to occupy our attention, we convert it into an idol.
But friendship necessarily implies the power of reflection. It is of all attachments the most worthy of man, and the only one which degrades not his nature. Friendship is the offspring of reason. The impressions of sense have no share in its production. It is the mind of our friend that we love; and to love a mind, implies that we have one, and that we have employed it in the investigation of knowledge, and in distinguishing the qualities of different minds. Friendship, therefore, supposes, not only the existence of an intelligent principle, but the actual exertions of this principle in reflecting and reasoning.
Thus friendship belongs only to man; and, though the brutes may be allowed to have attachments, sentiment alone is sufficient to attach them to those whom they often see, and by whom they are fed and taken care of. It is still more sufficient to attach them to objects with which they are obliged to be much connected. The attachment of mothers to their young proceeds from their being long occupied in carrying them in the womb, and in producing and suckling them. In some species of birds, the fathers seem to have an attachment for their offspring, and to provide for the mothers during incubation: This attachment originates from their being employed in building [278] the nest, and from the pleasure they receive from the females, which continue in season long after impregnation. But, in the other animals, whose season of love is short, whenever it is past, the males have no attachment to the females. Where there is no nest, no common operation to be performed, the fathers, like those of Sparta, have no regard to their posterity.
The pride and ambition of animals are effects of their natural courage, or of the sentiments arising from their strength, agility, &c. Large animals seem to despise the audacious insults of the smaller ones. Their courage and ardour are even capable of being improved by education and example; for they are susceptible of every thing, except reason. In general, brute animals can learn to repeat the same action a thousand times, to perform in succession what they only did by intervals, to continue an action a long time, which they were accustomed to finish in an instant, to do voluntarily what at first was the effect of force, to perform habitually what they once executed by chance, and to do, of their own accord, what they see performed by others. Of all the results of the animal machine, that of imitation is the most admirable. It is the most delicate, as well as the most extensive principle of action, and makes the nearest approach to thought: And though, in animals, the cause of it be purely material, its effects have always been astonishing. Men never admired [279] the apes, till they saw them imitate human actions. It is not, indeed, an easy matter to distinguish some copies from the originals. There are, besides, so few who can clearly perceive the difference between genuine and counterfeit actions, that, to the bulk of mankind, the apes must always excite surprise and humiliation.
The apes, however, are more remarkable for talents than genius. Though they have the art of imitating human actions, they are still brutes, all of which, in various degrees, possess the talent of imitation. This talent, in most animals, is entirely limited to the actions of their own species. But the ape, although he belongs not to the human species, is capable of imitating some of our actions. This power, however, is entirely the effect of his organization. He imitates the actions of men, because his structure has a gross resemblance to the human figure. What originates solely from organization and structure, is thus ignorantly ascribed, by the vulgar, to intelligence and genius.
By the relations of motion, a dog learns the habits of his master; by the relations of figure, an ape mimics human gestures; and, by the relations of organization, a goldfinch repeats musical airs, and a parrot imitates speech, which forms the greatest external difference between one man and another, and between man and the other animals; for, by means of language, one man discovers a superiority of knowledge and [280] genius, while others express by it nothing but confused or borrowed ideas; and, in an idiot, or in a parrot, it serves only to mark the last degree of stupidity, the incapacity in either, to produce thought or reflection, though both be endowed with proper organs for expressing what passes within them.
It is still easier to prove that imitation is a result of mere mechanism. The most perfect imitation depends on the vivacity with which the internal material sense receives the impressions of objects, and the facility of expressing them by the aptness of external organs. Men whose senses are most delicate and easily affected, and whose members are most agile and flexible, make the best actors, the best mimics, the best monkeys. Children, insensibly, and without reflection, imitate the actions, the gestures, and the manners of those with whom they live: They are extremely alert in repeating and counterfeiting. Most young people, though they see only with the eyes of the body, are very dexterous in perceiving ridiculous figures. They are struck with every strange form or new representation. The impression is so strong that they relate it with enthusiasm, and copy it with ease and with gracefulness. Children, therefore, possess, in a superior degree, the talent of imitation, which supposes more perfect organs, and a more happy disposition of members, to which nothing is so repugnant as a strong dose of good sense. [281]
Thus, among men, those who reflect least, have generally the strongest imitative talents. It is not, therefore, surprising, that this talent should appear in those animals who have no reflection. They ought even to possess it in the highest degree of perfection, because they have nothing to oppose its operation, no principle to excite a desire of differing from each other. Among men, all the diversity of character, and variety of action, proceed entirely from the mind. But brute animals, who have no mind, and consequently are destitute of that principle which can alone give rise to variety of character, or of personal accomplishments, must, when they resemble each other in organization, or are of the same species, do the same things in the same manner, and imitate one another more perfectly than one man can imitate the actions of another man. Of course, the talent of imitation possessed by the brute animals, so far from implying thought or reflection, proves that they are absolutely deprived of both.
It is, for the same reason, that the education of animals, though short, is always successful. They soon acquire, by imitation, all the knowledge of their parents. They not only derive experience from their own feelings, but, by means of imitation, they learn the experience acquired by others. Young animals model themselves entirely upon the old: They see the latter approach or fly, when they perceive particular [282] objects, hear certain sounds, or smell certain odours. At first, they approach or fly without any other determining principle but that of imitation; and afterwards they approach or fly of their own accord, because they have then acquired the habit of flying or approaching, whenever they feel the same sensations.
Having thus compared man with the brutes, when taken individually, I shall now compare man in society with the gregarious tribes, and endeavour to investigate the cause of that species of industry which is so remarkable in some animals, even of the lowest and most numerous orders. What marvelous feats are not daily ascribed to certain insects? The talents and wisdom of the bee are admired with envy: They are said to possess an art peculiar to themselves, the art of perfect government. A bee-hive, say the eulogists of this insect, is a republic where every individual labours for the community, where every thing is distributed and arranged with a foresight, an equity, and a prudence, that is truly astonishing: The policy of Athens itself was not more perfect, or better conducted: The more we examine these insects, they exhibit fresh objects of admiration; an unalterable and uniform system of government, a profound respect for the sovereign, an anxious attention to his wellfare [sic] and inclinations, an ardent love to their country, an incredible assiduity in labouring for the public good, the greatest disinterestedness, [283] joined to the strictest oeconomy, the finest geometry, combined with the most elegant architecture, &c. But, were I to run over the annals of this republic, and to retail all the incidents in the oeconomy of these insects, which have excited the admiration of their historians, I should never come to an end.
Independent of that attachment which men acquire for their favourite subjects, the more they observe, and the less they reason, their admiration is proportionally augmented. Can any thing be more gratuitous than this blind admiration of bees, that the pure republican principles ascribed to them, than that singular instinct which rivals the most sublime geometry, which solves, without hesitation, the difficult problem of building, in the most sold manner, in the least possible space, and with the greatest possible oeconomy? These eulogies are not only excessive, but ridiculous: A bee ought to hold no higher rank in the estimation of a naturalist, than it actually holds in nature. This wonderful republic, therefore, must always appear, in the eye of reason, to be only an assemblage of small animals, which have no other relation to man, but that of furnishing him with wax and honey.
I here blame not curiosity, but absurd exclamation, and false reasoning. To examine the operations of bees, to observe the progress of their labours, to describe their generation, their metamorphoses, &c. these are objects worthy the [284] attention of philosophers. But it is the morality, and even the theology ascribed to insects, that I cannot hear with patience: It is the marvellous [sic] feats first invented, and then extolled by naturalists, which I wish to examine: it is the intelligence, the foresight, and even the knowledge of futurity, which have, with so much complaisance, been falsely lavished upon them, that I must endeavour to reduce to their just value.
The genius of solitary bees, it is allowed on all hands, is vastly inferior to that of the gregarious species; and the talents of those which associate in small troops, are less conspicuous than of those that assemble in numerous bodies. Is not this alone sufficient to convince us, that the seeming genius of bees, is nothing but a result of pure mechanism, a combination of movements proportioned to numbers, an effect which appears to be complicated, only because it depends on millions of individuals? Has not every congruity, and even disorder itself, the appearance of harmony, when we are ignorant of the cause? From apparent order to actual intelligence, there is but one step; for men are always more disposed to admire, than to reason.
It must, therefore, be admitted, that bees, taken separately, have less genius than the dog, the monkey, and most other animals: It will likewise be admitted, that they have less docility, less attachment, and less sentiment; and that they possess fewer qualities to those of [285] the human species. Hence we ought to acknowledge, that their apparent intelligence proceeds solely from the multitude united. This union, however, presupposes not intellectual powers; for they unite not from moral views: They find themselves assembled together without their consent. This society, therefore, is a physical assemblage ordained by Nature, and has no dependence on knowledge or reasoning. The mother bee produces at one time, and in the same place, ten thousand individuals, which, though they were much more stupid than I have supposed them, would be obliged, solely for the preservation of their existence, to arrange themselves into some order. As they all act against each other with equal forces, supposing their first movements to produce pain, they would soon learn to diminish this pain, or, in other words, to afford mutual assistance: They, of course, would exhibit an air of intelligence, and of concurring in the accomplishment of the same end. A superficial observer would instantly ascribe to them views and talents which they by no means possess: He would explain every action: Every operation would have its particular motive, and prodigies of reason would arise without number; for ten thousand individuals produced at one time, and obliged to live together, must all act in the very same manner; and, if endowed with feeling, they must acquire the same habits, assume that arrangement which is least painful [286] or most easy to themselves, labour in their hive, return after leaving it, &c. Hence the origin of the many wonderful talents ascribed to bees, as such as their architecture, their geometry, their order, their foresight, their patriotism, and, in a word, their republic, the whole of which, as I have proved, has no existence but in the imagination of the observer.
Is not Nature herself sufficiently astonishing, without ascribing to her miracles of our own creation? Are not the works of the Almighty sufficient to demonstrate his power? and do we imagine that we can enhance it by our weakness? If possible, this is the very way to degrade his perfections. Who gives the grandest idea of the supreme Being; he who sees him create the universe, arrange every existence, and found nature upon invariable and perpetual laws; or he who inquires after him, and discovers him conducting and superintending a republic of bees, and deeply engaged about the manner of folding the wings of a beetle?
Some animals unite into societies, which seem to depend on the choice of those that compose them, and, consequently, make a nearer approach to intelligence and design that that of the bees, which has no other principle than physical necessity. The elephants, the beavers, the monkeys, and several other species of animals, assemble in troops, for defending each other, and for the purpose of carrying on some common operations. If these [287] societies were less disturbed, and, if they could be observed with equal ease as that of the bees, we should doubtless discover wonders of a very different nature, which, notwithstanding, would be only effects of physical laws. When a multitude of animals of the same species are assembled in one place, a particular arrangement, a certain order, and common habits, must be the necessary results.* Now, every common habit, so far from having intelligence for its cause, implies nothing more than a blind imitation.
Society, among men, depends less upon physical than moral relations. His weakness, his wants, his ignorance, and his curiosity, soon taught him the necessity of associating: He soon found that solitude was a state of war and of danger; and he fought for safety, peace, and society. He augmented his own power and his knowledge, by uniting them with those of his fellow-creatures. This union was the best use he ever made of his rational faculties. Man commands the universe solely because he has learned to govern himself, and to submit to the laws of society.
Every thing has concurred to render man a social animal: Though large and polished societies certainly depend upon custom, and sometimes on the abuse of reason, they were unquestionably preceded by smaller associations, which had no basis but that of nature. A family is a [288] natural society, which has deeper and more permanent foundations, because it is accompanied with more wants, and more causes of attachment. Man differs from the other animals: When he comes into the world, he hardly exists. Naked, feeble, and incapable of action, his life depends on the aid of others. The weaknesses of infancy continue long. The necessity of support is converted into a habit, which, of itself, is capable of producing a mutual attachment between the child and its parents. But, as the child advances, he gradually acquires more force, and has less need of assistance. The affection of the parents, on the contrary, continues, while that of the child grows daily less. Thus love descends more than it ascends. The attachment of the parent becomes excessive, blind, and invincible; and that of the child remains cold and inactive, till the seeds of gratitude are unfolded by reason.
Thus human society, even when confined to a single family, implies the existence of the rational faculty; that of gregarious animals, who seem to unite from choice and convenience, implies experience and sentiment; and that of insects, which, like the bees, are associated without design or motive, implies nothing at all. Whatever may be the effects of this latter association, it is clear, that they have neither been foreseen nor conceived by the creatures which produced them, and that they result solely from the [289] universal laws of mechanism established by the Almighty. Suppose ten thousand automatons assembled in the same place, all endowed with the same force, and determined, by a perfect resemblance in their external and internal structure, and by a uniformity in their movements, to perform the same operation, a regular work would be the necessary result. They would exhibit the relations of regularity, of resemblance, and of position; because these depend upon the relations of motion, which we have supposed to be equal and uniform. The relations of juxta-position, of extension, and of figure, would also appear; because we have supposed a given and circumscribed place: And, if we bestow on these automatons the smallest degree of sensation, just as much as is necessary to make them feel their existence, to have a tendency to self-preservation, to avoid what is hurtful, to desire what is agreeable, &c. their operations will be not only regular, proportioned, similar, and equal, but they will have the air of the highest symmetry, solidity, convenience, &c.; because, in the process of their labours, each of the ten thousand individuals has assumed that arrangement which was most commodious to itself, and has, at the same time, been obliged to act, and to arrange itself in the manner least incommodious to the rest.
Shall I enforce this argument still farther? The hexagonal cells of the bee, which have been [290] the subject of so much admiration, furnish an additional proof of the stupidity of these insects: This figure, though extremely regular, is nothing but a mechanical result, which is often exhibited in some of the most rude productions of nature. Crystals, and several other stones, as well as particular salts, &c. constantly assume this figure. The small scales in the skin of the roussette, or great bat, are hexagonal, because each scale, when growing, obstructs the progress of its neighbour, and tends to occupy as much space as possible. We likewise find these same hexagons in the second stomach of ruminating animals, in certain seeds, capsules, and flowers, &c. If we fill a vessel with cylindrical grain, and, after filling up the interstices with water, shut it close up, and boil the water, all these cylinders will become hexagonal columns. The reason is obvious, and purely mechanical. Each cylindrical grain tends, by its swelling, to occupy as much space as possible; and therefore, by reciprocal compression, they necessarily assume an hexagonal figure. In the same manner, each bee endeavours to occupy as much space as possible, in the limited dimensions of the hive; and, therefore, as the bodies of the bees are cylindrical, they must necessarily make their cells hexagonal, from the reciprocal obstruction they give to each other.
The genius of bees has been estimated according to the regularity of their works. Bees are [291] said to be more ingenious than wasps, hornets, &c.; for, though the latter are acquainted with architecture, their fabrics are more rude and irregular. But it was not considered by the abettors of this opinion, that the great or less regularity depends solely on the number and figure, and not on the intelligence of these creatures. In proportion to the greatness of the number, there are more equal and opposite forces in action, and, of course, more mechanical restraint, and more regularity and apparent perfection in their works.
Those animals, therefore, who most resemble man in figure and organization, notwithstanding the eulogists of insects, will still remain superior to all others, in their internal qualities: And, though these qualities be infinitely different from those of man, though they are only, as has been proved, the results of experience and feeling; yet they greatly exceed the qualities of insects. As every operation of nature is conducted by shades, or slight gradations, a scale may be formed for ascertaining the intrinsic qualities of every animal, by taking, for the first point, the material part of man, and by placing the animals successively at different distances, in proportion as they approach or recede from that point, either in external form, or internal organization. Agreeable to this scale, the monkey, the dog, the elephant, and other quadrupeds, will hold the first rank; the cetaceous animals, [292] who, like the quadrupeds, consist of flesh and blood, and are viviparous, will hold the second; the birds, the third, because they differ more from man than the quadrupeds of cetaceous animals; and, were it not for oisters and polypi, which seem to be the farthest removed from man, the insects would be thrown into the lowest rank of animated beings.
But, if the animals be deprived of understanding, of genius, of memory, and of all intelligence; if their faculties depend on their senses, and be limited entirely to the exercise of experience and of feeling, how can we account for that species of foresight which some of them seem to possess? Could feelings alone determine them to amass provisions in summer to nourish them during the rigours of winter? Does not this imply a comparison of time, a rational anxiety concerning their future comfort and subsistence; Why do birds build nests, if they know not that they will be useful for depositing their eggs and rearing their young? It is unnecessary to multiply facts of the same nature.
Before solving these questions, or reasoning concerning the above and similar facts, it is necessary to ascertain their reality: Instead of being retailed by lovers of the marvellous [sic], if they had been examined by men of sense, and collected by philosophers, I am persuaded, that all these pretended miracles would have soon disappeared, and that, by cool and dispassionate reflection, the [293] cause of each particular fact might have been discovered. But, let us admit the truth of all these facts; let us allow to the animals foresight, and even a knowledge of the future, can this be ascribed to their intellectual powers? If this were really the case, their intelligence would be greatly superior to ours: For our foresight is entirely conjectural; our notions concerning futurity are always doubtful, and founded on probabilities. Hence brute animals, who see the future with certainty, since they determine before hand, and are never deceived, would be endowed with a principle of knowledge superior to the human mind. I ask, whether this conclusion be not equally repugnant to religion and to reason?
It is impossible, therefore, that the brutes have a certain knowledge of the future from an intellectual principle similar to ours. Why, then, ascribe to them, upon such slight grounds, a quality so sublime? Why unnecessarily degrade the human species? Is it not less unreasonable to refer the cause to mechanical laws, established, like the other laws of nature, by the will of the Creator? The certainty with which animals are supposed to act, and the stability and uniformity of their determinations, sufficiently evince them to be the effects of pure mechanism. To doubt, to deliberate, to compare, are the essential characters of reason. But movements and actions which are always decisive, and always certain, [294] indicate, at the same time, both mechanism and stupidity.
But, as the laws of nature are only general effects, and, as the facts in question are limited and particular, it would be less philosophic, and more unworthy of the ideas we ought to entertain of the Creator, to embarrass his will thus gratuitously with a vast number of petty statutes, of which one must be enacted for bees, another for owls, a third for field-mice, &c. Should we not, on the contrary, exert all our efforts to reduce these particular effects to more general ones? And if that be impossible, let us record them, and wait patiently till new facts and new analogies enable us to investigate their causes.
Let us, however, examine if these facts be so inexplicable and so marvellous [sic], or even if they be properly authenticated. The foresight ascribed to ants is now discovered to be a vulgar error. They remain in a torpid state during winter. Their provisions, therefore, are only a superfluous mass, collected without design, and without any knowledge of the future; for, on the supposition of this knowledge, they would be endowed with the faculty of foreseeing what was perfectly useless. Is it not natural for animals, that have a fixed abode, to which they are accustomed to transport their provisions, to collect more than they can consume? Is not feeling alone, guided by the habit they have acquired of transporting their food, in order that they [295] may use it in tranquillity [sic], sufficient to account for this phaenomenon. Does not this demonstrate that they are only endowed with feeling, and not with reason? For the same reason, beeds collect more wax and honey then they have occasion for: Man profits not, therefore, by their intelligence, but by their stupidity. Intelligence would necessarily determine them to collect no more than they could consume, and to save themselves the trouble of amassing a superfluous quantity, especially after they learn from experience, that this labour is lost, that the overplus is uniformly taken from them, and that this abundance is the sole cause of the desolation and destruction of their society. What demonstrates this superfluous labour to be the effect of feeling alone is, that we can oblige them to work as much as we please. As long as there are flowers in any country, the bee continues to extract from them honey and wax. If bees were transported from one region to another, so as to afford them a constant sucession of fresh flowers, their labours would never cease. The amassing disposition of the bee, therefore, is not an effect of foresight, but a movement produced by feeling; and this movement is continued as long as the objects which give rise to it exist.
I have bestowed particular attention on the oeconomy of field-mice. Their holes are generally divided into two apartments; in one of them they deposit their young, and in the [296] other, every thing that is agreeable to the palates. When made by themselves, their holes are not large, and can receive only a small quantity of provisions: But, when they find a large space under the trunk of a tree, there they take up their abode, and fill it with all the grain, nuts, &c. they can collect. Hence the quantity of provisions amassed, instead of being proportioned to the wants of the animal, depend entirely on the capacity of the place where they happen to be deposited.
Thus the provisions of the ant, of the field-mouse, and of the bee, are discovered to be only useless and disproportioned masses, collected without any view to futurity, and the minute and particular laws of their pretended foresight are reduced to the general and real law of feeling. The sagacity and foresight ascribed to birds originate from the same cause. To account for the construction of their nests, it is unnecessary to have recourse to a particular law established by the Almighty in their favour. To this operation they are led by degrees. They first find a proper place, and then bring materials to render it more commodious. The nest is only a place which they can distinguish from all others, and where they can live in tranquillity [sic]. Love is the sentiment that stimulates and directs them in this operation. They feel a strong mutual attachment; they endeavour to conceal [297] themselves, and to retire from the rest of the world, which is now become more dangerous to them than ever. They, therefore, retreat to the forest, to places the most obscure and inaccessible; and, to render their situation more comfortable, they collect straw, leaves, &c. and form them, with incessant labour, into a common habitation. Some, less dexterous or less sensual, make coarse and rude nests; others, contented with what they find already made, have no other habitation than the holes they meet with, or the nests which are presented to them. All those operations are effects of organization, and depend upon feeling, which, however exquisite in degree, can never produce reasoning; and still less can it produce that intuitive foresight, that certain knowledge of futurity, which have been ascribed to the feathered tribes.
This doctrine may be farther proved by a few familiar examples. Birds, instead of knowing the future, are even ignorant of what is past. A hen cannot distinguish her own eggs from those of another bird. She perceives not that the young ducks whom she has hatched belong not to her. She broods over chalk eggs, from which nothing can be produced, with equal industry as if they were her own. She has no knowledge, therefore, either of the past or the future, and is still more deceived with regard to the present. Why do not domestic poultry make nests as well as other birds? Is it because [298] the male belongs to many females? or rather, is it not because, being accustomed to be out of the reach of inconvenience and danger, they have no occasion to conceal themselves, no habit of seeking for safety in retreat and solitude? This admits of proof by facts; for wild birds of the same species perform actions which are entirely neglected when in a domestic state. The wild duck and wood-hen build nests; but none are made by these birds when domesticated. The nests of birds, therefore, the cells of bees, the collections of food laid up by the ant, the field-mouse, &c. suppose not any intelligence in those animals, nor proceed from particular laws established for each species, but depend, like every other animal operation, on number, figure, motion, organization, and feeling, which are general laws of nature, and common to all animated beings.
It is by no means astonishing that man, who is so little acquainted with himself, who so often confounds his sensations and ideas, who so seldom distinguishes the productions of the mind from those of the brain, should compare himself to the brute animals, and make the only difference between them consist in the greater or less perfection of their organs: It is not surprising that he should make them reason, understand, and determine in the same manner with himself; and that he should attribute to them not only those qualities which he possesses, but even those [299] of which he is deprived. Let man, however, examine, analyze, and contemplate himself, and he will soon discover the dignity of his being; he will perceive the existence of his soul; he will cease to degrade his nature; he will see, at one glance, the infinite distance placed by the Supreme Being between him and the brutes.
God alone knows the past, the present, and the future. Man, whose existence continues but a few moments, perceives only these moments: But a living and immortal power compares these moments, distinguishes and arranges them. It is by this power that man knows the present, judges of the past, and foresees the future. Deprive him of this diving light, and you deface and obscure his being; nothing will remain but an animal equally ignorant of the past and the future, and affectable [sic] only by present objects. [300]
* See the history of the deer, rabbit, &c. [back to page 288].