Chapter IV: Part 4

Besides, if we consider sentiment as a natural faculty, independent of the movements which it necessarily produces, we may still be able to estimate and determine its different degrees by physical relations, to which sufficient attention does not seem to have been hitherto paid. Before the highest degree of sentiment can exist in an animated body it is necessary that this body should form a whole, not only sensible in all its parts, but so composed that all these parts should have an intimate correspondence with each other, insomuch that one cannot be agitated without communicating a portion of that agitation to all the rest. It is also necessary there should be one common centre in which the agitations may terminate, and on which the reaction of every movement may be performed. Thus man, and those animals which resemble him most in organization, will be the most sensible beings. Those, on the contrary, who do not form so complete a whole, whose parts have a less intimate correspondence, who have several centres of feeling, and under one cover seem less to comprise a perfect animal, than to contain several centres of existence separate from each other, will be beings far less sensible. The pieces of a polypus, which has been cut, live separately; the head of a wasp, which is divided from the body, lives, moves, and even eats as before; a lizard, when cut in two, is neither deprived of motion nor feeling; the amputated limbs of a lobster are renewed; the heart of a turtle vibrates for a long time after it is taken out of the body; all those insects, in which the principal viscera, as the heart and lungs, do not unite in the centre, extend throughout the body, and form, as it were, a series of hearts, and other viscera; all fishes, whose organs of circulation have but little action; in short, all animals, whose organization is more or less remote from ours, have more or less sentiment.

In man, and in the animals which resemble him, the diaphragm appears to be the centre of sentiment; it is on this nervous part that the impressions of pain and pleasure are directed; it is on this that all the movements of the sensitive system are exercised. The diaphragm, in a transverse form, divides the body into two equal parts, of which the superior contains the heart and lungs, and the inferior the stomach and the intestines. This membrane is possessed of the utmost sensibility; it is also so necessary for the propagation and communication of feeling, that the slightest injury of it is always accompanied with convulsions, and often with death. The brain, which is considered as the seat of sensation, is not, therefore, the centre of sentiment, since it may be wounded, and even parts of it removed without causing the death of the animal. Let us then distinguish sensation from sentiment. Sensation is nothing more than an agitation or impression on the sense, whereas sentiment is this very sensation rendered agreeable or disagreeable by the propagation of the agitation through the sensitive system, for the essence of sentiment, its sole characteristic is pleasure or pain, and all other movements, notwithstanding they pass within us, are totally indifferent, nor do they affect us. It is on sentiment that the whole exterior movements, and the exercise of animal force depend; it acts only in proportion as it feels, and the very part which we consider as the centre of sentiment is also the centre of force.

A slight examination will shew us that all lively emotions, whether of pain or pleasure, in a word, all sensations, whether agreeable or disagreeable, are felt internally in the region of the diaphragm. On the contrary, there is no token of sentiment in the brain; in the head there are none but pure sensations; we only recollect that this or that sensation has been agreeable or disagreeable; and if this operation in the head is followed by a lively and real sentiment, then we feel the impression of it within the region of the diaphragm. Thus the foetus, where this membrane is without exercise, is without sentiment, and the little motions of the foetus may therefore rather be considered as mechanical, than dependent either on sensation or on the will.

Whatever may be the substance which serves as the vehicle of sentiment, and produces muscular motion, it is certainly propagated by the nerves, and is communicated in an indivisible instant from one extremity to the other. In whatever manner this motion may be effected, (whether by vibrations, as in elastic fibres, or by a subtile fire, similar to that of electricity, which not only resides in animated, and in all other bodies, but is constantly regenerated in the former by the motion of the heart and lungs, by the action of the blood in the arteries, and also by that of exterior causes on the organs of sense) certain it is that the nerves and membranes are the only sensible part of the animal body. The blood, the lymph, the fat, the bones, the flesh, and all other solids and fluids, are of themselves insensible; the brain is a soft and unelastic substance, and on that account incapable of producing or propagating the vibrations of sentiment.

What may have given rise to the opinion that the brain was the seat of sensation, and the centre of sensibility, is the circumstance that the nerves, which are the organs of sensation, terminate in the brain; for which reason it was considered as the only part that could receive every agitation or impression. This supposition appeared so simple, and so natural, that no attention was paid to the physical impossibility that attends it, though abundantly evident; for how is it possible that a soft and insensible substance should not only receive impressions, but retain them for a length of time, and propagate all their agitations over the solid and sensible parts? Perhaps it will be answered after Descartes and Peyronie, that it is not in the brain, but in the pineal gland that this principle of sensation resides; but it is very easily distinguished that the pineal gland, the callous substance in which they would enclose the seat of the sensations, have no connection with the nerves, but are surrounded with the insensible substance of the brain, and so separated from the nerves that they cannot receive the motions of them, and therefore these suppositions, like the former, must fall to the ground. But what, in this case, is the use and functions of this very noble and principal part of the body? Is not the brain to be found in every animal? Do we not find it larger in man, quadrupeds, and birds, which have all much sentiment, than in fishes, insects, and other animals which have but little? When compressed, is not all motion suspended? Does not every action cease? If this part is not the principal of motion, why is it so essentially necessary to it? Why is it proportioned, in every species of animals, to the quantity of sentiment with which they are endowed?

However difficult these questions may appear, I think it is easy to answer them satisfactorily. By an attentive and deliberate examination, the brain, as well as the spinal marrow (which is nothing more than a prolongation of it) is a kind of mucilage, hardly organized. We distinguish in it only the extremities of the little arteries, which terminate there in great numbers, and carry no blood but a white and nutritive lymph; these small arteries, or lymphatic vessels, when disunited from the brain by maceration, appear in the form of very slender fibres. The nerves, on the contrary, never penetrate the substance of the brain, but only reach the surface of it, but previously to which they lose their solidity and elasticity, and their extremities next the brain are soft, and almost mucilaginous. Whence it appears that the brain, which is nourished by the lymphatic arteries, furnishes in its turn nourishment to the nerves, which we ought to consider as a kind of vegetable substance, that shoots forth from the brain, and is divided into an infinity of branches. The brain is to the nerves what the soil is to plants; the extremities of the nerves are the roots, which, as in every vegetable, are more soft, and tender than the trunk or branches; they contain a ductile matter proper for the growth and nourishment of the tree; and this ductile matter they derive from the substance of the brain, to which the arteries continually direct the lymph necessary for its supply. The brain, therefore, instead of being the seat of sensation, the principle of sentiment, is only an organ of secretion and nutrition, but it is an organ which is highly essential, and without which the nerves could neither grow nor be preserved.

The brain is also larger in man, quadrupeds, and birds, because in them the quantity of nerves is greater than in fishes and insects, which on this very account have very little sentiment; they have but a small brain, in proportion to the small number of nerves which it nourishes. And here I cannot help remarking, that man has not, as has been said, a proportionably larger brain than any other animal. There are species of apes, and of cetaceous animals, which, proportioned to the size of their bodies, have more brains than man; another fact which proves that the brain is neither the seat of sensation, nor the principle of sentiment, since were it so those animals would have more sensations, and more sentiment, than man. By observing the nutrition of plants we shall perceive that they do not absorb the gross parts of earth or water, and that these must first be reduced by heat into tenuous vapours. In like manner the nerves are nourished by the subtle moisture of the brain, which is received by their extremities or roots, and thence carried into all the branches of the sensitive system. This system, as we have already remarked, forms an individual whole, of which the parts have so close a connection that we cannot wound one without injuring all the rest. The slightest irritation of the smallest nerve is sufficient to throw the whole body into a convulsion, nor is it possible to cure the pain, or remove the convulsion, but by cutting away the nerve above the injured part, and then all the parts to which this nerve joined become at once motionless and insensible. The brain ought not to be considered as an organic part of the nervous system, because it differs both in properties and substance, and is neither solid, elastic, nor sensible. I own that, when compressed, a stop is put to sensation; but this proves it a body foreign to the system, which, from acting with a weight on the nerves, benumbs them in the same manner, as a heavy weight applied to the arm or leg, deadens the feeling; and this is evident, because the moment the compression is removed sentiment revives, and the motion is re-established. I own likewise that, by injuring the brain, convulsions, and even death, will ensue, but these effects are produced from the nerves being injured in their very source. To these reasons I might add particular facts, which would also prove that the brain is neither the centre of sentiment nor the seat of sensation. There have been animals, and even children, born without either head or brain, yet endowed with sentiment, motion, and life. In insects and worms the brain is not perceptible, having only a part which corresponds with the spinal marrow, and therefore the spinal marrow might more reasonably be supposed the seat of sensation, being common to all animals, which the brain is not.

The greatest obstacle to the advancement of human knowledge, lies not so much in the things themselves, as in our manner of considering them. However complicated the body of man may be, his ideas are more so. It is less difficult to understand Nature as she is, than comprehend her as she is represented. She has only a veil, but we give her a mask, and conceal her with prejudices; and we suppose she acts and operates as we act and think; but her actions however are clear, and our thoughts are obscure; her designs and operations are always uniform and certain, which we seem to confound with the variable illusions of our own imaginations. I speak not merely of arbitrary systems and imaginary hypotheses, but of the methods by which we generally study Nature. Even experiment, although the most certain method, has been productive of more error than truth; as the smallest deviation leads to barren wilds, or exhibits a glimpse of obscure objects; to which affinities and properties are ascribed, and those steps being followed by the whole world, the consequences derived from them are admitted as fixed principles. Of this I might give a proof by exposing what are called principles in all the sciences, both abstract and real. In the former the general basis of principle is abstraction, or one or more suppositions; in the latter, principles are nothing more than consequences, whether true or false, of the methods which we have adopted. Let us take anatomy for an example: must not the first man who surmounted natural repugnance, and ventured to open a human body, suppose that by dissecting and examining all its parts, he should obtain a knowledge of its structure, mechanism and functions? but finding the subject more complicated than he had imagined, he was obliged to renounce those pretensions, and to adopt a method, not by which he might know and judge, but by which he might view the parts in a certain order. This method, however, was not to be acquired by one man; it was to occupy the attention of ages, and even of our ablest anatomists to the present day, and even when acquired it is not science, but the road which leads to it; and which might have done so, if instead of keeping within the narrow and beaten track, anatomists had extended the path, by comparing the human body with that of other animals; for does not the foundation of all science consist in a comparison of similar and different objects, of their analogous and opposite properties, and of all their relative qualities? And hence it is, that although human bodies have been dissected for three thousand years, anatomy still remains nothing more than a nomenclature, and hardly any advances have been made towards the real object, the knowledge of the animal economy; in which Nature certainly appears very mysterious, not only because the subject is complicated, but because, having neglected those modes of comparison, which alone could have afforded us any light, we have been immersed in the obscurity of doubt, or bewildered in the labyrinth of vague hypotheses. We have millions of volumes descriptive of the human body, while the structure of animals has been almost entirely neglected. The most minute parts of man have been named and described, and yet we know not whether those parts are to be found in other animals. Certain functions have been ascribed to certain organs, without knowing whether those functions cannot be exercised by other beings though deprived of those organs; insomuch that in all the explications relative to the animal economy, we labour under the double disadvantage of first engaging in a complicated subject, and then reasoning on it without the assistance of analogy. Through the whole course of this work we have followed a different method; constantly comparing Nature with herself, we have considered her relatively and in her most distant extremes; and it will be easily perceived that, after all our labour to remove false ideas, destroy prejudices, and to separate realities from arbitrary opinions, the only art we have employed is comparison. If we have been enabled to throw any light upon these subjects, less is to be attributed to genius than method, and which we have endeavoured to render as general as our knowledge would permit.

Having hitherto avoided giving general ideas, until we had presented the results of particular operations, we shall now content ourselves with collecting certain facts, which will suffice to prove that man, in a state of nature, was not calculated to live upon herbage, grain, or fruits; but that at all times with the greatest part of other animals, he sought to feed on flesh. The Pythagorean diet so highly extolled by some ancient and modern philosophers, and even recommended by certain physicians, was assuredly not prescribed by Nature. In the golden age, man, as innocent as the dove, sought for no nourishment but acorns of the forest, and pure water of the stream. Surrounded with subsistence, he was free from inquietude, lived independently, and at peace with himself and other animals; but losing sight of his dignity, he sacrificed his liberty to the union of society, and exchanged a life of repose for tumultuous warfare. Of his nature thus depraved, the first fruits were cruelty and an appetite for flesh and blood; and this depravity the invention of arts and manners served to complete. Thus have philosophers austere, and by sentiment savage, in all ages, reproached the civilized part of mankind. Flattering their own pride at the expence of their species, they have presented a picture which has no value but from the contrast it exhibits. Did this state of ideal innocence, of perfect temperance, of entire abstinence from flesh, of profound peace and tranquillity ever exist? Is it not a fable in which man, like an animal, has been employed to convey moral lessons? Can virtue have subsisted before society? Can the loss of our savage nature merit regret? or can man, in a wild state, be considered as a more worthy being than the civilized citizen? Yes, for all misery arises from society; and what signifies the virtue he possessed in a state of nature, if he was more happy than he is now. Are not liberty, health, and strength, preferable to effeminacy, sensuality, and voluptuousness, accompanied with slavery? The absence of pain is at least equal to the enjoyment of pleasure, and to be completely happy, is to have nothing to desire. If these observations were just, why do they not tell us it is better to vegetate than to live, to have no appetites than to gratify them, to sleep through life in a perfect apathy, than to open our eyes to see and feel? that, in short, it is better to be so many inanimate masses attached to the earth, than be capable of enjoying those benefits Nature so bountifully bestows?

But, instead of discussing, let us advert to facts: Is the savage inhabitant of the desart a tranquil animal? Is he a happy man? For we cannot suppose with a certain philosopher, (Rousseau) one of the fiercest censors of civilization, that there is a greater distance between a savage and a man in a pure state of nature, than between a savage and ourselves; that the ages before man acquired the use of speech were more than those in which languages were brought to perfection. In reasoning upon facts all suppositions ought to be thrown aside, until every thing presented by Nature is examined. In doing this we shall descend from the most enlightened to a people which are less so; from those to others yet more rude, but still subject to kings and laws; from these to savages, among whom there are as many shades as in the civilized nations; some of them we shall find forming nations subject to chiefs; others, in smaller bodies, governed by certain customs; and others, the most solitary and independent, united in families, and submitting to their fathers. Thus an empire and a monarchy, a family and a father, are the two extremes of society; and these extremes are likewise the limits of Nature; for if they extended further in traversing the different solitudes of the earth, we must have found these human creatures void of speech, the males separated from the females, the children abandoned, &c. In contradiction to this, I however assert, that it is impossible to maintain that man ever existed without forming families, because the children must inevitably have perished had they not been attended for several years. This physical necessity alone is a sufficient demonstration that the human species could neither multiply nor exist without society, and that the attachment of parents to their children is natural because it is necessary; this attachment was also sufficient to habituate them to certain signs and sounds, and to accustom them to the expressions of sentiment and desire; of this we are convinced by the facts that the most solitary savages have, like other men, the use of signs and speech. Thus we know that the pure state of nature is that of a savage living in a desart but living with his family, knowing his children, and being known by them, using words, and making himself understood. Neither do the savage girl, found in the woods of Champagne, nor the wild man, in the forests of Hanover, prove any thing to the contrary. They had lived in absolute solitude, and therefore could have no idea of society or of words; but had they met, Nature would have prompted an attachment, which attachment would soon have taught them to make themselves understood; they would first have learned the language of love, and then that of tenderness for their offspring. Besides, these must have sprung from parents living in society, and left by them at the age of four or five years, when they had sufficient strength to procure subsistence, though too feeble to retain the ideas, which might have been communicated to them.

Let us, then, examine this man in a pure state of nature, that is, this savage living as the head of a family; if the family prospers he soon becomes chief of a numerous body, all observing the same customs, and speaking the same language; at the third or fourth generation, they will become a small nation, which, increasing by time, will either be formed into a civilized people, or remain in a savage state, as circumstances may concur. If they reside in a mild climate, and a fertile soil, where they meet with nothing but desarts, or people like themselves, they will remain in their pristine state, and, according to circumstances, become the friends or enemies of their neighbours. But if under a severe climate, and pinched for want of sustenance, or room, they will make irruptions, form colonies, and blend themselves with other nations, of which they will either become the conquerors or slaves. Thus man, in every situation, and in every region, still aims at society; it is, indeed, an uniform effect, of a necessary cause, since without it the propagation, and, of course, the existence of mankind would cease.

Thus we plainly see society is founded in Nature; and upon examining, in the same manner, the appetites of savages, we shall find that none of them live solely on fruits, herbs, or grain; that they all prefer flesh and fish to other food, and that instead of preferring pure water, they endeavour to make for themselves, or procure from others, a beverage less insipid. The savages of the south drink the juice of the palm-tree; those of the north take large draughts of disgusting whale oil; others make fermented liquors, and they all possess a passionate fondness for strong liquors. Their industry dictated by necessity, and excited by natural appetite, amounts to nothing more than forming a few instruments for hunting and fishing. A bow and arrows, a net, a club, and a canoe, are the sole produce of their arts, and are all for the purpose of procuring food suitable to their palates. And what is suitable to their palate must correspond with Nature; for, as we have already remarked, in the history of the ox, man, having but one stomach, is not formed to live on herbage alone; nor would he be much better supplied from grain, notwithstanding it has been highly improved by art, and contains more nutritive particles than when possessed only of their relative qualities; yet if man received no other food he would with difficulty drag on a feeble and languishing existence.

Behold the enthusiastic recluse, who abstains, from every thing that has had life, who, from religious motives, renounces the gifts of the Creator, shuns society, and shuts himself up in those consecrated walls, at the very idea of which Nature recoils. Confined in these tombs set apart for the living, he draws on for a very few years, a feeble and useless existence, and when the hour of dissolution comes, it may be said to be that in which he ceased to die. If man were reduced to abstain from flesh, at least in these climates, he could neither subsist nor multiply. Perhaps this diet might be possible in southern countries, where the fruits arrive at greater maturity, where the plants are more substantial, and the roots more succulent. The Brahmans, nevertheless, form rather a sect than a people, and their religion, though very ancient, has never extended beyond one climate. This religion, founded upon metaphysics, is a striking example of the fate of human opinions. From the scattered remains we may plainly perceive that the sciences have been cultivated from great antiquity, and carried perhaps to a greater degree of perfection than they are at this day. It was well known in ancient times that all animated beings contained living and unperishable particles, which passed from one body to another. This truth, which was adopted by a few philosophers, and afterwards generally received, could only retain its purity during the enlightened ages, and a revolution of darkness succeeding, nothing more of them was remembered but just enough to countenance the opinion, that the living principle of the animal was an unperishable whole, which separated from the body after death. To this visionary whole they gave the name of soul, which was soon supposed to exist in all animals; and they afterwards maintained, that after death, what they thus termed soul, perpetually transmigrated from one body to another. Man was not excepted from the tenets of this doctrine; and blending morals with metaphysics, they asserted that this surviving being retained in its transmigrations all its former sentiments, affections, and desires. Credulity trembled, and they contemplated with horror the idea that on quitting its present agreeable abode the soul would become the inhabitant of a noisome animal. Fear being the fore-runner of superstition they began to entertain fresh alarms, and dreaded, lest in killing an animal, they should destroy the mistress they had loved, or the parent which had given them being; every beast they began to regard as a relation or neighbour, till at last, from motives of love and duty, they were obliged to abstain from every thing that had life. Such is the origin and progress of the most ancient religion in India.

But to return to our subject. An entire abstinence from flesh can only serve to enfeeble Nature. Man, to enjoy health, ought not only to use this solid nourishment, but even to vary it; to acquire complete vigour he must chuse that which agrees with him best; and, as he cannot continue in an active state without procuring new sensations, so he must indulge himself with a variety of eatables to prevent the disgust that would follow an uniformity of nourishment, being careful, however, to avoid excess, which is still more injurious than abstinence. Animals which have but one stomach, and whose intestines are short, are forced, like man, to feed on flesh, and, therefore, by an examination of the various animals, it will appear, that their difference in food arises from their conformation, and that their nourishment is more or less solid as their stomachs are more or less capacious. But it must not from this be concluded, that animals, which feed on herbs are under a physical necessity of feeding on them alone, although carnivorous animals cannot exist without flesh: we only mean it to be understood, that those which have several stomachs can be supported without such solid food; not but they might make use of it if Nature had furnished them with talons to seize on prey, since we find sheep, calves, goats, and horses, greedily eat milk and eggs, and do not refuse even meat which has been seasoned with salt; it may, therefore, be said, that a taste for flesh is a predominant appetite in all animals, and that it is more or less vehement, or moderate, according to their particular conformation, since we find it not only in man and quadrupeds, but in fishes, insects, and worms; for the latter of which, indeed, all flesh seems to be ultimately destined.

In all animals nutrition is performed by organic particles, which, separated from the gross mass of food by digestion, mingle with the blood, and assimilate with all parts of the body. But, independently of this principal effect arising from the quality, there is another which depends on the quantity of the food. The stomach and intestines of supple membranes, which occupy a considerable space in the body, and which, to preserve their tense state, and to counter-balance the force of the adjoining parts, require to be always in some filled measure. If for want of nourishment this space happens to be entirely empty, then the membranes, having no longer an inward support, bear down upon and adhere to each other, and these give rise to all the oppressions and weakness of extreme want. Food, therefore, as well as contributing to the nourishment of the body, serves as a kind of ballast to it. Its presence and quantity are equally necessary to preserve an equilibrium; and when a man dies for hunger, it is not more for want of nourishment than from not having a proper poise to the body. Thus animals, especially the most voracious, are so eager to fill up the vacancy within them, that they will swallow even earth and stones. Clay has been found in the stomach of a wolf; I have seen hogs eat it very greedily, and most birds swallow pebbles, &c. Nor is this from taste but necessity, for the most craving want is not to refresh the blood by a new chyle, but to maintain an equilibrium of the forces in the grand parts of the animal machine.

THE WOLF.

The Wolf is one of those animals whose appetite for animal food is very strong. Nature has furnished him with various means for satisfying this appetite, and yet though she has bestowed on him strength, cunning, agility, and all the necessary requisites for discovering, pursuing, seizing, and devouring his prey, he not unfrequently dies of hunger; for man having become his declared enemy, and put a price upon his head, he is obliged to take refuge in the forests, where the few wild animals he can meet with escape him by the swiftness of their course, and whom he cannot surprise in sufficient quantities to satisfy his rapacity. He is naturally dull and cowardly, but becomes ingenious from want, and courageous from necessity. When pressed with hunger he braves danger; he attacks those animals which are under the protection of man, particularly such as he can easily carry away, as lambs, kids, and even small dogs; if he succeeds in these excursions, he often returns to the charge, till being wounded and closely pursued by dogs and men, he conceals himself during the day in his den, and only ventures out at night, when he traverses the country, searches round the cottages, kills such animals as have been left without, scratches up the earth from under the barn-doors, enters with a barbarous ferocity, and destroys every living thing within, before he begins to fix upon, and carry off his prey. Should these sallies not succeed, he returns to the forests and pursues with avidity any animal he can meet, nay, he will even follow the track of large animals in hopes they may be seized and destroyed by some other wolf, and that he may become a partaker of the spoil. When his necessities are very urgent, he will face destruction; he attacks women and children, and will sometimes dart upon men; in a word, he becomes furious by his continual agitations, and ends his life in madness.

The wolf both externally and internally, so nearly resembles the dog, that he seems modelled upon the same plan; and yet if his form is similar, his nature is totally different, and so unlike are they in disposition, that no two animals can have a more perfect antipathy to each other. A young dog shudders at the first sight of a wolf; and even the scent of one, though new and unknown, is so repugnant to his nature, that he will come trembling to his master for protection. A powerful dog, who knows his own strength, testifies his animosity, attacks him with courage, endeavours to put him to flight, and uses every exertion to get rid of an object whose presence is hateful. They never meet without its terminating in flight or death. If the wolf proves strongest he tears and devours his prey; but the dog is more generous and contents himself with victory; he does not even approve the smell of the body of a dead enemy, but leaves him as food for the ravens, or even other wolves; for they eat the carcasses of each other; and if one wolf happens to be much wounded, a number of them will track him by his blood and speedily dispatch him.

The dog, even in his wild state, is not cruel, he is easily tamed, and continues firmly attached to his master. The young wolf may be tamed, but never has any attachment. Nature in him is stronger than education; he resumes, with age, his ferocious disposition, and returns as soon as he can to his savage state. Dogs, even of the dullest kind, seek other animals and are naturally disposed to accompany them; and by instinct alone, without any education, they take to the care of flocks and herds. The wolf, on the contrary, is the enemy of all society: he does not associate even with those of his own species; when several are seen together it is not to be considered as a peaceful society, but a combination for war; their fierceness and loud howlings denote they intend an attack on some large animal, as a stag, ox, or formidable dog. The instant their military expedition is over, they separate, and each returns in silence to his solitary retreat. There is not any strong attachment between the males and females; they seek each other but once a year, and then remain but a few days together. They always couple in winter; several males will follow one female, and this association is more bloody than the former, for they growl, fight, and tear one another, and the majority will frequently kill him that has been preferred by the female. It is usual for the she wolf to fly her admirers a long time, and at last retire with the one she has chosen when all the rest are asleep. The female does not continue in season above twelve or fifteen days, the oldest are generally so first. The males have no fixed time, but pass from one female to another from the end of December to the end of February. The time of going with young is about three months and a half, and young whelps are found from the end of April till the beginning of July. This difference in the time of gestation between the she-wolf, who goes above a hundred days, and the bitch that does not exceed 60, proves that the wolf and dog differ not more in their dispositions than in their temperament, particularly in one of the chief functions of the animal economy; besides the wolf lives longer than the dog, and the she-wolf breeds but once in the year, while the bitch has two or three litters in the same period; for these, together with the reasons we have adduced in the history of the dog, the wolf and the dog cannot be considered as the same animal; but by the nomenclators of Natural History, who have only a superficial knowledge of Nature. The wolf also differs from the dog in several external characteristics. The aspect of the head and form of the bones are not the same, the cavity of the eye is obliquely placed in the wolf, the orbits are inclined, his eyes sparkle in the night, he howls instead of barking, his step is more precipitate, yet more uniform, his body is stronger but less supple, his limbs more firm, his jaws and teeth larger, and his hair much coarser.

When the females are near the time of bringing forth, they seek for an agreeable place in the inmost recesses of the forest; in the middle of the chosen spot, they level a small space, cutting away the thorns and briars with their teeth; they can carry thither a quantity of moss, which they form into a bed for their young; they generally bring forth five or six, sometimes eight or nine, but never less than three. The cubs, like puppies, come into the world with their eyes closed; the mother suckles them for some weeks, and soon learns them to eat flesh, which she prepares for them by chewing it; some time after she brings them field mice, leverets, partridges, and birds yet alive; the young wolves begin by playing with, and end by killing them, when the dam strips them of their feathers, skins them, tears them in pieces, and gives to each of her young a share. They do not leave this den until they are six weeks or two months old; they then follow the mother, who leads them to drink in the trunk of some old tree, or to a neighbouring pool. If she apprehends any danger, she hastily conducts them back, or conceals them in some convenient place. Though at other times more timorous than the male, yet when her young are attacked she becomes fearless, and defends them with fury. She never forsakes them until they have shed their first teeth, and completed their new; when, having acquired talents for rapine, and learned industry and courage from her example, she leaves them to shift for themselves, being herself about to be engaged in the care of a new progeny.

Both males and females are capable of generating when two years old. It is probable that the female may be more forward than the male; it is, however, certain, that they are not inclined to copulate before the second winter, which necessarily implies 18 or 20 months of age; a she-wolf, which I reared, discovered no symptoms until the third winter, when she was more than two years and a half old. Huntsmen assert that in every litter there are more males than females, which seems to confirm the general remark, that Nature, in all species, produces more of the former than the latter. From them also we learn that some of the males attach themselves to the females, and accompany them until they are about to bring forth, when she steals from him, and carefully hides her young, lest he should devour them immediately after birth; but that when brought forth, he takes the same care of them as the female, carries them provisions, and if the mother happens to be killed, he carefully brings them up. I cannot, however, pretend to vouch for the truth of these facts, which appear to me contrary to their natural dispositions.

These animals require two or three years to complete their growth, and live to the age of 15 or 20; another proof of our position that the growth takes up one seventh part of life. As the wolf grows old he turns grey, and his teeth appear much worn. He sleeps when full or fatigued, but more by day than night, and is always very easily awakened. He drinks frequently, and in times of drought, when there is no water in holes or trunks of trees, he will come to the brooks or rivulets several times in the day. Although very voracious, he will go four or five days without meat, provided he is well supplied with water. He has great strength, particularly in his fore parts, in the muscles of his neck and jaws. He will carry off a sheep in his mouth, without letting it touch the ground, and at the same time outrun the shepherds, so that nothing but dogs can overtake or oblige him to quit his prey. He bites cruelly, and always with greater vehemence in proportion as he is less resisted, for with such as can defend themselves he is cautious and circumspect. He is cowardly, and never fights but from necessity. When wounded by a bullet he will cry out, and yet when surrounded and dispatched by clubs, he never complains like the dog, but defends himself in silence, and dies as hard as he lived. He is more savage, has less sensibility, and more strength than the dog. He travels and roams about for nights and days together, and perhaps of all animals is the most difficult to be hunted down. The dog is gentle and courageous; the wolf though savage is fearful. If entrapped in a snare he is for some time so frightened and overcome, that he may be killed or taken alive, without offering to resist; he will suffer himself to be chained, muzzled, and led along without giving the least signs of anger or resentment. His senses, particularly that of smelling, are very acute, and the odour of a carcass will strike him, though at more than a league distant; he also scents living animals a great way off, and will hunt them a long time by following their track. On leaving the wood he always goes against the wind, and upon coming to the extremity he stops, smells on all sides, and receives the emanations that may come either from living or dead bodies, and which he nicely distinguishes. He prefers living flesh to carrion, but will eat the most infected carcasses. He is fond of human flesh, and perhaps were he sufficiently powerful he would eat no other. Wolves have been known to follow armies, to go in numbers into the field after a battle, and devour such bodies as lay upon the surface, or were negligently interred: when once accustomed to human flesh, they will attack men, preferring the shepherd to his flock, devour women, and carry off children.[M]

[M] These are called _loups garoux_, from the French word _garer_, to take care, signifying that they are to be guarded against; _loup garou_ signifies also in the French language an unsociable man; a term, the affinity of which to the former is not easily discoverable.

It sometimes happens that whole countries are obliged to arm for the purpose of destroying them. Hunting of them is also a favourite diversion among the great, and is certainly a very useful one. Wolves are distinguished by huntsmen into _young_, _old_, and _very old_; they are known by the prints of their feet, which are large in proportion to their age; those of the females are longer and more slender. It is necessary to have a good bloodhound to put up the wolf, and when upon the scent every art must be used to encourage him, as all dogs have a natural antipathy to this animal, and are very cold in the pursuit. When the wolf is put up, greyhounds should be let after him in pairs, the first pair almost immediately supported by a man on horseback; the second when he is at the distance of eight or nine hundred paces, and a third pair when the other dogs have come up with and begin to bait him; he keeps them off for a considerable time, but the hunters coming up generally dispatch him with their cutlasses; when killed the dogs never shew the smallest appetite to enjoy the fruits of their victory. The wolf is sometimes hunted by harriers, but as he runs straight forward, and will hold his speed for a day together, the chace is very tedious without greyhounds to harrass and turn him at every view. Several arts have been adopted to destroy these noxious animals such as worrying them with large mastiffs, laying snares, digging pits, and spreading poisoned meats, yet their numbers remain nearly the same, especially in woody countries. The Britons are said to have extirpated them from their island, and yet I am assured they are still found in Scotland; as there are but few forests in South Britain, their destruction there was less difficult.

Their colour differs with the climate in which they live, and sometimes in the same country. Beside the common wolves, in France and Germany, there are others with thicker and yellow coloured hair; these, though more savage are less destructive than the others, as they neither approach flocks nor the habitations of men, but live solely by the chace. In the northern climates some are found quite black, and others entirely white. The common species are very generally diffused, being found in Asia, Africa, and America, as well as in Europe. The wolves of Senegal resemble those of France, except being larger and more fierce; those of Egypt are smaller than those of Greece. In the East, particularly in Persia, the wolf is trained up for a shew, being taught to dance, and exhibit a number of tricks; and, according to Chardin, when well taught, a single wolf will sell for 500 crowns. This fact proves, that by dint of time and restraint, these animals are susceptible of education. Several which I reared were very docile, and even courteous, during the first year, nor ever attempted to seize the poultry, or other animals, when properly fed, but when they arrived at 18 months I found it necessary to chain them, to prevent their doing mischief, or running away. I allowed one that I had to range at large among some fowls, and he never touched any of them till he was about 18 or 19 months old, when, as a specimen of what he could do, he killed the whole in one night, without eating any of them. I had another which broke his chain and ran off, but not till he had killed a dog with whom he had been very familiar, and a particular instance of the ferocity of a she-wolf I have given under the article Dog.

There is nothing valuable in this animal but his skin, which makes a warm durable covering. His flesh is so bad that it is abhorred by all animals, and no species will eat it, his own excepted. His breath exhales a most fetid odour. As to satisfy his voracious appetite he devours, without distinction, putrid flesh, hair, bones, skin half tanned, or even any thing that comes in his way, so he vomits frequently, and empties himself more often than he fills. In a word, he is every way offensive; he has a savage aspect, a frightful howl, an insupportable stench, a perverse disposition and fierce habit; he is hateful while living and useless when dead.

SUPPLEMENT.

We have it from Pontoppidan, that wolves did not exist in Norway before the year 1718, and that in the last war between Sweden and Norway they followed the provisions of the army.

The Viscomte Querhoënt has informed me that there are two species of wolves at the Cape of Good Hope, the one black and the other grey with black spots; that they are bigger than those of Europe, and have very large teeth, but their cowardice makes them little apprehended, though sometimes, as well as the ounces, they will steal into the city in the night.

THE FOX.

This animal is famous for his craft, and he partly merits the reputation he has acquired. What the wolf (_fig. 62._) executes by superior strength, the fox (_fig. 63._) accomplishes by cunning. Without attacking the shepherd, his dog, or even his flock, he finds a more certain way to subsist. Patient and prudent he waits the opportunity for depredation, varying his conduct according to circumstances always reserving some arts for unforeseen events. Self-preservation is his grand object, and though as indefatigable, and more nimble than the wolf, he never trusts entirely to the swiftness of his course, but contrives himself an asylum, where he retires in cases of necessity, and in which he dwells and brings up his young.

_Engraved for Barr's Buffon._

As among men, those who lead a domestic life are more civilized than perpetual wanderers; so, among animals, the taking possession of a home, supposes a superior degree of instinct. The choice of situation, the art of rendering it a convenient habitation, and concealing the entrance to it, likewise indicate superior skill and industry. Endowed with both these, the fox turns them to his advantage. He fixes his residence at the edge of the wood, yet not far from some cottage or hamlet; he listens to the crowing of a cock, and the cackling of other poultry; he scents them at a distance; he judiciously chooses his time; creeps slily along; suddenly makes the attack, and rarely returns without his booty. If he can get into the hen-roost, he puts all to death, and retires with part of his prey, which he conceals at some distance; he then returns for more, which he takes away and hides in the same manner, though in a different place; and this practice he continues, till, warned by the approach of day, or the movements of the family, he retires to his den. He makes use of similar arts with the fowler; visits the nets and springes very early in the morning, expertly takes the birds out of the snare, carries them off successively, and conceals them in different places, above all near the edges of the roads where he sometimes leaves them for two or three days, but is never at a loss to recover his hidden treasure when he is in need. The young hare and rabbit he hunts down; the old ones he seizes in their seats, and never misses those which are wounded; he discovers the nests of partridges and quails, seizes the old ones while they are sitting, and destroys a prodigious quantity of game; so that if he is less injurious than the wolf to the peasant, he is more noxious to the gentleman. The chace of the fox requires less preparation, and is more amusing than that of the wolf. Though all dogs have a great reluctance to the latter, they pursue the fox with pleasure, and often in preference to the stag or hare. He is usually hunted with hounds, assisted by terriers. The instant he finds himself pursued he makes to his den, and takes refuge at the bottom, into which the terriers will follow and keep him at bay, while the hunters remove the earth from above. But as his kennel is often under rocks, or among the roots of trees, he cannot then be dug out, nor is the terrier able to contend with him at the bottom of his hole. In this case he remains secure; but if he can be dug out, the usual way is to carry him in a bag to some distance, and there set him loose before the hounds. His shifts to escape, when all retreats to his kennel are cut off, are various and surprising. He will then proceed in a direct line before the hounds, but making to the most woody grounds, he takes to those paths most entangled with thorns and briars, and seldom fails to extremely harass and fatigue the dogs.

The most effectual method of destroying foxes, is to lay traps for them, baited with flesh, live pigeons, or fowls. I once suspended on a tree, nine feet high, some meat, bread, and bones, at which the foxes had been so eager in leaping, that in the morning the ground round it was beaten as smooth as a barn floor. The fox is extremely voracious; for besides flesh, he eats with equal avidity, eggs, milk, cheese, fruit, and particularly grapes. When he cannot procure a sufficiency of leverets and partridges, he falls upon rats, mice, serpents, toads, and lizards, which he destroys in great numbers, and thereby renders one service to mankind. Insects, shell-fish, and even the hedge-hog, at times, become his prey. He attacks bees and wasps for the sake of their honey; they at first seem to force him to retire, by repeated stings, but this is only to roll upon the earth and crush those which have stuck to his skin; he then returns to the charge, and by perseverance, obliges them to abandon their combs, when he devours both wax and honey.[N]

[N] He seizes also hedge-hogs, rolls them about with his feet, and compels them to unfold themselves; he eats likewise fish, lobsters, may-bugs, grass-hoppers, &c.