Part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE WOLF.