PRINTED FOR THE PROPRIETOR,

SOLD AND BY H. D. SYMONDS, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1807.

T. Gillet, Printer, Wild-Court

CONTENTS
OF
THE FIFTH VOLUME

History of the Brute Creation.

Directions for placing the Plates.

BUFFON’S
NATURAL HISTORY.

HISTORY OF THE BRUTE CREATION.

CHAPTER I.
Of THE NATURE OF ANIMALS.

As all our knowledge turns upon the relations by which one object differs from another, if there existed no brute animals, the nature of the human being would be still more incomprehensible. Having considered man in himself, ought we not to derive every assistance, by comparing him with the other parts of the animal creation? We will proceed then to examine the nature of animals, to compare their organization, to study their general economy, thereby to make particular applications, to mark resemblances, to reconcile the differences; and from the assemblage of those combinations, to distinguish the principal effects of the living mechanism, and to make a further progress in that important knowledge of which man is the object.

We will begin by reducing within its proper limits a subject which, at first view, appears to be immense. The properties of matter which animals possess in common with inanimate beings come not within our present consideration, and which we have already fully treated upon. For the same reason we shall reject such qualities as are found equally to belong to the vegetable and to the animal. As in the class of animals we comprehend a number of animated beings, whose organization is highly different from that of man, as well as from more perfect animals, so we shall wave the consideration of them, and confine ourselves to those animals which have evidently the greatest affinity to us.

But as the nature of man is superior to that of animals, so of that superiority we shall study to demonstrate the cause, in order that we may distinguish what is peculiar to man, from what belongs to him in common with other animals.

Previous to an examination of the minute parts of the animal machine, and their peculiar functions, let us view the general result of this mechanism, and, without at first reasoning upon causes, confine ourselves to an elucidation and description of effects.

An animal has two modes of existence; that of motion, or awake, and rest, or asleep; and which, while life lasts, succeed each other alternately. In the former, all the springs of the machine are in action; in the latter, there is only a part of them so, and this part acts as well while the animal is asleep as while it is awake, and is therefore absolutely necessary since the animal cannot exist without it. It is also independent of the other, as it acts of itself; the former, on the contrary, depends on the latter, as it cannot exercise itself alone. The one is a fundamental part of the animal economy, since it acts continually and without interruption; the other is less essential, since it acts but by internals.

The first division of the animal economy appears general and well founded. An animal when asleep is more easy to be examined than when awake and in motion. This difference is essential, and not a simple change of situation as in an inanimate body, which may be equally and indifferently at rest or in motion; for in either of these states it would perpetually remain, unless constrained to quit it by some external power or resistance. By its own powers the animal changes its condition; and naturally, and without constraint, it passes from repose to action, and from action to repose. The period for awaking returns as necessarily as that for sleep, and both arrive independent of any foreign cause; since in either state the animal cannot exist but for a certain time, and an uninterrupted continuity of either would be equally fatal, to life.

In the animal economy, therefore, we may distinguish two parts; the one acts perpetually without interruption, and the other acts only by intervals. The action of the heart and lungs in animals that breathe, and of the heart in the f[oe]tus, seem to constitute the former as does the action of the senses, and the movements of the members of the latter.

If we imagine beings endowed by nature with only the first part of this animal economy, though deprived of sense and progressive motion, would yet be animated, and differ in nothing from animals asleep. An oyster which appears to have no external sense or progressive motion, is a being formed to sleep for ever. In this sense a vegetable is merely a sleeping animal, and in general every organized being destitute of sense and motion may be compared to an animal doomed by Nature to a perpetual sleep.

In animals, then, sleep is not an accidental state, occasioned by the exertions of their functions while awake. It is, on the contrary, an essential mode of existence, which serves as a basis to an animal economy. By sleep our existence begins; the f[oe]tus sleeps continually, and the infant is more often asleep than awake. Sleep, therefore, which seems to be a state purely passive, resembling that of death, is, on the contrary, that which a living animal first experiences, and is the very foundation of life.

Confined solely to that part which acts continually, the most perfect animal will not appear to differ from those beings to which we can scarcely give the appellation of animal. As to external functions, it would be nearly upon a level with a vegetable; for however different the internal organization of animals and vegetables may be, the inferences will be the same. They each receive nourishment, grow, expand, have external motions, and a vegetating life. But of progressive motion, action, and sentiment, they will be equally destitute; nor be endowed with any interior or apparent character by which animal life may be distinguished. Investing, however, this internal part with senses and members, animal life will presently manifest itself; and the more this cover shall contain of sense and members, the more will the animal life be perfect. It is by this investment that animals differ from each other. The internal part belongs, without exception, to all animals; and is nearly the same in all which have flesh and blood. The external cover, however, is widely different; and it is at its extremities that the greatest differences subsist.

In order to elucidate this argument, let us compare the body of a man with that of a horse or an ox. In each the heart and lungs, or the organs of circulation, and of respiration, are nearly the same; but the external cover is highly different. The materials of the animal body, though the parts are similar to those of the human, vary greatly as to number, size, and position; and thereby the dissimilitudes in their respective forms are rendered very wide. Besides, we shall find that the greatest differences are at the extremities; for in dividing the body into three principal parts, the trunk, the head, and the members, we find, that in the head and members, which are the extremities of the body, consist, the most material difference between man and other animals. We discover that the greatest difference in the trunk is at the two extremities; since in men there are clavicles at the upper extremity, which in animals are wanting; and the under extremity of animals is terminated by a tail, consisting of a certain number of exterior vertebrÆ, which the human body is without. The inferior extremity of the head also, as the jawbones, and the upper extremity, as the bones the forehead, differ prodigiously in man and beast. Finally, by comparing the members of a man with those of other animals, we plainly perceive it is at the extremities they differ most, as no two things bear less resemblance to each other, than the human hand with the foot of a horse or an ox.

Taking the heart then for the centre of the animal machine, we find in that and other adjacent parts, there is a perfect resemblance between man and other animals: but the more we remove from this centre, the more they become different; and when in the centre itself there is found any difference, then the animal is infinitely more distant from man, and possesses nothing in common with those animals we are now considering. In most insects, for example, there is a peculiar organization of this principal part of the animal economy. Instead of heart and lungs, they have parts which, being subservient to the vital functions, have been considered as analogous to those viscera, but which in reality widely differ from them, both in structure and result of action, and therefore are insects to the last degree different from man and other animals. A minute difference in the centrical parts is always accompanied with an infinitely greater in the exterior parts. The tortoise, whose heart is of a peculiar structure, is a very extraordinary animal, and has not the smallest resemblance to any other animated being.

In considering men, quadrupeds, birds, cetaceous animals, fishes, reptiles, &c. what prodigious variety do we find in the figure and proportion of their bodies, in the number and position of their members, in the substance of their flesh and bones? Quadrupeds have generally tails and horns; cetaceous animals live in another element, and though their mode of generation is similar to that of quadrupeds, yet they differ greatly from them in form, having no inferior extremities; birds differ still more by their beaks, feathers, wings, and their propagation by eggs; fishes and amphibious animals are yet farther removed from the human form, and reptiles have no members. In the whole exterior covering there is the greatest diversity, the interior conformation being nearly the same; they have all a heart, a liver, a stomach, intestines, and organs for generation; these ought to be considered as parts the most essential to the animal economy, since they are the most fixed, and least subjected to variation.

But it is to be observed that, even in the cover, there are some parts more fixed than others. Of all the senses none of these animals are divested. We have already explained what may be their sensation of feeling. What may be the nature of their smelling and taste we know not, but we are assured they all enjoy the sense of seeing, and perhaps that of hearing also. The senses may be considered, then, as another essential part of the animal economy, as well as the brain, from which sensation derives its origin. Even insects, which differ so much in the centre of the animal economy, have a part analogous to the brain, and its functions resemble those of other animals; and such as the oyster, which seems to be deprived of a brain, ought to be considered as only half-animated, and as filling up an intermediate space between the animal and the vegetable kingdoms.

As the heart is the centre of the interior part of the animal, so is the brain the centre of the cover. In like manner as the heart, and all the interior parts, communicate with the brain and exterior cover, by means of the blood-vessels, the brain communicates with the heart, and with all the interior parts, by means of the nerves. This union appears to be intimate and reciprocal, and though of these two organs the functions are absolutely different, yet they can never be separated without the instant death of the animal.

The heart and the whole interior part acts continually without interruption, and independent of any exterior cause; but the senses and exterior part act only by alternate intervals, when affected by external causes. Objects act upon the senses, the senses modify this action, and carry the impression modified into the brain, where it becomes what we term sensation. In consequence of this impression the brain acts on the nerves, and communicates the vibration it has received; and this vibration it is which produces progression, and all the other exterior actions of the body. Whenever a cause acts upon a body, we know that the body also acts upon the cause. Thus objects act upon animals by means of the senses, and animals act upon the object by its exterior movements. In general action is the cause, and re-action the effect.

It may be said, that in solid bodies, which follow the laws of mechanism, the re-action is always equal to the action; but that in the animal body it appears that the re-action is greater than the action, and that the other exterior movements ought not to be considered as simple effects of the impression of objects upon the senses. To this objection I reply, that though in certain cases effects appear proportioned to their causes, there is in Nature an infinite number of cases where the effects bear no kind of proportion to their apparent causes. By a single spark of fire a magazine of powder may be set in flame, and a citadel be blown up. By electricity a slight friction produces a violent shock, which is communicated to great distances, and if a thousand persons touch each other, they would all be almost as much affected by it as if the shock had been confined to each of them individually. It is not, then, extraordinary that a slight impression on the senses should produce in the animal body a violent re-action, and should manifest itself by exterior movements.

The causes we are qualified to ascertain, and the quantity of whose effects we can precisely estimate, are less numerous than those whose mode of action is unknown, and of whose proportional relation with their effects, we are entirely ignorant. Now most effects in Nature depend on a number of causes differently combined, whose actions vary, and seem to be determined by no established law, consequently we can only form a conjectural estimate by endeavouring to approximate the truth by the means of probabilities.

I pretend not, then, to assert as a demonstrative fact, that progressive and other exterior movements of animals, are caused solely by the impression of objects upon the senses. I mention it merely as likely, and founded on principles of analogy, since all organized beings, which are destitute of sense, are likewise destitute of progressive motion, and that all those which possess the one have also the other.

To illustrate these observations let us briefly analyze the physical principles of our actions. When an object strikes any of our senses, and the sensation it produces is agreeable, it creates a desire, which desire must have a relation to some of our qualities or modes of enjoyment. The object we cannot desire but either to see, taste, hear, smell, or to touch. We desire it merely that we may render the first sensation still more agreeable, or to excite another which is a new manner of enjoying the object; for if in the moment that we perceive an object we could enjoy it fully, through all the senses at once, we should have nothing to desire. The source of desire, then, is our being badly situated with respect to the object perceived, our being either too far from, or too near to it. This being the case we naturally change our situation, because at the same time that we perceive the object, we likewise perceive the cause which prevents our obtaining a full enjoyment of it. From the impression which the object produces upon our senses, then, the motion we make in consequence of that desire, and the desire itself, solely proceeds.

An object we perceive by the eye, and which we desire to touch, if within our reach, we stretch forth our hands, and if at a distance we put ourselves in motion to approach it. A man deeply immersed in thought, if he is hungry, and there is a piece of bread before him, he will seize it, and even carry it to his mouth and eat it, without being conscious that he has done so. These movements are a necessary consequence of the first impressions of objects, and would never fail to succeed this impression if other intervening impressions did not often oppose this natural effect, either by weakening or by destroying the action of the first.

An organized being void of sensation, as an oyster, whose sense of feeling is probably very imperfect, is deprived not only of progressive motion, but even of sentiment and intelligence, as either of these would produce desire, which would manifest itself by exterior movement. That such beings are divested of a sense of their own existence I will not assert, but at least that sense must be very imperfect, since they have no perception of the existence of others.

It is the action of objects upon the senses which creates desire, and desire progressive motion. In order to render this truth still more sensible, let us suppose a man, at the instant his will incites him to approach an object, suddenly deprived of all his members, his body reduced to a physical point, to a globular atom, and, provided the desire still subsists, he will exert his whole strength in order to change his situation. The exterior and progressive movement depends not, then, upon the organization and figure of the body and members, since whatever be the conformation any of being it will not fail to move, provided it has senses, and a desire to gratify them.

On this exterior organization, indeed, depends the facility, quickness, direction, and continuity of motion, but the cause, principle, action, and determination, originate solely from desire occasioned by the impression of objects upon the senses; and if a man was deprived of them he would no longer have desire, and consequently remain constantly at rest, notwithstanding he might possess the faculties for motion.

The natural wants, as that of taking nourishment, are interior movements, which necessarily create desire or appetite. By these movements exterior motions may be produced in animals, and, provided they are not deprived of exterior senses relative to these wants, they will act to satisfy them. Want is not desire; it differs from it as the cause differs from the effect. Every time the animal perceives an object, relative to its wants, desire begins, and action follows.

The action of external objects must produce some effect; and this effect we readily conceive to be animal motion, as every time its senses are struck in the same manner, the same movements always follow. But how shall we comprehend the action of objects creating desire or aversion? How shall we obtain knowledge of that which operates beyond the senses, those being the intermediate between the action of objects, and the action of the animal; a power in which consists the principle of the determination of motion, since it modifies the action of the animal, and renders it sometimes null, notwithstanding the impression of objects?

This question, as it relates to man, is difficult to be resolved, being by nature so different from other animals. The soul has a share in all our movements, and to distinguish the effects of this spiritual substance, from those produced by the powers of our material being alone, is an object of very great difficulty, and of which we can form no judgment but by analogy, and by comparing our actions with the natural operations of other animals. But as man alone is possessed of this spiritual substance, which enables him to think and reflect, and as the brute is a being altogether material, which neither thinks nor reflects, nevertheless acts, and seems to determine, we cannot doubt but that the principle of the determination of motion is in the animals an effect altogether mechanical, and absolutely dependant upon its organization.

I conceive, therefore, that in the animal the action on objects on the senses produces another on the brain, which I consider as an interior and a general sense, which receives every impression that the exterior senses transmit to it. This internal sense is not only capable of being agitated by the action of the senses, but also of retaining for a length of time the agitations thus produced; and in the continuity of the agitation consists the impression, which is more or less deep in proportion as the agitation is more or less durable.

In the first place, then, the interior sense differs from the exterior senses, in the property which it has of receiving all impressions, while the exterior senses receive them merely as they relate to their conformation; the eye, for example, being no more affected by sound than the ear is by light. Secondly, the interior differs from the exterior senses, by the duration of the agitations produced by exterior causes; but in every other respect they are of the same nature. The interior sense of the brute, as its exterior, is entirely material, and the effect of mechanical organization. We have, like the animal, this material sense; and we possess, moreover, a sense of a nature highly superior, which resides in the spiritual substance, and which animates and guides us.

The brain of the animal is, therefore, a general sense, which receives all impressions the external senses transmit to it, and these impressions continue much longer in the internal than in the external senses: for instance, the agitations which light produces in the eye, continues longer than that which sound produces on the ear.

It is on this account that the impressions, which the former transmits to the interior sense, are more strong than those transmitted by the latter; and that we represent to ourselves the things which we have seen much more forcibly than those which we have heard. It is even found, that of all the senses, the eye is that in which the agitations are the most durable, and in which, of consequence, though seemingly they are more explicit, the strongest impressions are formed.

The eye may therefore be considered as a continuation of the interior sense. It is, indeed, nothing more than one large nerve expanded, and a prolongation of the organ, in which the interior sense resides. That in its nature there should be a greater affinity to this internal sense is not then surprising; and in effect not only its impressions are more durable, but its properties more eminent than those of the other senses.

The eye represents outwardly the inward impressions. Like the internal sense, it is active, and expresses desire or aversion, while all the other senses are wholly passive; they are merely organs formed for the reception of exterior impressions, but incapable of retaining or reflecting them.

When with violence, however, and for a length of time any sense is acted upon, the agitation subsists much longer than the action of the exterior objects. This is, however, felt most powerfully in the eye, which will retain the dazzling impression made by looking for a moment on the sun, for hours and even days.

The brain also eminently enjoys this property, and not only retains the impressions it receives but propagates their actions, by communicating the vibrations to the nerves. The organs of the exterior senses, the brain, the spinal marrow, and the nerves, which are diffused over every part of the body, ought to be considered as one continued substance, as an organic machine, in which the senses are the parts acted upon by the external objects. But what renders this machine so different from all others is its fulcrum not only being capable of resistance and re-action, but is itself active, because it long retains impressions it has received; and the brain and its membranes being of great capacity and sensibility, it may receive a number of successive agitations, and retain them in the order in which they were received, because each impression agitates one part of the brain only, and the successive impressions agitate the same or contiguous parts, in a different manner.

Should we suppose an animal which had no brain, but possessing an exterior of great sensibility and extension; an eye, for example, of which the retina was as extensive as that of the brain, and had the property of retaining, for a long space, the impressions it might receive: it is certain, that the animal so endowed would see at the same time not only the present objects, but also those it had seen before; and seeing thus the past and the present with one glance, it would be determined mechanically to act according to the number or force of the agitations produced by the images which accorded with, or were contrary to this determination. If the number of images calculated to create an appetite surpassed those that would produce disgust or loathing, the animal would necessarily be determined to move, in order to satisfy that appetite: but if their number and force were equal, having no particular cause for motion, it would remain perfectly at rest; and if the number or the force of the images of the former are equal to the number or the force of the images of the latter, the animal will remain undetermined, and in an equilibrium between these two equal powers, nor will he make any movement either to obtain or to avoid. This I say it would do mechanically, and without the intervention of memory; for as the animal sees at the same time all the images, they consequently act, and those which have an affinity to appetite and desire, counteract those which have an affinity to antipathy and disgust; and it is by the preponderance of either, that determines it to act in this or in that manner.

It is evident, therefore, that in brutes the interior sense differs in nothing from the exterior but in the property of retaining the impressions it has received, a property by which alone all the actions of animals may be explained, and some idea obtained of what passes within them; a property which likewise demonstrates the essential and infinite difference which subsists between them and us, and from which may be distinguished in what respects they are similar.

The degrees of excellence in the senses do not follow the same order in the brute as in the human species. The sense which has the strongest affinity to thought, is the touch. This is enjoyed by man in greater perfection than by animals. That which has the strongest affinity to instinct and appetite, is that of smelling; a sense in which man must acknowledge an infinite inferiority. Man, then, has the greatest tendency to knowledge, and the brute to appetite. In the former, the sense first in point of excellence, is the touch, and smelling the last; and this difference corresponds with the nature of each. The sense of seeing is at best uncertain, without the aid of the touch, and therefore less capable of perfection in the brute than in man. The ear, though perhaps as perfect in the former as in the latter, is of much less use to the animal, from the want of speech, which in man is an appendage to the sense of hearing, an organ of communication which renders it an active sense; whereas in the other hearing is a sense almost entirely passive. Man, then, enjoys the senses of feeling, seeing, and hearing, more perfect, and the sense of smelling more imperfectly than other animals; and as the taste is an inferior smell, and has also a stronger relation to appetite than any of the other senses, there is a sufficient probability to suppose that animals enjoy it in a more exquisite degree than man. Of this a proof might be adduced from the repugnance which animals have to certain kinds of food, and from their natural appetite for such as are proper for them; while man, unless informed of the difference, would eat the fruit of one tree for that of another, and even hemlock for parsley.

The excellence of the senses proceeds from Nature; but art and habit may render them still more perfect. A painter sees, at the first glance, numbers of shades and differences, which another person will pass over unnoticed. A musician, always habituated to harmony, receives a lively sensation of pain from discord. In like manner are the senses, and even appetites of animals rendered more perfect. Birds may be taught to repeat words, and imitate tunes; and the ardour of a dog for the chace may be increased by accustoming him to a certain reward.

In proportion as these senses are acute and perfect does the animal shew itself active and intelligent. In man the improvement is not so conspicuous, because he exercises his ear and his eye by means more rational and ingenious. Those persons who see, hear, or smell, imperfectly, are of no less intellectual capacity than others; an evident proof that in man there is something more than an internal animal sense. This is the soul of man, which is a superior sense, a spiritual substance, entirely different in its essence and action from the nature of the external senses.

From this, however, we are not to deny that there is in man an internal material sense corresponding with the external senses. But what I maintain is, that the latter is infinitely subordinate to the other; that the spiritual substance governs it, and either destroys or creates its operations. In the animal this sense is the determinating principle of motion, but in man only the means, or the secondary cause.

Let us endeavour to clear up this important point, and let us see what power this internal material sense possesses, and what it is capable of producing. The internal material sense receives promiscuously all the impressions the external senses transmit to it. These impressions proceed from the action of objects; they only pass over the external senses, and produce in them but an instantaneous vibration; they rest, however, upon the internal sense, and produce in the brain, which is its organ, durable and distinct agitations. These vibrations create appetite or disgust, inclination or repugnance, according to the present state and disposition of an animal. An animal, the instant after its birth, begins to breathe, and to feel the want of nourishment; the smell, which is the sense of appetite, receives the emanations of the milk which is contained in the teats of its mother.

The vibrations which this sense undergoes, from the odoriferous particles, are communicated to the brain, which acting, in its turn, upon the nerves, the animal is stimulated to open its mouth, to obtain that sustenance of which it feels the want. The sense of appetite being less acute in man than in brutes, the infant at its birth feels only the desire of receiving nourishment, which it announces by its cries, but it cannot obtain it of itself; it receives no information from the smell, and is obliged to have its mouth put to the nipple, when the agitations, excited by the touch and smell, are communicated to the brain and nerves, and the child makes the necessary motions for sucking in its nourishment. Solely by the smell and taste, the senses of appetite, can the animal be informed of the presence of its food, and of the place where it is, as its eyes are still closed, and would, even if they were open, in no degree contribute towards the determination of motion. Vision has a greater relation to knowledge than to appetite, and in man the eye is open from the moment of his birth; in most animals it is shut for several days, but in whom the senses of appetite are far more expanded, and more perfect.

The same remark is alike applicable to progressive motion, and to all the other exterior movements. A new-born infant can hardly move its members, and it is a long time before it attains strength sufficient to change its place, but in a very little time does a young animal acquire these faculties. In the animal these powers relate solely to the appetite, which is vehement, quickly developed, and the sole principle of motion; in man the appetite is weak, more slowly developed, and can have less influence than knowledge upon the determination of motion; man is necessarily, in this respect, more backward than the animal.

Every thing concurs then to prove, even in a physical sense, that brutes are actuated by appetite alone, and that man is governed by a superior principle. If doubts still exist, it is from our imperfect conception how appetite alone is capable of producing, in animals, effects so much resembling those which knowledge produces among ourselves; and from the difficulty we have to distinguish what we do in virtue of knowledge, from what we do by the mere force of appetite. Yet, in my opinion, it is not impossible to dispel this uncertainty. The internal material sense retains for a long time the agitations it receives; it is a sense of which the brain is the organ, and by which all the impressions are received that each of the exterior senses transmits to it. When, therefore, an exterior impression proceeds from the senses of appetite, the animal will advance to attain, or draw back to avoid, the object of this impression. This motion, however, is liable to uncertainty when produced by the eye or the ear; because, when an animal sees, or hears, for the first time, he will be agitated by light or by sound; yet this agitation will be uncertain, since neither have any relation to appetite. It is only by repeated acts of seeing and hearing, added to the senses of taste and feeling, that it will actually advance or recede from objects which become relative to its appetite. A dog, for instance, who has been tutored, however violent his appetite, will not seize what might satisfy that appetite, although he will use every gesture to obtain it from the hand of its master. Does not this animal seem to reason between desire and fear, nearly as a man would do, who was inclined to seize upon the property of another, but was withheld by the dread of punishment? Though this analogy may be just; yet to render it in effect well-founded, should not animals be capable of performing the same actions that we perform? Now the contrary is evident; as nothing do animals either invent or perfect; in every thing they have an uniformity, and consequently no reflection. Of this analogy then we may doubt its reality, and may with propriety enquire, whether it is not by a principle different from ours that brutes are directed? and whether, without being under the necessity of allowing them the aid of reflection, the senses they enjoy are not sufficient to produce the actions they perform?

Whatever relates to their appetites strongly agitates their interior sense; and on the object of this appetite the dog would instantly rush, did not this very sense retain the impressions of pain which had formerly accompanied this action. By exterior impressions the animal has been modified. This prey is not presented to a dog simply, but to one which has been chastised every time it obeyed this impulse of appetite; the agitations of pain, therefore, are renewed when those of appetite are felt, having been constantly felt at the same time. The animal being thus impelled at once by two contrary powers, two powers destructive of each other, remains between them in an equilibrium; and, as the determinate cause of its motion is counterbalanced, it makes no effort to attain the object of its appetite. Though the agitations of appetite and repugnance, or of pleasure and pain, destroy the effect of each other, in the brain a third vibration takes place, which accompanies the other two, and this is occasioned by the action of its master, from whose hand the animal has often received its food; and as this is in no degree opposed or counterbalanced, it becomes the determinative cause of motion; and the dog is therefore determined to move towards its master, and to remain in motion till its appetite is entirely satisfied.

In the same manner, and upon the same principles, may we explain, however complicated they appear, all the actions of animals, without allowing them either thought or reflection; the internal sense being sufficient to produce all their movements. The nature of their sensations alone remains to be elucidated, which, from what we have asserted, must be widely different from ours. “Have animals, it may be said, no knowledge, no consciousness of their existence? Do you deprive them of sentiment? In pretending to explain their actions upon mechanical principles, do you not in fact render them mere machines, or insensible automatons?”

If I have been rightly understood, it must have appeared that, far from divesting animals of all powers, I allow them every thing, thought and reflection excepted. Feelings they have, in a degree superior to ourselves. A consciousness they also have of their present, though not of their past existence. They have sensations, but they have not the faculty of comparing them, or of producing ideas: ideas being nothing more than associations of sensations.

Each of these objects let us examine in particular. That animals have feelings, and in a degree even more exquisite than ourselves, I think we have already evinced, by what we have said of the excellence of their senses relative to appetite. Like ourselves then, animals are affected by pleasure and pain; they do not know good and evil, but they feel it; what is agreeable to them is good, what is disagreeable is bad, and both are nothing more than relations, suitable, or contrary to their nature and organization. The pleasure of tickling, and the pain from a hurt, as they depend absolutely on an action more or less strong upon the nerves, which are the organs of sentiment, are alike common to man and other animals. Whatever acts softly upon these organs, is a cause of pleasure, and whatever shakes them violently, is a cause of pain. All sensations, then, are sources of pleasure, while they are moderate, and natural; but so soon as they become too strong, they produce pain, which, in a physical sense, is the extreme, rather than the opposite of pleasure.

A light too bright, a fire too hot, a noise too loud, a smell too strong, coarse victuals and severe friction, excite in us disagreeable sensations; whereas a delicate colour, a moderate heat, a soft sound, a gentle perfume, a fine savour, and light touch, please and move us with delight. Every gentle application to the senses, then, is a pleasure, and every violent shock a pain; and as the causes which occasion violent, happen more rarely in Nature than those which produce mild and moderate effects; and as animals, by the exercise of their senses, acquire in a little time the habit of avoiding every thing offensive or hurtful to them, and of distinguishing, and of approaching such as are pleasing; so without doubt they enjoy more agreeable sensations than disagreeable ones, and the amount of their pleasures exceed the amount of their pain.

In man, physical pleasure and pain form the smallest part of his sufferings or enjoyments. His imagination, never idle, seems perpetually employed to increase his misery; presenting to the mind nothing but vain phantoms, or exaggerated images. More agitated by these illusions, than by real objects, the mind loses its faculty of judging, and even its dominion; the will, of which it has no longer the command, becomes a burthen; its extravagant desires are sorrows; and, at best, its prospects are delusive pleasures, which vanish as soon as the mind, resuming its place, is enabled to form a judgment of them.

In searching for pleasure, we create ourselves pain; and seeking to be more happy, we increase our misery; the less we desire, the more we possess. In fine, whatever we wish beyond what Nature has given is pain; and nothing is pleasure but what she offers of herself. Nature presents to us pleasures without number; she has provided for our wants, and fortified us against pain. In the physical world, there is infinitely more good than evil; and therefore it is not the realities but the chimeras which we have to dread: it is not pain of body, disease, nor death that are terrible; but the agitation of the soul, the conflict of the passions, the mental anxiety, are those only we need apprehend.

Animals have but one mode of enjoying pleasure; the satisfying their appetite by the exercise of their sensations. We likewise enjoy this faculty, and have another mode of acquiring pleasure, the exercise of the mind, whose appetite is knowledge. This source of pleasure would be the more pure and copious did not our passions oppose its current, and divert the mind from contemplation. So soon as these obtain the ascendancy, reason is silenced; a disgust to truth ensues; the charm of illusion increases; error fortifies, itself, and drags us on to misery; for what misery can be greater than no longer seeing things as they are; to have judgment perverted by passions; to act solely by its direction, to appear in consequence unjust or ridiculous to others; and when the hour of self-examination comes, of being forced to despise ourselves?

In this state of illusion and darkness we would change the nature of our soul. She was given us for the purposes of knowledge, and we would employ her solely for those of sensation. Could we extinguish her light, far from regretting the loss, with pleasure should we embrace the lot of idiots. As we no longer reason but during intervals, and as these intervals are troublesome, and spent in secret reproaches, we wish to suppress them, and thus proceeding from one illusion to another, we at length endeavour to lose all knowledge and remembrance of ourselves.

A passion without intervals is madness; and a state of madness is the death of the soul. Violent passions with intervals are fits of folly, a malady of the mind, whose danger consists in its duration and frequency. In those intervals alone it may be said to enjoy health by the resumption of wisdom, but prevents it being a state of happiness, by reflecting on and condemning the past follies.

The generality of those who call themselves unhappy, are men of violent passions, or rather madmen, who have some intervals of reason; and as in exalted stations there are more false desires, more vain pursuits, more unruly passions, more abuses of the mind, than in the inferior, the rich man, beyond a doubt, is the most unhappy.

But let us turn from these gloomy objects, these humiliating truths, and take a view of the man of wisdom, who alone is worthy our notice. Contented with his situation, he who is entitled to this character wishes not to live but as he has always lived: happy within himself, he stands in little need of other resources; continually occupied in exercising the faculties of his mind, he perfects his understanding, cultivates his talents, acquires new knowledge, and without remorse and disgust, he enjoys the whole universe by enjoying himself.

A man like this is undoubtedly the happiest being in Nature. To the pleasures of the body, which he possesses in common with other animals, he adds those of the mind, which he enjoys exclusively. He has two methods of being happy, which aid and fortify each other: and if by indisposition or accident he is subject to pain, his sufferings are not great: his strength of mind supports him, reason consoles him, and he feels a satisfaction that he is enabled to suffer.

The health of man is more precarious than that of any other animal; he is indisposed more frequently, and for a greater length of time, and dies at all ages; while brutes travel through life with an even and steady pace. This difference seems to proceed from two causes, which, though widely distinct, contribute to the same effect. The first is, the unruliness of our internal material sense; the passions have an influence on the health, and disorder the principles which animate us. Almost all mankind lead a life of timidity or contention, and the greatest part die of chagrin. The second is the imperfection of those of our senses which have an affinity with the appetite. Brute animals have a better perception of what is suitable to their nature; they are not liable to deception in the choice of their food; they are not guilty of excess in their pleasures; and guided solely by a sense of their present wants, they satisfy these without seeking new modes of gratification. As for man, independent of his propensity to excess, independent of that ardour with which he endeavours to destroy himself, by endeavouring to force Nature; he hardly knows how to distinguish the effect of this or that nourishment; he disdains simple food, and prefers artificial dishes, because his taste is depraved, and because, from being a sense of pleasure, he has rendered it an organ of debauchery, which is never gratified but when it is irritated.

It is not surprising, therefore, that we are more subjected than animals to infirmities; since we know not so well as them, what may contribute to preserve or destroy health, our experience being less certain than their perception; nay we abuse the very senses of the appetite, which they enjoy in such superior excellence, these being to them the means of preserving health, and to us causes of disease and of destruction. By intemperance alone more men sicken and die, than by all the scourges incident to human nature.

From these reflections it would appear, that animals have a more certain, as well as a more exquisite sensation of feeling than men. In support of this superior strength of sentiment, we may advert to their sense of smelling, which some animals enjoy to such a degree that they can smell further than they can see. A sense like this is an eye which sees objects, not only where they are, but even where they have been; it is the sense by which the brute animal distinguishes what is suitable or repugnant to its nature, and by which it perceives and chooses what is proper for the gratification of its appetite.

In greater perfection, then, than man, do animals enjoy the senses which relate to appetite: and though of their present existence they have a consciousness, of their past they have none. This second proposition, as well as the first, is worthy consideration. The consciousness of existence is composed in man of the sensation of his present, and of the remembrance of his past existence. Remembrance is a sensation altogether as present as the first impression, and sometimes affects us more strongly. As these two kinds of sensations are different, and as the mind possesses the faculty of comparing and forming ideas from them, our consciousness of existence is the more certain and extensive, as remembrance more frequently and copiously recalls past things and occurrences; and as by our reflections we compare and combine them with those past and present occurrences. Every man retains within himself a certain number of sensations correspondent with the different existences or states through which he has passed; and these sensations, by the comparison which the mind forms between them, at length become a succession, and a series of ideas. In this comparison of sensations consists the idea of time; and indeed all other ideas. But this series of ideas, this chain of existences, is often presented to us in an order very different from that in which our sensations reached us; and in this it is that the difference principally consists in the genius and disposition of mankind.

Some men have minds particularly active in comparing and forming ideas. These are invariably the most ingenious, and, circumstances concurring, will always distinguish themselves. There are others, and in a greater number, whose minds are less active, allow all sensations which have not a certain degree of force to escape, and who only compare those by which they are strongly agitated. In points of ingenuity and vivacity these yield to the former. Others still there are, and they form the multitude, in whom there is so little activity of mind, so little propensity to think, that they compare and combine nothing, at least at the first glance; sensations of force, and repeated a thousand times, are required before their minds will be influenced to compare them, and form ideas.

The consciousness of our existence being composed, then, not only of our actual sensations, but of the train of ideas which gave rise to the comparison of our sensations, and of our past existences, it is evident that the more ideas we have, the more certain we are of our existence; that the more we have of intellectual capacity, the more we exist; that it is by the power of reflection alone that we are certain of our past existence, and view our future one; the idea of futurity being nothing more than a comparison of the present with the past inverted, since in this light the present is past, and the future present.

This power of reflection being denied to animals, it is certain they cannot form ideas, and consequently their consciousness of existence is less sure, and less extensive than ours. Having no idea of time, no knowledge of the past, nor conception of the future, their consciousness of existence is simple, depends solely on the sensations which actually affect them, and consists in the internal sentiment which these sensations produce.

May we not conceive what this consciousness of existence is in animals, by reflecting on our own state when strongly occupied with some object, or violently agitated by some passion, which banishes every reflection upon self? This state we familiarly express by saying, the man is absent or beside himself; and people are in reality beside themselves, when they are occupied with sensations actually present to them, especially if those sensations are so violent and rapid as to allow the mind no time for reflection. When thus situated we feel pleasure and pain in all their varieties; therefore, though seemingly without the participation of the mind, we have a consciousness of our existence. This state, to which we are occasionally exposed, is the habitual state of animals; deprived of ideas, and furnished with sensations, they know not their existence but feel it.

To render more sensible this difference, let us consider minutely the faculties of brutes, and compare them with the actions of man. Like us they have senses, and receive impressions from exterior objects; they have also an interior sense, an organ which retains the agitations occasioned by those impressions, and consequently sensations which, like ours, are renewable, and are more or less strong and durable. But they have neither ingenuity, understanding, nor memory; because they are denied the power of comparing their sensations, and because these three faculties of the mind depend on this power.

Have animals no memory? It will be replied, the contrary seems demonstrably evident. After a considerable absence do they not recognize the persons with whom they had lived, the places where they resided, and the roads which they had frequented? Do they not recollect the punishments, the caresses, the lessons they had received? Though deprived of imagination and understanding, every thing seems still to evince they have a memory active, extensive, and perhaps more faithful than our own. However persuasive these appearances may be deemed, and however strong may be the prejudices created by them, I presume I can demonstrate, that they deceive us, and that brute animals have no knowledge of past events, no idea of time, and of consequence no memory.

In man memory flows from the power of reflection, for the remembrance of things past supposes not only the duration of the impressions on our internal material sense, or renovation of former sensations, but also the comparison which the mind has made of those sensations, or the ideas it has formed. If memory consisted merely in the renovation of past sensations, those sensations would be represented to our internal sense without leaving any determined impressions; they would present themselves without order or connection, as they do in a state of intoxication, or in dreams, when they are so incongruous, and so incoherent, that we immediately lose all recollection of them. Of such things only as have a relation to others, which preceded or followed them, do we retain a remembrance; and every solitary sensation, however powerful, passes away without leaving the smallest trace on the mind. Now it is the mind which establishes these relations of objects, by the comparison it makes between them, and connects our sensations by a continued thread of ideas. As memory consists, then, in a succession of ideas, so it necessarily supposes the power by which ideas are produced.

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 man[oe]uvres, 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.

It is not surprising that man, who knows so little of himself, who so frequently confounds his sensations with his ideas, who so imperfectly distinguishes the productions of the mind from the produce of his brain, should compare himself to the brute animals, and admit the only difference between them depended on the greater or less degree of perfection in the organs; it is not surprising that he should make them reason, determine, and understand, in the same manner with himself, and that he should attribute to them not only the qualities which he has, but even those he has not. When man, however, has once thoroughly examined and analyzed himself, he will discover the dignity of his being, he will feel the existence of his soul, he will cease to demean his nature, and, with a single glance, he will see the infinite distance which the Supreme Being has put between him and the brutes.

God alone knows the past, the present, and the future; eternal is his existence, and infinite is his knowledge. Man, whose duration is but for a few moments, perceives but those moments: by a living and immortal Power are those moments compared, distinguished, and arrayed; and That Power it is which enables man to know the present, judge of the past, and foresee the future. Deprive him of this divine light and you deface and obscure his being, you render him merely an animal, ignorant of the past, without conception of the future, and barely affectable by the present.

CHAPTER II.
OF DOMESTIC ANIMALS.

Man changes the natural state of animals by forcing them to obey, and render him service: a domestic animal is a slave to our amusements or operations. The frequent abuses he suffers, and the forcing him from his natural mode of living, make great alterations in his manners and temper, while the wild animal, subject to nature alone, knows no other laws than those of appetite and liberty. The history of a wild animal is confined to a few facts drawn from simple nature; but the history of a domestic animal is complicated with all the artful means used to tame and subdue his native wildness: and not knowing how far example, constraint, or custom, may influence animals, and change their motions, determinations, and inclinations, the design of the naturalist ought to be to distinguish those facts which depend on instinct, from those which are owing to their mode of education; to ascertain what appertains to them from what they have acquired; to separate what is natural for them from what they are made to do; and never to confound the animal with the slave, the beast of burden with the creature of God.

The empire which man has over animals is an empire which revolution cannot overthrow; it is the empire of the spirit over matter; a right of nature, a power founded on unalterable laws, a gift of God, by which man may at all times discern the excellence of his being, for he does not rule them, because he is the most perfect, strongest, or the most dexterous of animals. If he was only the first rank of the same order, the others would unite to dispute the empire with him, but it is from the superiority of his nature that man reigns and commands: he thinks, and for this reason is master over beings that are incapable of thinking. He reigns over material bodies because they can only oppose to his will a sullen resistance, or an inflexible stupidity, which he can always overcome, by making them act against each other. He is master of the vegetable creation, which by his industry he can augment, diminish, renew, multiply, or destroy. He maintains a superiority over brutes, because like them he not only has motion and sensation, but possesses also the light of reason; governs his actions, concerts his operations, and overcomes force by cunning, and swiftness by perseverance. Nevertheless, among animals some appear familiar, others savage and ferocious. If we compare the docility and submission of the dog with the cruelty and ferocity of the tiger, the one will appear to be the friend of man, the other his enemy: his empire, then, over animals is not absolute. Many species can escape his power by the rapidity of their flight, by the obscurity of their retreats, and by the elements they inhabit. Others escape him from their minuteness, while others, who, far from respecting their sovereign, openly attack him. Besides these, he is insulted by the stings of insects, poisonous bites of serpents, and teased with many other unclean, troublesome, and useless creatures, that seem only to exist to form a shade between good and evil, and to make man comprehend how little respectable his fall has made him.

But we must distinguish the empire of God from the domain of man: God, the Creator of all beings, is the sole master of nature. Man has no influence on the universe, the motions of the heavenly bodies, nor the revolutions of the globe which he inhabits; over animals, vegetables, or minerals, he has no general dominion; he can do nothing with species, his power only extends to individuals; for species in general, and matter in the gross, belong to, or rather constitute nature. All things pass away, follow, succeed, decay, or are renewed, by an irresistible power. Man, dragged on by the torrent of time, cannot prolong his existence; his body being linked to matter, he is forced to submit to the universal law; he obeys the same power, and, like the rest, comes into the world, grows to maturity, and dies.

But the divine ray with which man is animated ennobles and raises him above all other material beings. This spiritual substance, far from being subject to matter, has the power of making it obey; and though it cannot command all Nature, it presides over particular beings; God, the sole source of all light and understanding, rules the universe and the species with infinite power; man, who possesses only a ray of this spiritual substance, has a power limited to small portions of matter and individuals.

It is by the talent of the mind, then, and not by force, and the other qualities of matter, that man has been enabled to subdue animals. In the first ages they were all equally independent; man, after he became guilty and ferocious, was very unfit to deprive them of liberty. Before he could approach, know, make choice of, and tame them, it was necessary that he should be civilized himself, to know how to instruct and command; and the empire over animals, like every other empire, was not founded till after society was instituted.

It is from society that man derives his power: from that he perfects his reason, exercises his genius, and unites his strength. Previous to the union of society man was perhaps the most savage, and the least formidable of all creatures; naked, defenceless and without shelter, the earth to him was only a vast desert peopled with monsters, of which he frequently became the prey; and even long after, history informs us, that the first heroes were only the destroyers of wild beasts.

Engraved for Barr’s Buffon

But when the human race multiplied, and spread over the earth, and when, by the aid of the arts and society, man was able to conquer the universe, he by degrees lessened the number of ferocious beasts, he purged the earth of those gigantic animals of which we sometimes still find the enormous bones; he destroyed, or reduced to a small number, every hurtful and voracious species; he opposed one animal to another, and conquered some by fraud, others by force; and attacking them by every rational method he arrived at the means of safety, and has established an empire which is only bounded by inaccessible solitudes, burning sands, frozen mountains, and obscure caverns, which now serve as retreats for the small number of species of ferocious animals that remains.

THE HORSE.

The noblest conquest ever made by man over the brute creation, is the reduction of this spirited and haughty animal (fig. 18.), which shares with him the fatigues of war, and the glory of victory. Equally intrepid as his master, the horse sees the danger, and encounters death with bravery; inspired at the clash of arms, he loves it, and pursues the enemy with the same ardour and resolution. He feels pleasure also in the chace, and in tournaments; in the course he is all fire; but equally tractable as courageous, he does not give way to his impetuosity, and knows how to check his natural and fiery temper. He not only submits to the arm which guides him, but seems to consult the desires of his rider; and always obedient to the impression he receives, he presses on, or stops, at his rider’s pleasure. The horse is a creature which renounces his very being for the service of man, whose will he even knows how to anticipate, and execute by the promptitude of his movements: he gives himself up without reserve, refuses nothing, exerts himself beyond his strength, and often dies sooner than disobey.

Such is the horse, whose talents and natural qualities art has improved, and who with care has been tutored for the service of man; his education commences with the loss of his liberty, and is finished by constraint. The slavery or servitude of the horse is so universal, and so ancient, that we rarely see him in his natural state. They are always covered with harness when at work, and not wholly free from their bands even in time of rest. If they are sometimes suffered to range in the fields, they always bear about them marks of servitude, and frequently the external impressions of labour and of pain: the mouth is deformed by the wrinkles occasioned by the bit, the sides scarred with wounds inflicted by the spur, and the hoofs are pierced with nails. The attitude of the body constrained by the impression of habitual shackles, from which they would be delivered in vain, as they would not be more at liberty. Even those whose slavery is the most gentle, who are only fed and broke for luxury and magnificence, and whose golden chains only serve to satisfy the vanity of their masters, are still more dishonoured by the elegance of their trappings, and by the plaits of their manes, than by the iron shoes of their feet.

Nature is more beautiful than art, and in an animated being, the freedom of its movements makes its existence more perfect. Observe the horses in Spanish America, which have multiplied so fast and live in freedom; their motions seem neither constrained nor regular; proud of their independence, they fly the presence of man, and disdain his care; they seek and find for themselves proper nourishment; they wander and skip about in immense meadows, where they feed on the fresh productions of a perpetual spring. Destitute of any fixed habitation, without any other shelter than a mild sky, they breathe a purer air than those which are confined in vaulted palaces. Hence wild horses are stronger, swifter, and more nervous than the greater part of domestic ones; they have strength and nobleness, the gifts of nature; while the others have address and gracefulness, which is all that art can give.

The natural disposition of wild horses is not ferocious, they are only high-spirited and wild. Though superior in strength to the greatest part of animals, they yet never attack them; and if attacked by others, they either disdain them as foes, and fly out of their way, or give a fatal blow with their heels. They unite themselves in troops, merely for the pleasure of being together, for they have no fear of, but an attachment for each other. As grass and vegetables are sufficient for their nourishment, they have quite enough to satisfy their appetites; and as they have no relish for the flesh of animals, they never make war with them, nor with themselves. They never quarrel about their food, they have no occasion to ravish prey from each other, the ordinary source of contention and quarrels among carnivorous animals. They live in peace because their appetites are simple and moderate, and having enough there is no object for envy.

All these circumstances may be observed in young horses which are brought up and led together in droves; their manners are gentle, and their tempers social; they seldom shew their ardour and strength by any other sign than emulation. They endeavour to be foremost in the course, are animated to brave danger, in crossing a river or leaping a ditch: and those which in these natural exercises set the example, it has often been observed, when reduced to a domestic state, are the most generous, docile, and gentle.

Several ancient authors speak of wild horses. Herodotus says, that on the banks of the Hypanes, in Scythia, there were wild horses quite white, and that in the northern parts of Thrace, beyond the Danube, there were others covered with hair five inches long. Aristotle also cites Syria; Pliny the northern countries; Strabo, the Alps and Spain; as places where wild horses were to be found. Among the moderns, Carden mentions the same thing of Scotland and the Orkneys; Olaus, of Muscovy; Dapper, of the Isle of Cyprus, which, as he says, contained wild horses very beautiful, of great strength and swiftness; Struys, of the Isle of May, one of the Cape de Verds, where he found wild horses very small. Leo the African also relates that there were wild horses in the desarts of Arabia and Lybia; and he assures us, that he saw in the remotest parts of Numidia a white colt with a curled mane. Marmol confirms this fact, asserting, that wild horses are found in the desarts of Arabia and Lybia, small, and of an ash-colour; others white whose manes and coats are short and rough; and that neither dogs nor tame horses can equal them in swiftness; we read also, in the Letters Edifiantes, that in China there are wild horses of a very small size.

As almost all parts of Europe are at present peopled, and equally inhabited, wild horses are no longer found therein. Those in America originate from European tame horses, transported thither by the Spaniards; and have multiplied considerably in the vast desarts of this country. The astonishment and fear which the inhabitants of Mexico and Peru expressed at the sight of horses and their riders, is a strong presumption that this animal was entirely unknown in the New World. The Spaniards carried thither a great number, as well for service as to propagate the breed. They left them on many islands, and even let them loose on the continent, where they have multiplied like other wild animals. M. la Salle, in 1685, saw in the northern parts of America, near the bay of St. Louis, whole troops of these horses feeding in the pastures, which were so wild that no one could approach them. The author of the History of the Buccaniers, says, “That in the island of St. Domingo, horses are sometimes seen in troops of 500, all running together; that when they see a man, they all stop; and that one of them will approach to a certain distance, snorts, takes flight and is instantly followed by all the rest.” He adds, "that he does not know whether these horses, by becoming wild, have degenerated or not; but that he did not think them so handsome as those of Spain, though they are descended from the same breed. They have (continues he) large heads and limbs, and their ears and limbs are also long; the inhabitants easily tame them, and afterwards force them to work. To catch them, nooses made of ropes are spread in places where they frequent; but if they are caught by the neck they presently strangle themselves, unless assistance is near; they are then fastened by the body and legs to the trees, where they are left for two days without either food or drink. This experiment is sufficient to make them somewhat tractable, and in a little time they become as much so as if they had never been wild; and even if by chance they regain their liberty, they never become so again, but know their masters, and suffer themselves to be retaken without trouble."

This proves that horses are naturally gentle, and disposed to be familiar with man; they never seek to quit the abodes of men to recover their liberty in the forests; on the contrary, they shew great anxiety to return to their old habitations, where, perhaps they find but coarse food, always the same, and generally measured out to them with a sparing hand, without considering the strength of their appetites. Custom, however, serves them in lieu of what they lose by slavery. When worn with fatigue, the place of rest is to them the most delicious; they smell it at a distance, can even find it out in the midst of large towns, and in every thing seem to prefer slavery to liberty. The customs to which they have been forced to submit, become a second nature to them; for horses abandoned in the forests, have been known to neigh continually to make themselves heard, to gallop towards the human voice; and even to grow thin and perish in a short time, notwithstanding they were surrounded with a variety of provender. Their manners, then, almost wholly depend on their education, which is accomplished with pains and cares which man takes for no other animal, and for which he is well requited by their continual services.

It has long been the custom to separate the foals from their mothers when five, six, or seven months old; for experience has proved, that those which are suckled ten or eleven months, are not of equal value with them which are weaned sooner, though they are generally fuller of flesh. After six or seven months they are weaned; bran is then given them twice a day, and a little hay, of which the quantity is increased in proportion as they advance in age. They are kept in the stable as long as they seem to retain any desire to return to the mares; but when this desire ceases they are suffered to go out, and led to pasture; but care must be taken not to suffer them to go out to pasture fasting; they must have a little bran, and be made to drink an hour before they are suffered to graze, and should never be exposed to great cold or rain. In this manner they pass the first winter: in the May following they may be permitted to graze every day, and to remain out in the fields till the end of October, only observing not to let them eat the after-grasss, for if they are accustomed to that delicacy they will grow disgusted with hay, which ought, however, to be their principal food during the second winter, together with bran mixed with barley or oats wetted. They are managed in this manner, letting them graze in the day time during winter, and in the night also during the summer, till they are four years old, when they are taken from the pastures, and kept on dry food. This change in food requires some precaution; for the first eight days they should have nothing but straw, and it is proper to administer some vermifuge drinks, to destroy those worms which may have been generated from indigestion and green food. M. de Gaursault, who recommends this practice, does it from experience; but at all ages, and in all seasons the stomachs of horses are stuffed with a prodigious number of worms. They are also found in the stomach of the ass; and yet neither of these animals are incommoded thereby. For this reason worms should not be looked on as an accidental complaint caused by bad digestion and green food, but rather as a common effect depending upon the nourishment and digestion of these animals.

Great attention must be paid in weaning young colts, to put them into a proper stable, not too hot, for fear of making them too delicate and too sensible of the impressions of the air. They should frequently have fresh litter and be kept very clean, by frequently rubbing them down with a wisp of straw. But they should not be tied up or curried till they are near three years old, their skin being till then too delicate to bear the comb. The rack and manger must not be too high, as the necessity of raising their heads to reach their food may give a habit of raising it in that fashion, and spoil their necks.

When about a year or eighteen months old, their tails ought to be cut, as the hair will then grow stronger and thicker. From two years old the colts should be put with the horses and the females with the mares; without this precaution, the colts would fatigue and enervate themselves. At the age of three years, or three years and a half, we may begin to make them tractable; they should at first have a light easy saddle, and wear it two or three hours every day; they should also be accustomed to have a snaffle bit in their mouths, and to have their feet lifted up and struck, to habituate them to shoeing; if designed for coach or draught horses, they should also wear a harness. At first a curb should not be used; they may be held by a cavesson, or leather strap, and be made to trot on even ground, and with only the saddle or harness on their bodies; and when they turn easily, and willingly follow the person who holds the leather strap, the rough rider should mount him and dismount again in the same place, without making him move, till he is four years old, because before that age the weight of a man overloads him[A]; but at four years he should be made to walk or trot, a little way at a time, with the rider on his back. When a coach horse is accustomed to the harness, he should be paired with a horse that is thoroughly broke, putting on him a bridle with a strap passed through it, till he begins to be used to his duty; after this the coachman may try to make him draw, having the assistance of a man to push him gently behind, and even to give him some blows to make him do it. All this should be done before young horses have changed their food, for when once they are on grain or hay they are more vigorous, less tractable, and more difficult to break.

The bit and the spur are two means made use of to bring them into order, the former for their guidance, and the latter to make them increase their motion. The mouth does not appear formed by nature to receive any other impressions than that of taste and appetite; but there is so great a sensibility in the mouth of a horse, that, in preference to the eyes and ears, we address ourselves to it, to make him understand our pleasure; the slightest motions, or pressure of the bit, is sufficient to inform and determine his course; and this organ of sense has no other fault than its perfection. Its too great sensibility requires particular management, for if it is abused the mouth of the horse is spoiled, and rendered insensible to the impression of the bit: the senses of sight and hearing cannot be dulled in this manner; but in all likelihood it has been found inconvenient to govern horses by these organs; besides, signs given them by the sense of feeling have more effect on animals in general than those conveyed by the eyes or ears. The situation of the eyes of horses, with relation to those who mount or conduct them, is very unfavourable; and, though they are frequently conducted and animated by the ear, it appears that the use of this organ is limited to common horses, because in the menage they are seldom spoken to; in fact, if they are well broke the smallest pressure of the thighs, or most trifling motion of the bit, is sufficient to direct them. The spur is even useless, or at least it is only made use of to force them to violent motions; and as through the folly of the rider it often happens, that in giving the spur he checks the bridle, the horse finding himself excited on one side, and kept in on the other, only prances and capers without stirring out of his place.

By means of the bridle horses are taught to hold up their heads, and keep them in the most graceful position, and the smallest sign or movement of the rider is sufficient to make the horse shew all his different paces; the most natural is perhaps the trot, but pacing and galloping is more pleasant for the rider, and these are the two paces we particularly endeavour to improve. When the horse lifts up his fore legs to walk, this motion should be performed with spirit and ease, and the knee sufficiently bent. The leg lifted up should seem as if suspended for a moment, and when let down the foot should be firmly rested on the ground without the horse’s head receiving any impression from this motion, for when the leg suddenly falls down, and the head sinks at the same time: it is usual to ease the other leg, which has not strength to support the whole weight of the body. This is a great fault, as well as that of carrying the foot too far out or in. We should also observe, that when he rests on his heel it is a mark of weakness, and when he rests on the forepart of his hoof it is a fatiguing and unnatural attitude that he cannot long support.

Though walking is the slowest of all their paces, his step should be light, brisk, and neither too long nor too short; his carriage should be easy, which depends much on the freedom of his shoulders, and is known by the manner in which he carries his head in walking; if he keeps it high and steady, he is generally vigorous and quick. When the motion of the shoulders is not free, the leg does not rise enough, and the horse is apt to stumble, and strike his foot against the inequalities on the ground. A horse should raise his shoulders, and lower his haunches, in walking; he should also raise and support his leg; but if he keeps it up too long, or lets it fall too slowly, he loses all the advantage of his suppleness, becomes heavy, and fit for nothing but to match with another for shew and parade.

It is not sufficient that his walk should be easy, his steps must be also equal and uniform, both behind and before, for if his crupper has a swinging motion while he keeps up his shoulders, the rider is much jolted, and rendered uneasy; the same thing happens when the horse extends his hind leg so much as to rest it beyond the same place in which he rested his fore foot. Horses with short bodies are subject to this fault; those which cross their legs or strike them against each other, are not sure footed; in general those whose bodies are long, are the most easy for the rider, because he is at a greater distance from the two centres of motion, the shoulders and haunches, and therefore less sensible of the jolting.

The usual method of walking among quadrupeds is to lift, at the same time, one of the fore legs of one side, and one of the hind legs of the other. As their bodies are sustained upon four points of support, which form an oblong square, the easiest manner of moving for them is to change two at once in the diagonal, in such a manner that the centre of gravity of the body of the animal may rest always in the direction of the two points which are not in motion. In the three natural paces of the horse, the walk, the trot, and the gallop, this rule of motion is always observed, though with some difference. In the walk there are four beats, in the movement; if the right fore leg moves first the left hind leg follows the instant after; then the left fore leg moves forward in turn, and is followed instantly by the right hind leg; thus the right fore foot rests on the ground first, the left hind foot next, then the left fore foot rests, and lastly, the right hind foot, which makes a movement of four beats, and at three intervals, of which the first and last are shorter than the middle one. In the trot there are but two beats; if the right fore leg goes off the ground the left hind leg moves at the same time, and then the left fore leg moves at the same time with the right hind one, in such a manner, that there are in this movement only two beats and one interval; the right fore foot, and the left hind foot, rest on the ground at the same time, as is also the case with the left fore foot and the right hind one. In the gallop there is usually three beats; but as in this movement there is a kind of leaping of the two fore legs, the right ought to advance more forward than the left, which ought to remain on the ground to serve as a point of rest for the sudden jerk he takes: the left hind foot moves the first, and rests the first on the ground; then the right hind leg is lifted up conjointly with the left fore leg, and both rest on the ground together; and lastly, the right fore leg is raised instantly after the left fore leg and right hind one, and rests last on the ground: thus in the gallop there are three beats and two intervals; in the first interval, when the movement is made with haste, the four legs are, for an instant, in the air at the same time, and the four shoes may be seen at once. When the horse has supple limbs and haunches, and moves with agility, the gallop is the more perfect, and the cadence is made in four times; first, the left hind foot, then the right hind foot, next the left fore foot, and, lastly, the right fore foot.

Horses usually gallop on the right foot, in the same manner as they carry the fore right leg in walking and trotting; they also throw up the dirt in galloping first with the right fore leg, which is more advanced than the left; and the right hind leg, which follows immediately the right fore one, is also more advanced than the left hind leg, from whence it results, that the left leg, which supports all the weight, and forces forwards the others, is the most fatigued; for this reason it would be right to learn horses to gallop alternately on the left and right legs, as they would then bear much longer this violent motion; this is done in the riding-schools, but, perhaps for no other reason than in traversing a circle, the centre of which is sometimes on the right and sometimes to the left, the rider is compelled to change hands.

In walking the horse almost scrapes the ground with his feet; in trotting they are somewhat raised; and in galloping they are lifted up still higher. The walk ought to be quick, light, and sure; the trot should be firm, quick, and equally sustained, and the hind feet ought to press forward the fore ones. The horse, in this pace should carry his head high, and keep his body, straight, for if the haunches rise and fall alternately at each motion, and if the crupper moves up and down, and the horse rocks himself, he is too weak for this motion. If he throws out his fore legs it is another fault; the fore legs should tread in a line with the hind ones, and always efface their tracks. When one of the hind legs is thrown forwards, if the fore leg of the same side rests too long, the motion becomes uneasy from this resistance, and it is for this reason that the interval between the two beats of the trot should be short; but, be it ever so short, this resistance is sufficient to make this pace more uneasy than walking or galloping.

The spring of the houghs contributes as much to the motion of galloping, as that of the loins; whilst the loins use their utmost efforts to raise and push forward the hinder parts, the spring of the hough, breaks the stroke, and lessens the shock: thus, the more pliant and strong are the spring of their houghs, the more gentle and rapid is their motion in galloping.

Walking, trotting, and galloping, are the most usual natural paces; but some horses have another natural motion, called ambling, or pacing, which is very different from the other three, and, at the first glance appears extremely fatiguing to the animal, notwithstanding the quickness of motion is not so great as the hard trot or gallop. In this pace the foot of the horses grazes the ground still more than in walking, and each step is much longer. But the most remarkable circumstance is, that the two legs on the same side, for example, the fore and hind legs on the right side, part from the ground at the same time, and afterwards the two left legs, so that each side of the body alternately is without support, which cannot fail to fatigue the animal very much, being obliged to support itself in a forced balance by the rapidity of a motion which is scarcely clear of the ground: for if he raised his feet in this pace, as much as he does in trotting, or walking quick, he could not fail falling on his side; and it is only from almost grazing the earth, and the quickness of motion, that he is enabled to support himself. In the amble, as well as in the trot, there are but two beats in the motion; and all the difference is, that in the trot the two legs which go together are opposite, in a diagonal line; instead of which, in the amble, the two legs on the same side go together. This pace is extremely fatiguing to the horse, and which he should never be suffered to use but on even ground, but is very easy for the rider; it has not the jolting of the trot, because in the amble, the fore leg rises at the same time with the hind leg on the same side, and consequently meets with no resistance in the motion. Connoisseurs assure us, that horses which naturally amble, never trot; and that they are much weaker than others who have not that pace; in fact, colts often get into this pace, when they are forced to go fast, and have not sufficient strength to trot or gallop; and we observe also, that even good horses, when much fatigued, or begin to decline, take of themselves to ambling.

We may then look upon this pace as proceeding from weakness or defect; but there are still two other paces called broken ambles, one between the amble and the walk, and the other between the trot and the gallop; both of which are more defective than the amble, and proceed from great fatigue or weakness in the loins; these paces are frequently perceivable in almost worn-out post horses.

The horse, of all quadrupeds, with the noblest stature, has the greatest proportion and elegance in all its parts. By comparing him with those animals which are superior or inferior to him, we shall see that the ass is ill-made; that the lion has too large a head; the legs of the ox too thin and short, in proportion to the size of his body; that the camel is deformed, and that those monstrous animals, the rhinoceros and the elephant, are merely rude and shapeless masses. The great length of the jaws is the principal difference between the heads of quadrupeds and the human species; it is also the most ignoble mark of all; yet, though the jaws of the horse are very long, he has not like the ass, an air of imbecility; nor of stupidity like the ox. The regularity and proportions of the parts of his head, give him an air of sprightliness, which is well supported by the beauty of his chest. He seems ambitious of raising himself above his state of a quadruped, by holding up his head; and in this noble attitude he looks man in the face. His eyes are lively and large, his ears well made, and of a just proportion, without being short, like those of the bull, or too long like those of the ass; his mane ornaments his neck, and gives him an air of strength and courage; his long bushy tail covers and terminates advantageously the extremities of his body. Far different from the short tails of the stag, elephant, &c. and the naked tails of the ass, camel, rhinoceros, &c. the tail of the horse is formed of long thick hair, which seems to come from the crupper, because the stump from which it grows is very short; he cannot raise his tail like the lion, but it suits him better hanging down, as he can move it from side to side, and drive away the flies which incommode him; for though his skin is very firm, and well furnished with a close thick coat, it is, notwithstanding, extremely sensible.

The attitude of the head and neck contributes more than all the other parts of the body to give him a noble appearance; the superior part of the neck, on which the mane grows, should raise itself in a straight line from the withers, and, in approaching the head, form a curve somewhat resembling the neck of a swan. The inferior part ought not to have any curve, its direction should be a direct line from the chest to the nether jaw, and a little bent forwards; if it was perpendicular its beauty would be diminished. The superior parts of the neck should be slim, with a little flesh about the mane, which should be moderately ornamented with long sleek hair. A handsome chest and forehand should be long and raised, but proportioned to the size of the horse; when it is too long and thin the horse usually throws his head back, and when too short and fleshy he pushes forwards too much; for the head to be placed in the most advantageous position, the forehead should be perpendicular to the horizon.

The head should be lean and small, without being too long: the ears at a moderate distance, small, straight (but not stiff) narrow, and well-placed on the top of the head; the forehead should be narrow, and a little convex; the hollows or spaces between the eyes and ears, well filled; the eyelids thin; the eyes clear, lively, full of fire, rather large, and projecting; the pupil rather large; the nether jaw thin; the nose a little arched; the nostrils large and open, and divided by a thin partition; the lips thin, the mouth of a moderate width; the withers raised and sloping, the shoulders flat, and not confined; the back equal, insensibly arched lengthways, and raised on each side of the back bone, which should appear indented; the flanks full and short; the rump round and fleshy; the haunches well covered with muscular flesh; the stump of the tail thick and firm; the thighs thick and fleshy; the houghs round before, and broad on the sides; the shank thin and small; the fetlock strong and covered with a tuft of hair behind; the pasterns large, and of a middling length; the coronet rather raised; the hoof black, smooth, and shining; the instep high; the quarters round; the heels wide and moderately raised; the frog small and thin, and the sole thick and hollow.

Few horses possess this assemblage of perfection; the eyes are subject to many faults, which are sometimes difficult to be known. In a sound eye, we ought to see through the cornea two or three spots of the colour of soot, above the pupil; for to see those spots, the cornea must be clear, clean, and transparent; if it appears double, or of a bad colour, the eye is not good; a small, long, and straight pupil, encompassed with a white circle, or when it is of a blueish green colour, the eye is certainly bad.

I shall at present only add some remarks, by which a judgment may be formed of the principal perfections and imperfections of a horse. It is very easy to judge of the natural and actual state of the animal by the motion of his ears; when he walks, he should incline forwards the points of his ears; when jaded his ears hang low; those which are spirited and mischievous, alternatively carry one of their ears forwards, and the other backwards: they all turn their ears to that side on which they hear any noise, and when struck on the back, or on the rump, they turn their ears backward. Horses who have the eyes deep sunk in the head, or one smaller than the other, have usually a bad sight; those whose mouths are dry, are not of so healthy a temperament as those which have their mouths moist, and make the bridle frothy. A saddle horse ought to have the shoulders flat, supple, and not very fleshy; the draft horse, on the contrary, should have them flat, round, and thick; if, notwithstanding, the shoulders of a saddle horse are too thin, and the bones shew themselves through the skin, it is a defect which proves the shoulders are not free, and consequently the horse cannot bear much fatigue. Another fault of a saddle horse is, to have the chest project too forward, and the fore legs placed too far backward, because he is apt in this case to rest on the hand in galloping, and even to stumble and fall. The length of the legs should be proportionable to the height of the horse; when the fore legs are too long he is not sure-footed, if they are too short, he bears too heavy on the hand. It is a remark that mares are more liable than horses to be low before, and that stone-horses in general have thicker necks than mares or geldings.

The most important thing to be known, is the age of a horse. As they advance in years the eye-pits commonly sink, but it is from the teeth that we obtain the most certain knowledge of their age; of these the horse has 40, 24 grinders, four eye teeth or tushes, and 12 incisive teeth. Mares have no eye teeth, or if they have them they are very short; it is from the front and eye teeth alone we are enabled to form any judgment of their age. The front teeth begin to shew themselves a few days after the birth of the foal, these first teeth are round, short, and not very solid; they drop out at different times to make room for others. At two years and a half the four front middle teeth drop out, two at top, and two at bottom; a year after four others fall out, one on each side of the first, which are already replaced; At four years and a half, four others drop out, always on each side of those which have been shed and replaced; these four last milk teeth are replaced by four others, which do not grow near so last as those which replaced the first eight; and these four last teeth which are called the wedges, or corner teeth, as those by which the age of a horse is distinguished; these are easily known, since they are the third, as well at top as at bottom, beginning to count from the middle of the extremity of the jaw; these teeth are hollow, and have a black mark in their cavities. At four years and a half, or five years old, they scarcely project beyond the gums, and their cavities are plainly seen. At six years and a half they begin to fill up, the mark also begins to diminish gradually, till he comes to seven years and a half, or eight years, when the hollow is entirely filled up and the black mark effaced. After the animal has attained this period, it is common to attempt to judge of his age by the eye teeth, or tusks; these four teeth are placed at the side of those which we have just described. Neither the eye teeth, nor grinders, are preceded by others which fall out. Those of the interior jaw usually begin to shoot at three years and a half, the two of the upper jaw at the age of four, and till the animal is six years old they are very sharp; at ten years old the upper ones appear already blunt, worn, and long, because the gum wears away with age, and the more it appears worn away, the more aged is the horse. From 10 till 13 or 14 years, there is hardly any indication of the age; when some of the hairs on the eye-brows begin to grow white; but this indication is equivocal, since it has been remarked that horses engendered from old stallions and old mares have the hair white on the eye-brows by the age of 10 years. There are also horses whose teeth are so hard that they do not wear, and upon which the black mark subsists and is never effaced; but these are easily known by the length of the eye teeth. We may also know, though with less precision, the age of a horse by the ridges of the palate, which are effaced in proportion to his age.

By the age of two, or two years and a half, the horse is in a state to engender; and mares, like all other females, are still more forward; but these young horses produce only foals ill-shaped, or of bad constitutions. The horse should at least be four or four years and a half before he is admitted to the mare, and even that is too early, unless for draught and large horses. It is necessary to wait till the sixth year for a fine breed, and the Spanish stallion should not be admitted before the seventh. The mares may be a year younger; they are usually in season from the end of March to the end of June; but they are most fit to receive the male for about fifteen days or three weeks, and this is the best period for admitting them to the stallion. He should be chosen with care, handsome, well made, vigorous, perfectly sound, and of a good breed. To have handsome saddle-horses, foreign stallions, as Arabian, Turkish, Barbary, and Andalusian horses, are preferable to all others; and even, notwithstanding their faults, the English horses may be successfully made use of, because they came originally from the above-mentioned, and are not much degenerated; the food being excellent in England, where they are also very careful in keeping up the breed. The stallions of Italy, especially those of Naples, are very good, and produce handsome saddle-horses, when coupled with well-shaped mares, and fine coach-horses when with mares of a large stature. It is pretended, that in France, England, &c. the Arabian and Barbary horses usually beget horses larger than themselves, and that the Spanish horses produce a smaller breed. To have handsome coach-horses we should make use of Neapolitan and Danish stallions, or those from Holstein or Friezeland. The stallions should be full 14 hands and a half high for saddle-horses, and fifteen hands for coach-horses; a stallion should also have a good coat, black as jet, or of a fine grey, bay, or chesnut. All which seem in their colour as if they were washed or ill-coloured should be banished from the breed, as well as those which have white extremities. Besides these exterior, a stallion should also have the best interior, qualities, such as courage, docility, spirit, and agility; sensibility in the mouth, freedom in his shoulders; he should be sure footed, supple in the haunches, and have a spring in the whole body, but above all in his hind legs, and should have been well broke and trained. These particulars it is the more necessary to observe in the choice of a stallion, because it has been remarked, that he communicates by generation almost all his good and bad qualities, both natural and acquired. A horse, naturally morose, gloomy, stubborn, &c. produces foals of the same disposition: and as the defects of conformation, as well as the vices of the humours, perpetuate with still more certainty than the natural qualities, great care should be taken to exclude from the whole stud all deformed, vicious, glandered, broken-winded, or mad horses.

In these climates the mare contributes less than the stallion to the beauty of the foal, but she contributes perhaps more to his temperament and form; thus it is necessary that the mares should be strong and large bodied, and good nurses, in order to breed beautiful horses. The Spanish and Italian mares are preferred for an elegant breed, and those of England for draught and coach-horses. The mares of all countries may, nevertheless, produce handsome horses, provided they are themselves well made, of a good breed, and have proper stallions; for if they are engendered from a bad horse the foals which they produce will frequently prove defective. In this species of animals, as well as in the human race, the young frequently resemble their male or female ancestors; only it appears, that in horses the female does not contribute so much to generation as in the human species, where the son oftener resembles the mother than the foal does the mare; and when the foal resembles the mare which has produced it, it is usually in the fore parts of the body, as the head and neck.

To judge well of the resemblance of children to their parents, the comparison should not be made in their youth; we ought to wait till they are arrived at puberty; for there happens at this period so sudden a change of the parts that it may be possible to mistake, at the first glance of the eye, a person whom we have known perfectly well before that period, but have not seen since. Till after puberty, then, we ought not to compare the child with its parents, if we would judge accurately of the resemblance, as then the son frequently resembles his father, and the daughter her mother, and frequently the child resembles both at once. Sometimes children resemble the grandfathers or grand-mothers, and even uncles and aunts. Almost always children of the same parents are like each other, and all have some family-likeness. In horses, as the male contributes more to generation than the female, mares frequently produce colts which are very like the stallion, or which always resemble their father more than their mother; and when the brood-mare has herself been begot by a bad horse, it frequently happens that, though she had a beautiful stallion and is handsome herself, she shall yet produce a foal which, however in appearance handsome and well made in its early youth, degenerates as it grows older; while a well-bred mare produces foals, which though at first they have an unfavourable appearance, grow handsomer as they advance in age.

These observations which seem all to concur in proving that in horses the male has greater influence than the female on their progeny, do not appear sufficient to establish this fact in an indisputable manner. It is not impossible, but that these observations may subsist, and yet in general the mare may contribute as much as the horse to the production of their issue; for it is not astonishing that stallions, always chosen out of a great number, generally brought from warm climates, high-fed, kept and managed with great care, should have the sway in generation over common mares, bred in a cold climate, and frequently obliged to labour. But if the beautiful mares of warm countries were selected out, managed with equal care, and covered by common horses of our own country, I think there cannot be a doubt but the semblance of the females would be superior to the males, and that among horses, as well as in the human species, there would be an equality in the influence of the male and female in their young, supposing a similarity in the accordant circumstances. This appears natural, and the more probable, as it has been remarked in studs that an equal number of male and female foals are bred, which proves that, at least as far as regards the sex, the female has equal influence.

Mares are generally in season nine days after their delivery, when the horse ought to be taken to them, in the choice of which attention should be paid to his figure being perfect in those parts wherein the mare may be deficient. The breed of horses, at least such as are handsome, require an infinite degree of care and attention, and is accompanied with considerable expence. The mares and foals should be kept in rich inclosures, and if alternately grazed by oxen and horses it will be an advantage, as the former constantly repairs the injuries done by the latter; each of these inclosures should contain a pond, which is preferable to a running stream, and be also provided with trees to shelter them from the heat of the sun; when, however, the winter season commences they should be taken into the stable and be well supplied with hay.

The stallion should always be kept in the house; he should be fed with more straw than hay, and be moderately exercised until the season for covering, when he should be fed plentifully, though with nothing but common food. If managed with proper care he may be led to 15 or 18 mares with success in the course of the season, which, as we before observed, continues from the end of March to the end of June.

It has been remarked, that studs, situated in dry and light countries, produce active, swift and vigorous horses, with nervous legs, and strong hoofs, while those which are bred in damp places, and in fat pasturage, have generally large heavy heads, thick legs, soft hoofs, and flat feet. This difference arises from the climate and food, which may be easily understood; but, what is more difficult to comprehend, and essential to be known, is, the necessity of always crossing, or mixing the breed of horses to prevent their degenerating.

There is in nature a general prototype of each species, from which each individual is modelled, but which seems in procreation to be debased, or improved, according to its circumstances, insomuch, that in relation to certain qualities, there is a strange variety in the appearance of individuals, and at the same time a constant resemblance in the whole species.

The first animal, the first horse, for example, has been the exterior and interior model, from which all horses that have existed, or shall exist, have been formed; but this model, of which we are only acquainted with copies, may have fallen off, or arrived at greater perfection, by multiplying and communicating its form. The original form subsists entire in each individual; but though there are millions of individuals, yet no two exactly resemble each other, nor, consequently, the model from which they are sprung. This difference, which proves how far Nature is from making any thing absolutely perfect, and how well she knows how to shade her works, is exactly the same in the human species, in all animals, and in all vegetables; and what is singular, the model of what is handsome and excellent is dispersed through all parts of the earth, and that in each climate there is a portion thereof, which perpetually degenerates, unless united with another portion taken from a distant country; so that to have good corn, beautiful flowers, &c. it is necessary to change the seeds, and that they never should be sown in the same ground where they grew. To have fine horses, dogs, &c. it is proper for the males and females to be of different countries. Without this being attended to, corn, flowers, and animals, will degenerate, or rather take so strong a tincture of the climate as to deform and bastardize the species; the form remains, but disfigured in all the lines which are not essential thereto; by mixing, on the contrary, the kinds, and above all, by crossing their breed with foreign species, their forms seem to become more perfect.

I shall not here enter into the causes of these effects, but indicate the conjectures which readily present themselves. We know from experience that animals or vegetables transplanted from a distant climate frequently degenerate, and sometimes are improved in a short time. It is easy to conceive, that this effect is produced by the difference of the climate and food. The influence of these two causes must at length render these animals exempt from, or susceptible of, certain affections or certain disorders; their temperament must gradually change; consequently their form, which depends partly on the food and the quality of the humours, must also change in their progeny. This change is indeed almost imperceptible in the first generation, because the male and female, supposed to be the stock of this race, being completely grown, had taken their consistence and form before they were brought from their own country; the new climate, and new food may, indeed, change their temperament, but cannot have influence enough on the solid parts, and organs to alter their form, consequently the first generation will be no ways changed, nor will the original stock at the time of birth be degenerated: but the young and tender animal will feel the influence of the climate, and receive a stronger impression than its father and mother had done. The food will also have a greater effect, and act upon the organic parts during the time of its growth, change a little the original form, and produce therein those seeds of defects which manifest themselves in a very conspicuous manner in the second generation, where the progeny will not only have its own defects which arise from its growth, but also the vices of the second stock. In the third generation, the defects, which proceed from the influence of the climate and food, combined with those of influence on the actual growth, will become so visible, that the character of the first stock will be effaced. Thus animals of a foreign race soon lose their particular qualities, and in every respect resemble those of the country. Spanish or Barbary horses, if the breed is not crossed frequently, become in France, French horses, in the second generation, and always in the third. We are, therefore, obliged to cross the breed instead of preserving it, and renew the race at each generation, by giving the horses of Barbary or Spain, to the mares of the country; and what is more singular, this renewal of the race, which is only done in part, produces much better effects than if the renewal was entire. A Spanish horse and mare in a foreign country do not produce such handsome horses as those which are bred from a Spanish horse and a mare of the country; this is easy to be conceived, if attention is given to the amendment of natural defects, which will be produced when a male and female of different countries are put together. Each climate, by its influence, and by that of its food, gives a certain conformation of parts, which offends either by excess or defects. In a warm climate, there will be in excess what will be deficient in a cold climate, therefore, when we join together animals of those opposite climates, we must expect the produce to be complete; and as the most perfect work in Nature is that which has the fewest defects, and the most perfect forms, those that have the fewest deformities, so the produce of two animals, whose defects exactly counterbalance each other, will be the most perfect production of its species: they counterbalance one another the better, in proportion to the distance between the countries the animals matched together were bred in; the compound that results therefrom is the more perfect, the more opposite the excesses or defects of the constitution of the male are to the defects or excesses of the temperament of the female. Thus the breed is always improved by matching the mares with foreign horses, and they will always be more beautiful in proportion as the climates in which the horse and mare were bred are the more distant, and, on the contrary, the produce will be much debased by suffering horses of the same race to breed together; for they infallibly degenerate in a very little time.

The climate and food have not so much influence on the human species as on animals; and the reason is plain: man can defend himself better than any other animal from the intemperance of the climate; he is lodged and clothed suitably to the seasons; in his food also there is more variety, and consequently it cannot influence all individuals in the same manner. The defects or excesses which arise from these two causes, and which are so constantly and so sensibly felt in animals, are much less conspicuous in men. Besides, as there have been frequent migrations, as nations are mixed, and great numbers travel and are dispersed every where, it is no wonder that the human race should appear less subject to the influence of climate, and that there should be men strong, well-made, and even ingenious in all countries. Nevertheless, we may believe, from experience much further back than memory can trace, that men formerly knew the misfortunes which resulted from alliances with the same blood; since in the most uncivilized nations, it has rarely been permitted for the brother to marry the sister. This custom, which among Christians is a divine law, and which is practised by other people from political views, is perhaps grounded on this observation. Policy is never extended in so general and absolute a manner, unless supported by physical principles: but if men once discovered by experience that their race degenerated, when intercourse was admitted between children of the same family, they would soon have looked upon alliances with other families as a law of nature, and agreed in not suffering a mixture of blood among their children. In short, from analogy it may be presumed, that in most climates men would degenerate, as well as animals, after a certain number of generations.

Another influence of the climate and food is, the variety of colours in the coats of animals: those which are wild, and live in the same climate, are of the same colour, which becomes a little lighter, or a little darker, in the different seasons of the year; on the contrary, those which live in different climates are of different colours, and domestic animals vary so much, that there are horses, dogs, &c. of all colours, while the stags, hares, &c. are almost uniformly of the same. The injuries of the climate, always the same, and constantly eating the same food, produce, in wild animals, this uniformity. The care of man, the comforts of shelter, the variety of food, efface and vary the colour in domestic animals; as does also the mixture of foreign racers, when no care has been taken to assort the colours of the male and female, which sometimes produces beautiful singularities, as we see in pied horses, where the black and the white are so whimsically mixed that they sometimes do not seem the work of nature, but rather the fancy of a painter.

In coupling horses the colour and height should be attended to; the shapes should be contrasted, the race should be mixed with opposite climates, and horses and mares bred in the same stud should never be coupled together. All these are necessary cautions, and there are still some others not to be neglected; for example brood-mares ought never to be docked, because, being unable to defend themselves from the flies, they are continually tormented, and the constant agitations which the stings of these insects occasion diminish the quantity of their milk, which has great influence on the temperament and size of the foal, which in every respect will be more vigorous as the mother is more capable of nursing it. It is also preferable to choose brood-mares from such as have always been kept at grass, and have never been hard worked. Mares which have been kept in stables on dry food, and are afterwards put to grass, do not immediately conceive; they must have time to accustom themselves to this new kind of nutriment.

Although the usual season of mares is from the beginning of April to the end of June, yet it frequently happens that some are so before that time; but which it would be better to let pass off, because the foal in such case would be brought forth in winter, and suffer both from the intemperance of the season, and badness of milk; and also, if a mare does not become proud till after the month of June, she should not be suffered to take horse, because the foal being produced in summer, cannot acquire strength enough to resist the injuries of the ensuing winter.

Many people, instead of conducting the stallion to the mare, let him loose in a park, where a number of mares are kept, and leave him at liberty to single out those which are in season: this method is good for the mares, and they will breed with more certainty; but the stallion is more hurt in six weeks than he would be well managed in as many years.

As soon as the mares are with foal, and their bellies begin to grow heavy, they must be separated from those which are not so, lest they should be injured. They usually go with foal eleven months and some days; they bring forth standing upright, while almost all other quadrupeds lie down: in some cases, when the delivery is difficult they require assistance, and when the foal is dead, it is extracted with ropes. The foal generally presents its head first, as do all other animals; it breaks the membranes in the birth, and the waters flow out abundantly; at the same time there is voided several solid pieces of flesh formed by the liquor of the allantoides: these pieces, which the ancients have called the hippomanes, are not, as they say, pieces of flesh fastened to its head; but, on the contrary, separated by the amnios. The mare licks the foal after its birth, but she does not meddle with the hippomanes, notwithstanding the assertion of the ancients, that she devours it immediately.

It is the usual custom to have the mare covered nine days after she has foaled: not to lose time, and to make all they can from the stud; yet it is certain, that the mare having a foal and f[oe]tus to provide for, her strength is divided, and she is not able to give them so much nourishment as if she had only one; it would, therefore, be better, in order to have excellent horses, to let the mares be covered but once in two years; they would last longer, and would not be so liable to drop their foals; for in common studs it is a great thing when, in the same year, half or two thirds produce foals.

The mares, when with foal, can bear to be covered, though there is never any fresh conception: they usually breed till the age of 14 or 15 years, and the most vigorous not longer than 18. Stallions, when they have been taken care of, may engender till they are 20 years old, or upwards. The same remark has been made of these animals as of men, viz. that those who have begun too early are soonest incapacitated; for large horses, which sooner arrive at their growth than delicate ones, are frequently incapable before they are fifteen.

The duration of the life of horses, like that of every other species of animals, is proportioned to the time of their growth. Man, who is above 14 years in growing, lives six or seven times as long, to 90 or 100. The horse, who attains his whole growth in four years, lives six or seven times as long, that is, to 25 or 30. There are so few exceptions to this rule that we cannot draw any precedents from them; and as robust horses are at their entire growth in less time than delicate ones, they also live less time, seldom exceeding 15 years.

It may be easily seen, that in horses, and most other quadrupeds, the growth of the hinder parts is at first greater than those of the anterior, whilst in man the inferior parts grow less at first than the superior; for in a child the thighs and legs are in proportion to the body, much less than those of an adult; on the contrary, the hind legs of a foal are so long that they can touch its head, which they cannot do when full grown. This difference proceeds less from the inequality of the whole growth of the anterior and posterior parts, than from the inequality of the fore and hind feet, which is constantly the case through all Nature, and is most sensible in quadrupeds. In man the feet are larger than the hands, and are also sooner formed; and in the horse the foot forms the greatest part of the hind leg, being composed of bones, corresponding to the tarsus, metatarsus, &c. It is not, therefore, astonishing that this foot should be sooner extended than the fore legs, the inferior part of which resembles the hands, being composed of the bones of the carpus, metacarpus, &c. When a colt is just foaled this difference is readily remarked; the fore legs compared with the hind ones being much shorter in proportion than they are in the sequel; besides, the thickness which the body acquires, though independent of the proportions of the growth in length, occasions more distance between the hind legs and the head, and consequently contributes to hinder the horse from reaching it when arrived at his full growth.

In all animals each species differs according to the difference of climate, and the general result of this variety forms and constitutes the different races. Of these we can only particularize the most remarkable, which differ greatly from each other, passing the intermediate shades, which here, as in every thing else, are infinite. We have even augmented the number and confusion, by favouring the mixture of these breeds; and we may be said to have almost inverted Nature by bringing into these climates the horses of Africa or Asia, and have so much raised the primitive race of France, by introducing horses of all countries, that they are not now to be known, there only remaining some slight traces, produced by the actual influence of the climate. These traces would be much stronger, and the differences would be much greater, if the race of each climate were preserved without mixture; the small differences would be less shaded, and fewer in number; but there would be a certain number of great varieties, that all mankind might easily distinguish; instead of which, custom, and even a long experience, are at present necessary to know the horses of different countries. On this subject we have only the knowledge drawn from the accounts of different travellers, and the ablest riding-masters, such as Newcastle, Garsault, Guerinere, &c. and from some remarks that Pignerolles, Master of Horse to the King of France, and President of the Academy of Angers, has communicated.

The Arabian horses are the handsomest known in Europe, they are larger and more plump than those of Barbary, and equally well shaped, but as they are not often brought into France, few observations have been made on their perfections or defects.

The horses of Barbary are more common, they have a long fine neck, not too much covered with hair, and well divided from the withers; the head is small and beautiful; the ears handsome and well-placed; the back short and straight; the flanks and sides round without too much belly; the haunches thin, the crupper generally long, and the tail placed rather high; the thighs well formed, and seldom flat; the legs handsome, well made, and almost without hair; the tendon large, the foot well made, but frequently the pastern long; they are of all colours, but most commonly grey. In their paces, they are always very negligent, and must be often reminded: they are swift and strong, very light, and well adapted for hunting. These horses seem the most proper to breed from; and leave it only to be wished they were of larger stature, seldom exceeding four feet eight inches high. It is confirmed by experience, that in France, England, &c. they beget foals larger than themselves. Among the Barbary horses, those of the Kingdom of Morocco are the best; next, those of the mountains. The horses of Mauritania, are of an inferior quality, as well as those of Turkey, Persia, and Armenia. All the horses of warm countries have the hair shorter and smoother than others. The Turkish horses are not so well proportioned as those of Barbary; they have commonly the neck slender, the body long, and the legs too thin. They will, however, travel a great way, and are long winded; this will not appear surprising if we consider, that in warm countries the bones of animals are harder than in cold climates and it is for this reason that, though they have smaller shank bones, their legs are stronger.

The Spanish horses which hold the second rank after those of Barbary, have a long, thick, and hairy neck; the head rather large, the ears long, but well placed; the eyes full of fire, and have a noble stately air; the shoulders are thick, and the breast large; the loins frequently rather low, the sides round, and often too much belly; the crupper is usually round and large, though some have it rather long; the legs thin, free from air; the pastern is sometimes long like those of Barbary; the foot rather lengthened like that of a mule, and frequently the heels too high. Spanish horses of the best breed are plump, well-coated, and low of stature. They use much motion in their carriage, and have great suppleness, spirit, and pride. Their hair is usually black, or of a dark chesnut colour, though there are some of all colours, and it is but seldom that they have white legs or noses. The Spaniards have an aversion to these marks, and never breed from horses that have them, chusing only a star in the forehead; they however prefer those which have not a single spot, as much as the French do those with particular marks. But these prejudices are perhaps equally ill-founded, since there are exceeding good horses with all kinds of marks, or entirely of one colour. These small differences in the coats of horses do not, in any manner, depend on their qualities, or their interior constitution, but originate from external causes, and even those so superficial, that by a slight scratch on the skin a white spot is produced. Spanish horses are all marked in the thigh with the mark of the stud where they were bred. They are commonly of a small stature, though there are some four feet nine or ten inches in height. Those of Upper Andalusia are reckoned to be the best, though they are apt to have the head too long; but this defect is excused in favour of their excellent qualities: they are courageous, obedient, graceful, spirited, and more supple than those of Barbary, for which talents they are preferred to all other horses in the world, for war, for shew, and for the menage.

The handsomest English horses have in their conformation great resemblance to those of Arabia and Barbary, from which in fact they originated: they have, notwithstanding, the head larger, but well made, the ears longer, but well placed. By the ears alone an English horse may be known from a Barbary; but the great difference is in their stature, for English horses are much larger and plumper; they are frequently five feet high; are of all colours, and have all kinds of marks; they are generally strong, vigorous, bold, capable of great fatigue, excellent for hunting and coursing; but they want grace and suppleness in their shoulders. The race horses of this country are exceedingly swift, as indeed are the saddle horses in general; of which I cannot give a stronger proof than by giving an extract of a letter I received from a British nobleman, (Earl of Morton) dated London, February 18, 1748, which runs in these words: “Mr. Thornhill, a post-master of Stilton, wagered that he would ride three times the distance from Stilton to London, that is 215 English miles, within 15 hours. In undertaking the performance of which, he set out from Stilton in the morning of the 29th of April, 1745, and arrived in London in three hours and fifty-one minutes, having taken a relay of eight different horses on the road; he immediately set out again from London, and got back to Stilton in three hours and fifty-two minutes, having changed horses but six times; for the third space he set off again, and with seven of the same horses he completed it in three hours and forty-nine minutes, going over the whole space of 215 miles in eleven hours and thirty-two minutes; an example of swiftness that possibly is not to be paralleled in ancient history.”

The horses of Italy were formerly much handsomer than they are at present, because the breed for some time has been neglected; notwithstanding the Neapolitan horses are still handsome, especially for carriages and draught horses; but in general they have large heads end thick necks; they are untractable, and consequently not easily managed; these defects are compensated by their noble form, their stateliness, and the gracefulness of their motion.

The Danish horses are so superior in make and beauty, that they are preferred to all others for carriages; some of them are perfectly moulded, but their number is small; for the conformation of these horses is seldom regular, most of them have thick necks, large shoulders, their loins long and low, and the buttocks too narrow for the thickness of the fore parts; but they are all graceful in their motions, and in general very good for war, and for state: they are of all colours, and some are spotted like tygers which are found no where but in Denmark.

Germany produces very handsome horses, but they are generally heavy, and short-breathed, though chiefly bred from Turkish and Barbary, Spanish and Italian horses; for this reason they are not swift enough for coursing or hunting, whilst the Hungarian and Transilvanian horses are, on the contrary, light and good coursers. The Hungarians split their nostrils, with a view, they say, of giving them more breath, and also to hinder their neighing in battle. I have never had it in my power to be convinced of this fact, that horses who have their nostrils slit cannot neigh, but it appears to me that their neighing must be weaker. It is remarked, that the Hungarian, Croatian, and Polish horses have the mark in their mouths during life.

The horses of Holland are very good for coach-horses: the best come from the province of Friesland: there are also some very good ones in the provinces of Bergues and Juliers. The Flemish horses are greatly inferior to the Dutch: they have almost all large heads, flat feet, and are subject to humours; and these two last defects are essential ones in coach-horses.

In France there are horses of all kinds, but very few handsome ones. The best saddle-horses come from the Limosin, which resemble much those of Barbary, and like them are excellent for hunting; but they are slow in their growth, require great care while young, and must not be used till they are eight years old. There are also some excellent foals in Auvergne, Poitou, and in Moroant in Burgundy; but next to the Limosin, Normandy furnishes the finest horses; they are not so good for hunting, but are better for war: they have thicker coats, and sooner attain their full growth. There are many good coach-horses brought from Lower Normandy, which are lighter than those of Holland. Franche-Compte, and the country round Boulogne, furnish very good draught-horses. In general, the French horses have their shoulders too thick, which in the Barbary horses are generally too narrow.

Having described those horses which are best known to us, we shall now mention what travellers report of foreign horses with which we are unacquainted. There are good horses in islands of the Archipelago: those of the island of Crete were in great reputation among the ancients for their agility and swiftness; they are at present but little used even in that country, from its being almost every where unequal, and very mountainous. The best horses in these islands, and even in Barbary, are of the Arabian breed. The native horses of the kingdom of Morocco are much smaller than those of Arabia, but very light and vigorous. Shaw says, that the breed of Egypt and Tingitania are preferable to all those of the neighbouring countries; and yet a century ago there were good horses all over Barbary. The excellence of these Barbary horses consists in their never stumbling, and in their standing still whilst the rider dismounts or lets fall his bridle. They walk fast and gallop with rapidity, but they are never suffered to trot or amble; the inhabitants of the country looking upon those paces as rude and ignoble. He adds, that the horses of Egypt are superior to all others for their height and beauty; but these Egyptian horses, as well as most of those of Barbary, sprung from Arabian horses, which are, without contradiction, the most beautiful horses in the world.

According to Marmol, or rather Leon, the African, (for Marmol has copied him almost word for word) the Arabian horses are descended from the wild horses of the desarts of Arabia, of which, in ancient times, large studs were formed, which have multiplied so much that all Asia and Africa are full of them; they are so swift as to outstrip the very ostrich. The Arabians of the desart, and the people of Lybia, breed a great number of these horses for hunting, but neither use them in travelling nor in their wars. They send them to pasture whilst there is any grass, and when that fails they feed them with dates and camels’ milk, which makes them nervous, light, and lean. They lay snares for the wild horses, and eat the flesh of the young ones, which they affirm is very delicate. These wild horses are small, and are commonly ash-coloured, though there are also some white ones, and the mane and the hair of the tail is short and frizzled. Other travellers have given curious accounts of the Arabian horses, of which we will only mention the principal circumstances.

Let an Arabian be ever so poor he has horses; they usually ride upon the mares, experience having taught them that they bear fatigue, hunger, and thirst, better than horses; they are also less vicious, more gentle, and will remain left to themselves, in great numbers, for days together, without doing the least harm to each other. The Turks, on the contrary, do not like mares, and the Arabians sell them the horses which they do not keep for stallions. The Arabs have long preserved with great care the breed of their horses; they know their generations, alliances, and all their genealogies[B]. They distinguish their breeds into three classes; the first, which are of pure and ancient race on both sides, they call nobles; the second are of ancient race, but have been misallied; and the third kind are their common horses. The latter are sold at a low price; but those of the first class, and even of the second, among which some are as good as those of the first, are extremely dear. They never suffer the mares of the noble class to be covered except by stallions of the same quality. They are acquainted, from long experience, with the whole race of their own horses, and even with those of their neighbours, and know their names, surnames, colours, marks, &c. When they have no noble stallions of their own they borrow one of a neighbour to cover their mares, which is done in the presence of witnesses who give an attestation signed and sealed before the secretary of the Emir, or some other public person, in which the names of the mare and horse are written down, and their whole generation set forth. When the mare has foaled witnesses are again called, and another attestation is drawn up, which contains a description of the foal, with the day of its birth. These certificates enhance the value of their horses and are given to those who buy them. The price of a mare of the first class is from one to three hundred pounds sterling. As the Arabs have only tents for their houses, those tents serve them also for stables: the mare and her foal, husband, wife, and children, lie promiscuously together; the children will lie on the body and neck of the mare and foal without being incommoded or receiving the least injury; nay, the animals seem afraid to move for fear of hurting them. These mares are so accustomed to live in this familiarity that they will suffer any kind of play. The Arabs never beat their mares, but treat them kindly, talk and reason with them; they take great care of them, always letting them walk, and never use the spur without the greatest necessity; as soon, therefore, as they feel their rider’s heel they set out with incredible swiftness, and leap hedges and ditches with as much agility as so many does. If their riders happen to fall, they are so well trained that they will stop short even in the most rapid gallop. All Arabian horses are of a middling size, very easy in their paces, and rather thin than fat. They are dressed morning and evening regularly with so much care that not the smallest spot is left on their skins; their legs, mane and tail are washed; the latter is let to grow long, and seldom combed, to avoid breaking the hairs. They have nothing given them to eat all day, and seldom are allowed to drink above two or three times. At sun-set a bag is fastened round their heads, containing about half a bushel of very clean barley, which is not taken from them till the next morning when all is eat up. In the month of March, when the grass is tolerably high, they are turned out to pasture. At this time the mares are covered, and immediately after cold water is thrown upon them. As soon as the spring is past they are taken again from pasture, and have neither grass nor hay, and seldom straw, all the rest of the year, barley being their only food. They cut the manes of their foals at a year or eighteen months old, in order to make it grow thick and long. They mount them at two years old, or two years and a half at furthest, and till this age they put neither saddle nor bridle on them. Every day, from morning till night, all the Arabian horses stand saddled at the doors of the tents.

[B] Of this we have a striking instance in Pennant’s Zoology, which contains the following attested paper:

(Taken before Abdorraman, Cadi of Acca.)

"The occasion of this present writing or instrument is hat at Acca, in the house of Bedi, legal established judge, appeared in Court Thomas Usgate, the English Consul, and with him Sheikhs Morad Eben al Hajj Abdollah, Sheikh of the country of Safad: and the said Consul desired, from the aforesaid Sheikhs, proof of the race of the grey horse which he bought of him, and he affirmed to be Monaki Shaduhi[1]; but he was not satisfied with this, but desired the testimony of the Arabs, who bred the horse, and knew how he came to Sheikhs Morad; whereupon there appeared certain Arabs of repute, whose names are undermentioned, who testified and declared that the grey horse which the Consul formerly bought of Sheikh Morad is Monaki Shaduhi of the pure race of horses, purer than milk, and that the beginning of the affair was, that the Sheikh Saleh, Sheikh of Alsabal bought him of the Arabs, of the tribe of al Mahommedat, and Sheikh Saleh sold him to Sheikh Morad Ebn al Hajj Abdollah, Sheikh of Safad, and Sheikh Morad sold him to the Consul aforesaid; when these matters appeared to us, and the contents were known, the said gentleman desired a certificate thereof, and testimony of the witnesses, whereupon we wrote him this certificate for him to keep as a proof thereof. Dated Friday 28 of the latter Rabi, in the year 1135."

WITNESSES.

Sheikh Jumat al Faliban of the Arabs of al Mahommadat.
Ali Ebn Taleb al Kaabi.
Ibrahim, his brother.
Mohammed al Adhra Sheikh Alfarifat.
Kaamis al Kaabi.