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