Chapter I: Of THE NATURE OF ANIMALS (2)

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.