CHAPTER I.
OF THE NATURE OF MAN.
Though so much interested in acquiring a thorough knowledge of ourselves, yet I do not know if man is not less acquainted with the human, than with any other existence. Provided by nature with organs, calculated solely for our preservation, we only employ them to receive foreign impressions. Intent on multiplying the functions of our senses, and on enlarging the external bounds of our being, we rarely make use of that internal sense which reduces us to our true dimensions, and abstracts us from every other part of the creation. It is, however, by a cultivation of this sense alone that we can form a proper judgment of ourselves. But how shall we give it its full activity and extent? How shall the soul, in which it resides, be disengaged from all the illusions of the mind? We have lost the habit of employing this sense; it has remained inactive amidst the tumult of our corporeal sensations, and dried up by the heat of our passions; the heart, the mind, the senses, have all co-operated against it.
Unalterable in its substance, and invulnerable by its essence, it still, however, continues the same. Its splendor has been overcast, but its power has not been diminished: it may be less luminous, but its guidance is not the less certain. Let us then collect those rays, of which we are not yet deprived, and its obscurity will decrease; and though the road may not in every part be equally filled with light, we yet shall have a torch that will prevent us from going astray.
The first and most difficult step which leads to the knowledge of ourselves, is a distinct conception of the two substances that constitute our being. To say simply, that the one is unextended, immaterial, and immortal, and that the other is extended, material, and mortal, is only to deny to the one, what we affirm the other possesses. What knowledge is to be acquired from this mode of negation? Such negative expressions can exhibit no positive ideas: but to say that we are certain of the existence of the former, and that of the latter is less evident; that the substance of the one is simple, indivisible, and has no form, since it only manifests itself by a single modification, which is thought; that the other is a less substance than a subject, capable of receiving different forms, which bear a relation to our senses, but are all as uncertain and variable as the organs themselves; that is to say something; it is to ascribe to each such distinct and positive properties as may lead us to an elemental knowledge of both, and to a comparison between them.
From the smallest reflection on the origin of our knowledge, it is easy to perceive that it is by comparison alone we acquire it. What is absolutely incomparable, is utterly incomprehensible; of this God is the only example; he exceeds all comprehension, because he is above all comparison. But whatever is capable of being compared, contemplated, and considered relatively, in different lights, may always come within the sphere of our understanding. The more subjects of comparison we have for examining any object, the more methods there are for obtaining a knowledge of it, and with greater facility.
The existence of the soul is fully demonstrated. To be and to think are with us identically the same. This truth is more than intuitive; it is independent of our senses, of our imagination, of our memory, and of all our other relative faculties. The existence of our bodies, and of external objects, is however held in uncertainty by every unprejudiced reasoner; for what is that extension of length, breadth, and thickness, which we call our body, and which seems to be so much our own, but as it relates to our senses? What are even the material organs of those senses, but so many conformities with the objects that affect them? And with regard to our internal sense, has it any thing similar or in common with these external organs? Have the sensations excited by light or sound any resemblance to that tenuous matter, which seems to diffuse light, or to that tremulous undulation, which sound produces in the air? The effects are certainly produced by the necessary conformity there is between the eyes and ears, and those matters which act upon them. Is not that a sufficient proof, that the nature of the soul is different from that of matter?
It is then a certain truth, that the internal sensation is altogether different from its cause; as also, if external objects exist, they are in themselves very different from what we conceive them. As sensation therefore bears no resemblance to the thing by which it is excited; does it not follow, that the causes of our sensations, necessarily differ from our ideas of them? The extension which we perceive by our eyes, the impenetrability, of which we receive an idea by the touch in all those qualities, whose various combinations constitute matter, are of a doubtful existence; since our internal sensations of extension, impenetrability, &c. are neither extended nor impenetrable, and have not even the smallest affinity with those qualities.
The mind being often affected with sensations, during sleep, very different from those which it has experienced by the presence of the same objects, does it not lead to a belief, that the presence of objects is not necessary to the existence of our sensations; and that, of consequence, our mind and body may exist independent of those objects? During sleep, and after death, for example, our body has the same existence as before; yet the mind no longer perceives this existence, and the body with regard to us, has ceased to be. The question is therefore, whether a thing which can exist, and afterwards be no more, and which affects us in a manner altogether different from what it is, or what it has been, may yet be a reality of indubitable existence.
That something exists without us, we may believe, though not with a positive assurance; whereas of the real existence of every thing within us, we have a certainty. That of our soul, therefore, is incontestable, and that of our body seems doubtful; because the mind has one mode of perception when we are awake, and another when we are asleep; after death, it will perceive by a method still more different, and the objects of its sensations, or matter in general, may then cease to exist with respect to it, as well as our bodies with which we have no further connection.
But let us admit this existence of matter; and that it even exists as it appears to our senses, yet by comparing the mind with any material object, we shall find differences so great, and qualities so opposite that every doubt will vanish of the latter being of a nature totally different, and infinitely superior.
The mind has but one form, which is simple, general, and uniform. Thought is this form; has nothing in it of division, extension, impenetrability, nor any other quality of matter; of consequence, therefore, our mind, the subject of this form, is indivisible, and immaterial. Our bodies on the contrary, and all other objects have many forms, each of which is compounded, divisible, variable, and perishable; and has a relation to the different organs, through which we perceive them. Our bodies, and matter in general, therefore, have neither permanent, real, nor general properties, by which we can attain a certain knowledge of them. A blind man has no idea of those objects, which sight represents to us; a leper, whose skin has lost the sense of feeling, is denied all the ideas which arise from the touch; and a deaf man has no knowledge of sounds. Let these three modes of sensation be successively destroyed, yet the mind will exist, its external functions will subsist, and thought will still manifest it within the man so deprived. But divest matter of all its qualities; strip it of colour, of solidity, and of every other property which has any relation to our senses, and the consequence will be its annihilation. Our mind, then, is unperishable, but matter may, and will perish.
It is the same with all the other faculties of our soul when compared with the most essential properties of matter. As the mind wills and commands, so the body obeys in every thing within its power. The mind forms, at pleasure, an intimate union with any object; neither distance, magnitude, nor figure, can obstruct this union, when the mind wills it, it is effected in an instant. The body can form no union; whatever touches it too closely injures it; it requires a long time in order to approach another body; it every where meets with resistance, and obstacles, and from the smallest shock its motion ceases. Is will then nothing more than a corporeal movement; and is contemplation but a simple contact? How could this contact take place upon a remote object or abstracted subjects? How could this movement be accomplished in an indivisible instant? Is it possible to have a conception of motion without having a conception of space and time? Will, therefore, if it be a motion, is not a material one; and if the union of the mind with its object be a contact, it is effected at a distance: and is not this contact a penetration? qualities which are absolutely opposite to those of matter, and which of consequence can only belong to the immaterial being.
But I fear I have already dwelt too long on a subject which, by many, may be considered as foreign to our purpose; and it might be asked, "Ought Metaphysical Considerations on the Soul to find a place in a System of Natural History?" Were I conscious of abilities equal to the discussion of a topic so exalted, this reflection, I must own, would have little weight with me; and I have contracted my remarks only because I was afraid I should not be able to comprehend a subject so enlarged and so important in its full extent. Why retrench from the Natural History of Man the history of his noblest part? Why thus preposterously debase him; by considering him merely as an animal, while he is of a nature so different, and so superior, to that of the brutes, that those must be immersed in ignorance like the brutes themselves who ever thought of confounding them.
Man, as to the material part of his existence, certainly bears a resemblance to other animals, and in comprehending the circle of natural beings there is a necessity for placing him in the class of animals. Nature, however, has neither classes nor species; it contains only individuals. These species and classes are nothing but ideas which we have ourselves formed and established, and though we place man in one of such classes we do not change his being; we do not derogate from his dignity; we do not alter his condition. In a word, we only place him at the head of those who bear a similitude to him in the material part of his being.
In comparing man with the animal we find in both an organized body, senses, flesh, blood, motion, and a multitude of other resemblances. But these resemblances are all external, and not sufficient to justify a decision, that the human and the animal natures are similar. In order to form a proper judgment of the nature of each we ought to have as distinct a knowledge of the internal qualities of an animal as we have of our own. As the knowledge of what passes within animals is impossible to be attained, and as we know not of what order and kind its sensations may be, in relation to those of man, we can only judge from a comparison of the effects which result from the natural operations of both.
Let us, then, take a view of these effects; and, while we admit of all the particular resemblances, limit our investigation to the most general distinctions. It will be allowed, that the most stupid man is able to manage the most acute animal; he governs it, and renders if subservient to his purposes; and this, not so much on account of his strength or skill as by the superiority of his nature, and from his being possessed of reason, which enables him to form a rational system of action and method, by which he compels the animals to obey him. The strongest and most acute animals do not give law to the inferior, nor hold them in servitude. The stronger, it is true, devour the weaker, but this action implies no more than an urgent necessity, or a rage of appetite; qualities very different from that which produces a series of actions, all tending to the same end. Did animals enjoy this faculty, should we not see some of them assume dominion over others, and oblige them to furnish their food, to watch over them, and to attend them when sick or wounded? Now, throughout the creation of animals, there is no vestige of such subordination, no appearance that one of them knows, or is sensible of, the superiority of his own nature over that of others. It follows, then, that they must all be considered as of one nature, and that the nature of man is not only highly superior to that of the brute, but also entirely different from it.
Man, by outward signs, indicates what passes within him; he communicates his sentiments by speech, which is a sign common to the whole human species. The savage and the civilized man have the same powers of utterance; both speak naturally, and so as to be understood. No other animal is endowed with this expression of thought; nor is that defect owing, as some have imagined, to the want of proper organs. Anatomists have found the tongue of an ape to be as perfect as that of a man. The ape, therefore, if he had thought, would have speech, and if its thoughts had aught analogous to ours, this speech would have an analogy to ours also. Supposing its thoughts were peculiar to its species, it still would hold discourse with those of its kind, a circumstance of which we should have heard had it been endowed with the powers of speech. So far then is the ape from having any thought like ours, that it has not even any order of thoughts of its own. As they express nothing by combined and settled signs, they of consequence are void of thought, or at most have it in a very small degree.
That it is from no organical defect animals are denied the gift of speech is plain, as several species of them may be taught to pronounce words, and even repeat sentences of some length. Perhaps many others might be found capable of articulating particular sounds[AG]; but to make them conceive the ideas which such sounds denote is an impracticable task. They seem to repeat and articulate merely as an echo, or an artificial machine. It is not in the mechanical powers, or the material organs, but in the intellectual faculties, that they are deficient.
[AG] Leibnitz mentions a dog which had been taught to pronounce several German and French words.
As all language supposes a chain of thought, it is on that account that brute animals have no speech, for even allowing something in them which resembles our first apprehensions, our most gross and mechanical sensations, they still will be found incapable of forming that association of ideas which can alone produce reflection; and in this consists the essence of thought. To this inability of connecting and separating ideas it is that they are destitute of thought and speech, as also that they neither can invent nor improve any thing. Were they endowed with the power of reflection, even in the most subordinate degree, they would be capable of making some kind of proficiency, and acquire more industry; the modern beaver would build with more art and solidity than the ancient; and the bee would daily be adding new improvements to its cell; for if we suppose this cell as perfect already as it can be, we ascribe to the insect an intelligence superior to our own; by which it could discern at once the last degree of perfection to which its work might be carried, while we ourselves are for ever in the dark as to this degree, and stand in need of much reflection, time, and practice, in order to perfect even one of our most trivial arts.
Whence can arise the uniformity that is in all the works of animals? Why does each species invariably perform the same actions in the same manner? And why does not one individual perform them better or worse than another? Can there be a stronger proof that their operations are merely the effects of mechanism and materiality? If they possessed the smallest spark of that light which is inherent in mankind, their works would display variety at least, if not perfection, and one individual would, in its performance, make some little difference from what another had done. But this is far from being the case. One plan of action is common to the whole species, and whoever would attribute a mind or soul to animals, must of necessity allow but one to each species, of which each individual would be an equal partaker, and as thereby it would be divisible, it would consequently be material, and of a nature widely different from ours.
Why, on the other hand, are the productions and performances of men so various, and so diversified? Why is a servile imitation more troublesome to us than an original design? It is because our souls are our own, and independent of any other, and because we have nothing in common with our species but the matter which forms our body, and in which our resemblance to brute animals is confined.
Were internal sensations dependent on corporeal organs, should we not see as remarkable difference in the works of animals of the same species as in those of men? Would not those which were the most happily organized, build their nests and contrive their cells in a manner more solid, elegant, and commodious? And if any individual possessed a superior genius, would it not take an opportunity to manifest that superiority in its actions? But nothing of this kind has ever happened, and therefore the corporeal organs, however perfect or imperfect, have no influence on the nature of the internal sensations. Hence we may conclude, that animals have no sensations of this kind; that such sensations have no connection with matter, no dependence in their nature on the texture of corporeal organs, and that of consequence there must be a substance in man different from matter, which is the subject and the cause that produces and receives those sensations.
But these proofs of the immateriality of the human mind may be carried still farther. In all the works of nature there are imperceptible gradations maintained. This truth, which in no other instance admits of exception, is here expressly contradicted. Between the faculties of man and those of the most perfect animal the distance is infinite; an evident proof that man is of a different nature from the brute species, and that of himself he forms a distinct class, between which and that of animals there is an immense chasm. If man belonged to the class of animals, there would be a certain number of beings in nature less perfect than man, and more perfect than beast, in order to complete the gradation from a man to the monkey. But this is not the case; the transition is immediate from the thinking being to the material being; from intellectual faculties to mechanical powers; from order and design to blind motion; from reflection and choice to sensual appetite.
Enough has been here advanced to demonstrate the excellence of our nature, and of the immense distance which the bounty of the Creator has placed between man and the brute. The former is a rational being, the latter a being devoid of reason. And as there is no medium between the positive and the negative, between the rational and irrational being, it is evident that man is of a nature entirely different from that of the animal; that all the resemblance he bears to it is merely external; and that to judge of him by this resemblance, is wilfully to shut our eyes against that light, by which we ought to distinguish truth from falsehood.
Having thus considered man as to his internal properties, and proved the immateriality of his soul; we shall now proceed to examine his external part, and give the history of his body. We have already traced him from his formation to his birth, and after taking a view of the different ages of his life, we shall conduct him to that period when he must be separated from his body, and then resign him to the common mass of matter to which he belongs.