Part 7
The fecundity of the rabbit is even greater than that of the hare; and without crediting Wotton's assertion, that a single pair being left upon an island, multiplied to six thousand at the end of a year; it is certain that they increase so prodigiously, in countries which are proper for their breed, that the earth cannot supply them with sufficient subsistence. They destroy herbs, roots, grains, fruits, and even young trees and shrubs; and if it were not for dogs and ferrets, they would reduce the country to a desart. The rabbit not only produces more frequently and in greater numbers than the hare, but it has more ways to escape its enemies, and to avoid the sight of man. The holes which it digs in the earth, where it retires in the day, and where it brings forth its young, protect it from the wolf, fox, and birds of prey. Here the whole family live in perfect security; here the females nourish their young, for the space of two months, nor ever conduct them abroad until they have sufficient strength to provide for themselves. By this means they avoid the dangers of their early age; while hares, on the contrary, are destroyed in greater numbers at this period, than during all the rest of their lives. This circumstance alone may suffice to prove that the rabbit is superior to the hare in point of sagacity. They are alike in their conformation, and have equal power to dig retreats. Both are equally timid; but the one, possessed of less art, is contented with forming a residence on the surface of the earth, where it remains continually exposed, while the other, by a superior instinct, digs into the earth, and secures itself an asylum; and as a proof this is the effect of sentiment, we never see the domestic rabbit taking that trouble. They neglect securing themselves retreats, from the same reason that domestic birds neglect the building of nests, because they are equally protected from the inconveniences which both species in their natural state must necessarily have been liable to. It has been often remarked, that when a warren is replenished with domestic rabbits they and their produce remain upon the surface, like hares; and that it is not until they have experienced a number of hardships, and passed several generations, they begin to dig holes in the earth for an asylum.
The domestic rabbits, like all other domestic animals, vary in colour; white, black, spotted, and grey, are, however, the only colours which properly belong to Nature. The black rabbits are the most scarce. The wild rabbits are all of a greyish brown, which is also the predominant colour among the tame ones; for in every litter we constantly find brown rabbits, even though the old ones were both black or both white, or the one white and the other black. It is seldom that more than one or two will resemble such parents, whereas the brown rabbits, though domestic, seldom produce any but of their own colour, and it is, as it were, by chance, if they bring forth white, black, or mixed ones.
These animals are capable of engendering by the age of five or six months. It is asserted they are constant in their amours, and that they usually attach themselves to a female which they never forsake. The latter is always ready to receive the male; she goes with young 30 or 31 days, and brings forth from 4 to 8 at a time. Like the doe hare she has a double matrix, and consequently may produce at two different times. It appears, however, that super-foetations are less frequent in this species than in that of the hare, which is perhaps owing to the females being more constant, and because they copulate less out of season. A few days before bringing forth they dig a fresh burrow, not in a straight line, but in a crooked direction, at the bottom of which they make an excavation; after which they tear a quantity of hair from off their bellies, and with it make a bed for their little ones. For the first two days they never quit them; they never stir abroad but when forced by hunger, and then return as soon as they have satisfied their appetite, which they do amazingly quick. Thus they tend and suckle their young for more than six weeks, during which time the buck has no knowledge of them, for he never enters the burrow dug by the doe; and she frequently, when she leaves her little ones, stops up the entrance to it with earth saturated with her own urine. But when they begin to come to the mouth of the hole, and to eat groundsel, and other herbs, which the mother picks out, he then begins to know them; he takes them between his paws, endeavours to smooth their hair, and licks their eyes. Each, in succession, partakes equally of his cares; at which time the mother bestows many caresses upon him, and generally proves with young a few days after.
From a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who had amused himself many years in rearing rabbits, I received the following remarks; "I began," says he, "with only one male and one female; the former perfectly white, and the latter brown. Of their produce, which was very numerous, the greatest part was brown, many of them white and mixed, and some few black. When the female is in season the male scarcely ever leaves her; his temperament is so warm that I have seen him go with her five or six times within the hour. At this time the female lies on her belly, with her fore legs stretched out, and utters little cries, which seem rather to be tokens of pleasure than pain. Their manner of coupling is similar to that of the cat, only the male scarcely bites the neck of the female. These animals pay great respect to parental authority, at least I judge so from the great deference which all my rabbits shewed for their first ancestor, whom I could easily distinguish by his whiteness, being the only male that I preserved of that colour. The family very soon augmented, but even those which had become fathers were still subordinate to him. Whenever they fought, whether for females or food, their great progenitor would run to the place of dispute, and as soon as he was perceived order would be immediately restored. If he surprised them in the act of assaulting each other, he would first separate and then chastise them on the spot. Another proof I had of his dominion over his posterity was, that having accustomed them to retire into their place upon the blowing of a whistle, whenever I gave the signal, how distant soever they might be, this old one put himself at their head, and though he came first he made them all pass before, nor would he enter till last himself. I fed them with wheat, bran, hay, and a good deal of the juniper-tree; of this last they ate all the berries, the leaves and the bark, and left nothing but the hard wood. This food gave their flesh an agreeable flavour, and rendered it as good as that of the wild rabbits."
_Engraved for Barr's Buffon._
These animals live eight or nine years; and as they pass the greater part of their lives in burrows, where they remain in repose and tranquillity, they grow much fatter than hares. Their flesh is also very different, both in colour and taste. That of the young rabbit is very delicate, but the flesh of the old ones is always hard and dry. They were originally, as I have already observed, natives of hot climates. They were known to the Greeks; and it appears that the only countries in Europe where they anciently existed were Greece and Spain. From thence they were brought into the more temperate climates of Italy, France, England, and Germany, where now they are naturalized; but in colder climates, as Sweden, and other northern parts, they can scarcely be reared in the house, and perish if they are left in the fields. On the contrary, they thrive in excessive heat, for we meet with them in the southern parts of Asia and Africa, as about the Persian Gulph, the Bay of Saldana, in Lybia, Senegal, and Guinea. We also meet with them in our American Islands, whither they have been transported from Europe, and have thriven extremely well.
CHAPTER IV.
OF CARNIVOROUS ANIMALS.[L]
[L] This division is according to the last Paris edition of Buffon. We apprize the reader of this, because he will find included under the denomination of carnivorous animals, some, which he may probably have been accustomed to refer to a different species.
Hitherto we have only treated of useful animals. Those which seem injurious are a far greater number; and though it universally appears that what is hurtful exists in greater plenty than what is serviceable, yet, as in the physical world, evil is subservient to good, for there can in fact, be no evil, since nothing, in effect, injures Nature. If to destroy animated beings is hurtful, is not man who is considered as forming a part of the general system of those beings, the most injurious and pernicious of them? He alone sacrifices and annihilates more living individuals than all the carnivorous tribes. No further, then, are they injurious than because they are the rivals of man, because they have the same appetites, the same fondness for animal food; and because to satisfy a want of the most urgent necessity, they occasionally dispute with him that prey which he had reserved for his own excesses; for we sacrifice more to our intemperance than to our real wants. Born to destroy those beings which are subordinate, we should exhaust Nature if she were not exhaustless, and by a fertility superior to our depredations, renovates the destruction we continually make. But it is so ordained that death should contribute to life, and that reproduction should spring from destruction. However great, therefore, may be the waste made by man and carnivorous animals, the total quantity of living matter is never diminished, and if they hasten deaths they are also the cause of new births being produced.
Large animals form but the smallest part of animated nature. The earth swarms with the smaller kinds. Each plant, each grain, each particle of organic matter, contains millions of living atoms. Vegetables appear to be the first fund for subsisting Nature; but this fund, however abundant and inexhaustible, would hardly be sufficient for the still more abundant tribes of insects. Their increase, altogether as numerous, and often more quick, than the reproduction of plants, is a sufficient indication of their superior numbers. Plants are only reproduced once a year, whereas in insects, especially among the smaller species, one season gives birth to several generations. They would multiply, then, more than plants, if they were not devoured by other animals. Among insects there are numbers who live upon other insects; there are some, as the spiders, which devour with indifference their own as well as other species; they serve for food to the birds; and fowls, both wild and tame, are destined for the nourishment of man, or the prey of carnivorous animals. Thus violent deaths seem to be equally as necessary as natural ones; they are both modes of destruction and renovation; the one serves to preserve nature in a perpetual spring, and the other maintains the order of her productions, and limits the number of each species. They are both effects dependent upon general causes; every individual falls of itself at the end of a certain period, or if prematurely destroyed it is from being superabundant. How many are there whose existence is, as it were, anticipated? How many flowers are cut down in the spring? How many seeds are annihilated before their development? Man and carnivorous animals feed upon individuals which are either wholly formed, or nearly so; flesh, eggs, grain, and seeds of every species, form their usual nourishment, by which alone the exuberance of Nature might be restrained. Let us consider any of the inferior species which serve as food to others; herrings, for example, present themselves in millions to our fishermen, and after having fed all the monsters of the northern seas, they contribute to the subsistence of all the nations in Europe for a certain part of the year. If prodigious numbers of them were not destroyed, what would be the effects of their prodigious multiplication? By them alone would the whole surface of the sea be covered. But their numbers would soon prove a nuisance; they would corrupt and destroy each other. For want of sufficient nourishment their fecundity would diminish; by contagion and famine they would be equally destroyed; the number of their own species would not be increased, but the number of those that feed upon them would be diminished. As this remark is alike applicable to any other species, so it is necessary they should prey upon each other; the killing of animals, therefore, is both a lawful and innocent custom, since it is founded in nature, and it is upon that seemingly hard condition they are brought into existence.
The motives, however, which incline us to doubt of this truth do honour to humanity. Animals, those at least which have senses, and are composed of flesh and blood, are, like us, capable of pleasure, and subject to pain; it is, therefore, a cruel insensibility to sacrifice, without necessity, those who approach or live with us, and whose feelings are reflected by the signs of pain; for by those, whose nature is very different to ours, we can be but little affected. Natural pity is grounded on the relations we have with the object that suffers, and it is more or less lively as the resemblance and conformity of the structure is more or less great. The word _compassion_ indicates that we suffer, that we are acted upon. The mind partakes less of this pity than the body; and animals are susceptible of it as well as man; the voice of pain moves them, they run to the assistance of each other, and they shrink from the dead carcass of one of their own species. Thus horror and pity are less passions of the mind than natural affections, which depend on the sensibility of the body, and on the similitude of its conformation; therefore this sentiment must diminish in proportion as the nature of one animal differs from that of another. When we strike a dog, or kill a lamb, it excites some pity; but none do we feel in cutting down a tree, or swallowing an oyster. In fact, can it be doubted that those animals, whose organization is similar to ours, must experience similar sensations? And those sensations must be proportioned to the activity and perfection of their senses; those whose senses are obtuse can they have exquisite feelings? and those who are defective in any organ of sense, must they not also be defective in all the sensations which have any affinity thereto? Motion is a necessary effect of the exercise of sentiment. We have already evinced, (in treating of the nature of animals) that in whatever manner a being is organized, if it has sentiment, it cannot fail to express its feelings by outward motions. Thus plants, though rightly organized, are insensible beings, as well as all animals which have no apparent motion; those animals also which, like the sensitive plant, move only their bodies and are denied progressive motion, have a very small degree of sentiment; and, in fine, those which are capable of progressive motion, but whose actions are, like so many automatons, very few and always the same, have but a small portion of sentiment, and that limited to a few objects. There are numerous automatons in the human species: education and the respective communication of ideas augment the quantity as well as the vivacity of our sentiments. In this respect how great is the difference between the civilized man and the savage? In the like manner it is with animals; those that live in a domestic state, by their intercourse with man have their feelings improved; while those who remain wild possess only the sensibility they inherit from Nature, which is often more certain, but always less in quantity than that which is acquired.
Besides, if we consider sentiment as a natural faculty, independent of the movements which it necessarily produces, we may still be able to estimate and determine its different degrees by physical relations, to which sufficient attention does not seem to have been hitherto paid. Before the highest degree of sentiment can exist in an animated body it is necessary that this body should form a whole, not only sensible in all its parts, but so composed that all these parts should have an intimate correspondence with each other, insomuch that one cannot be agitated without communicating a portion of that agitation to all the rest. It is also necessary there should be one common centre in which the agitations may terminate, and on which the reaction of every movement may be performed. Thus man, and those animals which resemble him most in organization, will be the most sensible beings. Those, on the contrary, who do not form so complete a whole, whose parts have a less intimate correspondence, who have several centres of feeling, and under one cover seem less to comprise a perfect animal, than to contain several centres of existence separate from each other, will be beings far less sensible. The pieces of a polypus, which has been cut, live separately; the head of a wasp, which is divided from the body, lives, moves, and even eats as before; a lizard, when cut in two, is neither deprived of motion nor feeling; the amputated limbs of a lobster are renewed; the heart of a turtle vibrates for a long time after it is taken out of the body; all those insects, in which the principal viscera, as the heart and lungs, do not unite in the centre, extend throughout the body, and form, as it were, a series of hearts, and other viscera; all fishes, whose organs of circulation have but little action; in short, all animals, whose organization is more or less remote from ours, have more or less sentiment.
In man, and in the animals which resemble him, the diaphragm appears to be the centre of sentiment; it is on this nervous part that the impressions of pain and pleasure are directed; it is on this that all the movements of the sensitive system are exercised. The diaphragm, in a transverse form, divides the body into two equal parts, of which the superior contains the heart and lungs, and the inferior the stomach and the intestines. This membrane is possessed of the utmost sensibility; it is also so necessary for the propagation and communication of feeling, that the slightest injury of it is always accompanied with convulsions, and often with death. The brain, which is considered as the seat of sensation, is not, therefore, the centre of sentiment, since it may be wounded, and even parts of it removed without causing the death of the animal. Let us then distinguish sensation from sentiment. Sensation is nothing more than an agitation or impression on the sense, whereas sentiment is this very sensation rendered agreeable or disagreeable by the propagation of the agitation through the sensitive system, for the essence of sentiment, its sole characteristic is pleasure or pain, and all other movements, notwithstanding they pass within us, are totally indifferent, nor do they affect us. It is on sentiment that the whole exterior movements, and the exercise of animal force depend; it acts only in proportion as it feels, and the very part which we consider as the centre of sentiment is also the centre of force.
A slight examination will shew us that all lively emotions, whether of pain or pleasure, in a word, all sensations, whether agreeable or disagreeable, are felt internally in the region of the diaphragm. On the contrary, there is no token of sentiment in the brain; in the head there are none but pure sensations; we only recollect that this or that sensation has been agreeable or disagreeable; and if this operation in the head is followed by a lively and real sentiment, then we feel the impression of it within the region of the diaphragm. Thus the foetus, where this membrane is without exercise, is without sentiment, and the little motions of the foetus may therefore rather be considered as mechanical, than dependent either on sensation or on the will.
Whatever may be the substance which serves as the vehicle of sentiment, and produces muscular motion, it is certainly propagated by the nerves, and is communicated in an indivisible instant from one extremity to the other. In whatever manner this motion may be effected, (whether by vibrations, as in elastic fibres, or by a subtile fire, similar to that of electricity, which not only resides in animated, and in all other bodies, but is constantly regenerated in the former by the motion of the heart and lungs, by the action of the blood in the arteries, and also by that of exterior causes on the organs of sense) certain it is that the nerves and membranes are the only sensible part of the animal body. The blood, the lymph, the fat, the bones, the flesh, and all other solids and fluids, are of themselves insensible; the brain is a soft and unelastic substance, and on that account incapable of producing or propagating the vibrations of sentiment.
What may have given rise to the opinion that the brain was the seat of sensation, and the centre of sensibility, is the circumstance that the nerves, which are the organs of sensation, terminate in the brain; for which reason it was considered as the only part that could receive every agitation or impression. This supposition appeared so simple, and so natural, that no attention was paid to the physical impossibility that attends it, though abundantly evident; for how is it possible that a soft and insensible substance should not only receive impressions, but retain them for a length of time, and propagate all their agitations over the solid and sensible parts? Perhaps it will be answered after Descartes and Peyronie, that it is not in the brain, but in the pineal gland that this principle of sensation resides; but it is very easily distinguished that the pineal gland, the callous substance in which they would enclose the seat of the sensations, have no connection with the nerves, but are surrounded with the insensible substance of the brain, and so separated from the nerves that they cannot receive the motions of them, and therefore these suppositions, like the former, must fall to the ground. But what, in this case, is the use and functions of this very noble and principal part of the body? Is not the brain to be found in every animal? Do we not find it larger in man, quadrupeds, and birds, which have all much sentiment, than in fishes, insects, and other animals which have but little? When compressed, is not all motion suspended? Does not every action cease? If this part is not the principal of motion, why is it so essentially necessary to it? Why is it proportioned, in every species of animals, to the quantity of sentiment with which they are endowed?