Outside space

We have spoken about how animals were not only functional—how they served as companions, as creatures with feelings, as things that not only shape their environment, but are themselves shaped by it. To contemporaries in the Middle Ages, animals were good for “food, service, humility and mirth.”^[1] Even archaeological evidence shows that animals were, predominately, “means to an economic end.”^[2] Previously, we have seen discussions of these first two categories and in these readings, we see the ladder two. There must be more to the picture than this, however. As we focus on animals in towns, and specifically on pets, we strengthen our imaginations of animals as not purely functional. Smith, Walker-Meikle and Kisler help us in this endeavor with species-specific descriptions.

What stood out to me, however, about these readings was how animals became an extension of the person themselves. Animals attained class connotations and attributes of the people to whom they belonged. This puts the animals in a perplexing position—possessions, yes, but meaningful and valuable enough in and of themselves that they would need to be regulated. If animals were not viewed as valuable, little supervision or regulation would be necessarily. This left animals in a place apart—not necessarily part of the community humans belonged to, but just on the outskirts.

I’ll start with the transferring of class connotations. Our reading describes the mutilation of the legs of dogs belonging to members of the lower classes in England and Scotland so that these lower class dogs, even if they were to participate in the hunt, would not be able to run as fast as the dogs belonging to those of the upper class, and would not be able to catch the hunted animals. Menageries, too, served to distance upper class from lower class—they were a symbol. The animals themselves reflected their owners’ wealth and status. Finally, the different types of games used with animals were distinct along class lines. Kiser says, “specific cultural practices of play were deeply tied to the medieval class-based social organization.”^[3] Class status is grafted onto animals. While jousts were a favorite of the aristocracy, bull fighting, originally, was looked down upon.

Next, animals became symbolic of the person themselves and of people in general. There was comfort with pets, which can be seen in their ubiquitous nature in depictions from the dining hall the university. Pets were allowed close proximity—they were companions. Occasionally, this closeness bridges into merging. Often, in religious iconography, pets were substituted for people. In a depiction of the birth of John the Baptist, “a mother cat [leans] protectively over its kitten [and] imitates the pose of St Elizabeth in bed with the infant.”^[4] This demonstrates that the pets, the animals were meant to mimic the pose of this sacred occurrence. There were a mirror, a small example of what was occurring on a broader scale in the scene as a whole.

This was not all positive, however. Pets, and animals in general, also suffered on behalf of those to whom they belong. Walker-Meikle describes pets, sleeping in their masters’ beds, killed due to a case of mistaken identity. A knight stabs his wife when he sees a shape under the covers next to her. This shape turns out to be her dog. When a joust is lost, the loser must forfeit his horse and armor to the winner.

It seems, then, that animals could take on the characteristics of people. They could be used as allegories, as a mirror on human society. There was always a buffer, however, a wall of functionality that separated animals from humans. But how permeable was this separation? Based on the examples furnished by our three authors, it seems that the answer is fairly.

Finally, the question of morality. Animals’ place just outside of the human community included their place outside of the moral community. Animals were abused as I have outlined previously, but also in games that pitted animals against one another. This inter-animal aggression was most often incited by the humans—they were the ones creating the spectacle, inspiring the animals to flare their nostrils, to charge. After a particularly difficult to read passage on small-time, fowl-based games, Kiser remarks, “We can conclude that, in the medieval period, common wild animals found around the rural habitations did not form part of the moral community of humans living near them, a fact that perhaps we too readily think distinguishes medieval and early modern culture from our own.”^[5] This reinforces the earlier statement that animals occupied a place apart, despite their interconnectedness into society.

Additionally, this sentiment inspires in me several questions. Do animals in towns form part of some moral community? It seems, based on what we have read, that the moral community may be slightly expanded in the towns, but the class-based trapping of medieval society are thrown into stark contrast in the city. This is readily visible in how animals were treated in those spaces. What does this inclusion into a moral community imply for how animals are depicted as imitating humans, in secular and religious contexts? As animals increasingly grow more attached to humans, as they become pets and companions, they seem to be identified with more and more. Still, there is a distance. What does this distance made of? Is it simply the functionality that separates?

It seems that I have returned to where I began. Animals serve an economic purpose, absolutely. They are growing closer to humans, however. They are becoming likened to them. Representations and repercussions are grafted onto the animals. Is this a consequence of the closer quarters? How are physical and moral proximity intertwined? Does all of this simply go to show how intertwined notions of class are in society that these notions affect all members of society, even animals? It seems as though, even so close, there is a separation between humans and animals.

--RAB

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^[1] Kiser.

^[2] Smith.

^[3] Kiser.

^[4] Walker-Meikle.

^[5] Kiser.

Rational Animals

On Tuesday we examined animal husbandry in medieval England through a very economic lens. The care and exploitation of animals is today an obviously economic activity, as it certainly was in medieval times as well. Yet the economy of medieval England and practices of livelihood also differ markedly from modern capitalism and agriculture. In this post I want to consider the relevance of applying rational choice economic theory to pastoralism in medieval England, which was, at the very least, less market-oriented than contemporary animal husbandry. Did the village livestock owners and/or landlords of manorial estates share our notions of utility, profit-maximization, etc.?

            Most of the information we have for animal husbandry in medieval England is for manorial estates, in the form of ledgers, tax records, husbandry manuals, and from the archaeological record. Information on the human-animal relations of the peasantry is scarcer, but can be gleaned from their interactions with the manorial record as well as taxation and archaeological records.

            Contrary to environmental explanations for the low wool weights and high mortality rates for sheep after the Black Death, Stone argues that the records are, in fact, evidence of rational economic choices made by estate officials in response to a poor market. While Stone does not venture an explanation as to why the market for one of England’s major industrial products was so depressed at the time, it was suggested in class that it likely had something to do with the fact that England was at war with France for much of this period, a situation hardly cooperative for exports. Indeed, Sir Walter of Henley’s manual seems to leave little room for doubt that husbandry practices on manorial estates were guided foremost by a drive for profit. Whether couched in the language of God’s gift or not, Sir Walter’s focus is on those practices of employment, farming, and the care and use of animals that will maximize productivity.

            Biddick’s analysis of the complex husbandry networks of Peterborough Abbey depict a monastic community that selectively participated in—and subjected itself to the forces of—the markets for animals and their products. The monks of Peterborough Abbey maintained their herds at levels their own subsistence needs and the market dictated. While the Abbey kept much of their cattle herd insulated from the market, the size of their sheep flocks—which were raised primarily for the selling of their wool—was determined by the market and the financial needs of the Abbey (p.115). As the pigs were raised for consumption within the Abbey, their numbers were determined by the (large) appetites of the monastic community (p.124-125). I think it is worth noting, as Biddick points out, that the Abbey’s husbandry was not guided by a logic of maximization (p.98). The Abbey’s animals were a major source and form of wealth—an “endowment,” as Biddick refers to it—that provided much of the food and other animal products needed within the Abbey’s large network of manors, but, as was done with their oxen, could be turned into cash when needed (ibid.). I wonder how much the Christian view of land and animals as “[t]he wealth that God lends you” (Walter p.5) motivated, or at least supported, the exploitation of those resources.

            I want to pause for a moment on this notion of animals as wealth. Our readings and discussion for Tuesday, with their strong economic bent, did not really question the view of animals in medieval husbandry as any more than edible, self-reproducing machines with a market-determined value. There seems to be a consensus among the authors we read that medieval Englanders were rational economic actors, but I wonder how much either arguing for this premise or taking it as an assumption obscures human-animal relations. We are still a few centuries before Descartes, but the economic analyses would lead one to believe that livestock were thought of as little more than automatons, live-stock, in medieval England. Moreover, the reduction of animals to economics means a complete reduction to human terms. Not only were the size of animal populations determined by human population and demand, but on this analysis the very existence of these animals is a function of their productive value.

Stone’s argument against environmental determinism reflects the fact that even the status of humans as historical actors can be muted. On the one hand, Stone appears to restore their voice. But on the other hand, I find economic analyses unsatisfying because I have a difficult time empathizing with the images of scheming penny-pinchers that they paint in my head, but maybe that’s my own problem. Really, while Stone opposes the portrayal of demesne officials as “adrift on an ecological sea” (p.3), doesn’t he just set them down on a different ocean, with its own waves?

            Perhaps it’s obvious at this point that I have a poor understanding of economics. I do know, though, that even when people are acting out of self-interest it is often not in the simple interest of their wealth. Whether we find Langdon’s argument that horses were not in fact as expensive relative to oxen as Walter of Henley made them out to be convincing or not, I suspect that the comparison of owning a horse or an ox could be illuminated by considerations that go beyond the expenses and productive capacities of each. It’s well accepted that people without much to spend tend not to spend as frugally as their ideally rational counterparts. As budgets shrink, luxury goods and sporting events stick around as expenses for longer than they ‘ought’ to. Perhaps the economic explanation is sufficient to account for the fact that peasants had so many horses, but it certainly does not tell the whole story. What did it mean for a peasant to own a horse, or an ox—to himself, to the community? Was owning a horse—or any animal for that matter—like having a car? Was animal ownership a matter of social capital? Did it tie into the owner’s sense of self-worth? Also, we should not lose sight of the possibility that a relationship with animals could be good in of itself.
            Lastly, while many of the readings discussed how domestic animal populations fluctuated in accordance with the rhythms of the market, I would like to point out that humans, when committing to a pastoral relationship with animals, have to adapt themselves to the seasonal and daily rhythms of the animals they care for as well.

-JS

Participants or Possessions

          There was a small paragraph in David Stone’s essay on sheep flocks that I meant to bring up in discussion. It was only a small aside in which he quotes an experienced shepherd explaining that sheep can become homesick on unfamiliar pasture. If they are unaccustomed to a new arrangement, they can become morose and unproductive. Stone replies by writing, “Historians sometimes refer to the psychological impact of the Black Death; perhaps sheep should be included in such an interpretation.”[1] The point being that sheep may have become just as depressed in the trauma of the Black Death as humans, to the point of affecting their wool yield.

            It seemed like a strange addition to Stone’s essay about the various methods medieval people were using to affect their flocks. Before and following this mention of animal psychology, Stone writes only of the human efforts to cause higher or lower wool yields or the conscious, he argues, management techniques used to affect wool production. Throughout his essay, and the other articles we read for Tuesday’s discussion, Stone implies that animals were possessions or tools, but in the passing moment when he acknowledges their feelings the animals were seen as participants.

            We grappled with this same distinction when we debated horsemeat yesterday. Langdon’s article dealt with the advantages and disadvantages of owning horse and oxen, and he concluded the poorer folk would opt for a horse for its versatility, easier upkeep, and low price.[2] The wealthier demesne preferred the ox because its value didn’t depreciate as quickly, and in the end the ox could always be fattened and sold for its meat.[3] Some of us argued the same could be said for a horse while others argued that a peasant’s connection with a horse used for its full range of purposes, especially transportation, would prevent it from being killed for eating. In fact, this is a debate similar to the sheep’s experience after the Black Death: is the horse a possession that is used as a tool in labor, or is it a participant in the life of its owner in a number of ways ranging from plough animal to companion? As a possession, the animal is only weighed for its utility, in which case the horse would have certainly been fattened and slaughtered when it maxed out its productivity, but this was a purpose reserved for the ox. The horse was a participant and thus spared a strictly consumptive purpose because of, I argue, its wide range of applications (cart pulling, being ridden, as a pack-animal, etc.).[4]

            So, let’s return to the sheep. Wool was the number one industry in medieval England, and sheep numbered twelve million in the early fourteenth century, according to Biddick.[5] Organizing sheep had become a complex network of movement and transfer, and types of sheep were carefully directed to specific locations to serve their purposes. Sheep, like horses, were highly versatile, capable of a variety of secondary products of meat, skins, milk, and manure. In fact, the reason for moving the sheep around so much was to evenly disperse their manure on a range of pasture. Sheep were efficient animals; it seems that every part of the sheep could have been put to good use. However, this does not help me understand whether sheep were possessions or participants because they do not follow the horse’s example as a participant – they were still eaten, and their byproducts provided more ways to consume.

            This would lead me to think of sheep as possessions, strictly for consumption, to fulfill a wool yield. On the larger manorial estates, like abbeys, sheep were used for their wool in the same way oxen were used for ploughing and pigs for meat; in other words, estates ran on single-product herd economies that would limit an animal’s produce to a single purpose instead of using it for several products at once.[6] These were complex economies that could afford to specialize, and the animals were organized and managed according to the demands of the abbey or market.

            Yet, I am drawn back to the concern for the sheep’s feelings. While Stone’s observation was from his perspective as a historian, Sir Walter of Henley has his own opinion on the wellbeing of sheep: “See that your shepherd be not hasty, for by an angry man some may be badly overdriven, from which they may perish there where your sheep are pasturing and the shepherd comes among them.”[7] Henley, claiming to have been a bailiff once, encouraged a shepherd who was kind to the sheep in order to avoid trauma. Although Henley would not have referred to his opinion in this way, he was concerned with the psychology of the sheep and urged his reader to be equally concerned and attentive in order to prevent premature deaths. In the same way Stone speculated that sheep after the Black Death may have suffered from depression that caused weaker wool yields, Henley was suggesting that a happy sheep would make a richer flock. So, if this medieval bailiff was advising against harsh treatment, did this make sheep participants in their own production since they were being valued emotionally? At the least, I believe this kind of consideration shows the animals were valued above their basic functionality. While it was helpful that sheep could provide so many different products from wool to meat, their process of production was managed to be comfortable and kind. Yet, Henley also suggests that the reason for being kind to the sheep is to prevent shepherds from overdriving them and causing unnecessary deaths and diminishing the flock. Stone seems to make a similar claim that the depressed sheep were less productive and grew poorer wool. 

             Perhaps sheep were emotional participants to an extent, but I doubt they had agency beyond their regulated movements from one pasture to another. Industry-minded humans were their caretakers, and for all their occupation for a sheep's wellbeing, they were driven by the need to produce and sell the wool. 

K. Beach

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[1] Stone 11

[2] Langdon 40

[3] Langdon 32

[4] Langdon 40

[5] Biddick 100

[6] Biddick 125

[7] Sir Walter of Henley 29

Horsemeat?

Just a few links to follow up on the question of medieval Catholic horse consumption:

8th century - Catholic backlash against eating horses as Catholicism spreads (through Carolingian conquest and missionary activity) into northern Germanic areas, where horsemeat had important ritual and cultural functions.

Pope Gregory III's letter to Boniface (732):

"You say, among other things, that some eat wild horses and many eat tame horses. By no means allow this to happen in future, but suppress it in every possible way with the help of Christ and impose a suitable penance upon offenders. It is a filthy and abominable custom."

http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/boniface-letter.asp

A sort of correlation can be found in Iceland, the last outpost of Germanic paganism. Here is an excerpt from Njalssaga (which is amazing and everyone should read anyway). It was written sometime in the late 13th century, though it is set in the early 11th century at the time of Iceland's conversion.

"Our first principle of law is that all Icelanders shall henceforth be Christian. We shall believe in one God -- Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. We shall renounce the worship of idols. We shall no longer expose unwanted children. We shall no longer eat horsemeat. Anyone who does these things openly shall be punished with outlawry, but no punishment will follow if they are done in private."

Within a few years these heathen practices were prohibited in private as well as in public.

http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/njal100.html

 I didn't pull it up here, but there is similar evidence that pagan Ireland assigned a ritual function to horsemeat (and some other unsavories, like dogmeat) which further led to the eradication of these practices over the course of the conversion (5th-6th centuries). 

For some more general surveys, here we have a reasonably well-researched blog post about the formation of a horsemeat taboo in Anglo-Saxon England: http://www.medievalists.net/2013/02/20/why-did-the-english-people-stop-eating-horses-in-the-middle-ages/

...and this blog post on Western Europe's relationship with horsemeat, from pagan prevalence to Roman and Christian aversion to a 19th century revival: http://leslefts.blogspot.com/2013/12/killing-pegasus-history-of-horse-meat.html

Note that high medieval sources on the prohibition seem lacking - possibly the taboo was simply edified and beyond remarking at this point. The mentions of eating horse-meat as a last resort during sieges and famines in the 15th century suggest something similar - horses, like dogs or cats, had become beasts that Europeans proverbially did not eat under normal circumstances. 

Bon appetit,

SLasman

Soul and Body: a symbiotic relationship

          One thing that especially struck me in the reading for Thursday's class was the idea which Albert has (though which presumably was current among more than just him) of the relationship between the soul and the body. Many things which Albert says either agree with modern thought or disagree in a way which could be emended without further ramifications. For example, we would all agree with the majority of his description of the elephant (large, strong, handy with its trunk, two varieties, etc.), while the part about the elephant's being scared of mice could be changed with no effect on the rest of the book (though perhaps shouldn't be changed, since it actually seems to be true!).

          The relationship between the soul and the body, however, fits into neither of these categories. Much of it is quite different from modern thinking, but only a subset of this is actually disprovable by modern science—as, for example, the story of the couple whose thoughts during sexual intercourse affected the appearance of the fetus they conceived (p. 1443). This is especially important because of the essential character which this relationship has in Albert's book.

          In modern scientific thought, it is not unusual to think of the mind (or soul) as something essentially part of the body, or rather an emergent property of the body. As such, we are perhaps accustomed to think of the mind as something with a very close connection to the body, but not really on a par with it. Albert's idea, on the other hand, is based on the belief that the body and soul were created together—if not precisely as equals, at least in a sort of partnership. This seems to mean that the soul (or mind), for Albert, is in one sense closer to, yet in another sense further from, the body than we think of it today.

          On one side of this near-paradox, the soul is closer to the body when it has direct and immediate effects on the body. The aforementioned story of a couple's thoughts having a drastic influence on their child is one example of this; another is the idea of a human's becoming like a beast when "discarding...the honor of his humanity" (p. 1445). Such a saying, though still current today, actually makes more sense in Albert's presentation: instead of simply doing things which a beast might do, the person who becomes like a beast approaches the nature of the beast in his soul, and thus in his essence and body as well.

          The close relationship of the soul to the body is also pointed to when Albert discusses the origin of sperm. He follows Hippocrates's idea that sperm comes from the brain. I don't know what exactly was the state of neurology at the time of Albert's writing, but given that as old an authority as Galen considered the brain to be the seat of the rational soul, I surmise that Albert considered this to fit quite well with his own ideas of the relationship between the soul and body. Since sperm was, as we discussed in class, considered to be more or less the basic essence from which a human would grow, the idea of sperm descending from the brain to the rest of the body would tend to provide quite a good example of how soul and body work together to form a complete person.

          On the other side, the soul is simultaneously further from the body when it is recognized as a distinct entity from the body, one which has its own existence apart from the body despite the fact that mundane experience tends to encounter them together. This is of course what we would expect from Christian doctrine, but it is also what allows the soul to have the effect, above noted, that it is said to have on the body. Its influence was not thought of only in terms of nervous impulses, as it generally is today; thus it was easier to consider many ways in which the soul could affect the body. In this way one might say that the closeness of Albert's idea of the relationship between soul and body was predicated on his idea of their distinction.

          How might this be applied to Albert's main idea, the understanding of animals? I'm sure there are several ways, but the one that occurs first to me is what it means for those exemplary animal behaviors. When Albert thinks of an animal and a peculiar behavior which it performs, he does not think of it empirically but rather purposefully—and with good reason, since in his view, the soul is as important as the body in many or all physical behaviors. It is not so odd to take edification from an animal when its characteristic behaviors have roots in a soul which, while different from one's own, is by no means utterly so.

—Luke Bretscher

Scattered thoughts on Divinity, Man, and Experience

    Our class discussion on Thursday seemed to pertain to various questions of the definition of science as much as it did to the definition of animals. As was clear from that discussion, it's very difficult to separate ourselves from modern definitions of science when reading medieval texts that were, for their time, scientific. In this post I'd like to briefly give my thoughts on three topics that interested me from out discussion, namely: the "divine" nature of humans and how it relates to the definition of animal, the medieval precursors to modern scientific methods, and dragons.
    Anyone who was present on Thursday will remember that I really struggled with articulating why the section in the Albertus Magnus, "On the Natural and Divine Properties of the Human" felt so out of place to me. All I could really say in class was something along the lines of "This is weird! He's saying that humans can do miracles/affect matter with their minds! That's crazy!". I now think that the reason for such bewilderment was primarily that I was trying to read Albertus in the same way I might read a modern scientific document, which simply doesn't work for multiple reasons. First, I had to apply the Beullens reading to Albertus to give it (and most of our other reading thus far) proper context. Beullens says the following about the purpose of these zoological treatises: "Zoological knowledge was not pursued as an aim in itself. ... The better understanding of the animal world was valued as a means toward a deeper insight into the divine plan governing the sensitive world, God's creation." (Beullens, 128) I had to discard my notion of science as something entirely divorced from religion when thinking about these texts. (That is not to say that there is some inherent conflict between the two, like some might say with regard to evolution or whatnot, but the idea of "science" being performed ultimately in the service of religion isn't something I had considered.) Once I looked back at Albertus with the understanding that he was writing it from an explicitly Christian viewpoint (which should have been obvious, given frequent mention to God) the passage made more sense. I was so stuck in the mindset of reading a modern "scientific document" that acceptance of miracles and the manipulation of matter via one's soul stuck out as scientific impossibility that didn't really make sense to me. (Why it was that the divine nature of man and the performance of miracles stood out to me more than any of the other seeming anomalies that would arise from trying to read this as a modern scientific endeavor is unclear to me.) Moreover, the discussion of the divine nature of man, once I reread it in under the framework provided by Beullens, actually clarified Albertus for me, instead of confusing it. The whole idea of humans, animals, plants, etc. existing on a spectrum of which only humans can move along, based on this relation to divinity actually kind of makes sense now. One can only understand how to properly define animals if one first understands how to define humans.
    Another topic explored in the Beullens reading was the extent to which there existed a precursor to the modern scientific method, if at all. Much of the texts we've read thus far have been either akin to, or literally, commentary on Artisotle or Pliny the Elder or the Physiologus. As a result, Beullens raises the question of whether or not "zoology in the Middle Ages equaled philology and that the authority of the ancient sources had a greater weight than experience gained from observation." (Beullens, 145) Beullens is quick to say that this is not the case at all points. To some extent, there was an attempt to construct knowledge (which, conveniently, is what "scientia" translates to from Latin. I think.) out of experience. We noted in class that Albertus' entries on dogs, deer, horses and falcons were longer than average. It is fairly clear that the reason for this is that Albertus (or perhaps his contemporaries) simply had much more experience with those animals than with the others, and contributed his knowledge gained through experience to the encyclopedic text he was working on. As he had had experience with falcons in his youth, he added that to the collected knowledge that had come before him that he was compiling. Not only did he contribute knowledge that he gained through experience, he made rudimentary attempts at experimentation, as seen in the example that Beullens give of his dissection of a mole. Though it turns out that Albertus was ultimately wrong about mole eyes, his attempt at experimentation was in some ways a precursor to modern scientific experiments; his attempt at least, was noble. My point in all of this is that reading Albertus as not only a compiler but someone adding to this tradition adds depth to my reading of the text; initially I saw him as merely another commentator, but obviously he has done more. (Of course, I should have noticed this and read him as such earlier, as he added extra books to what he was commentating on originally, so of course he was more than a compiler. But I digress.)
    A last point I'd like to address is something we addressed in class, namely the entry in Albertus on dragons. There are a few lines in this entry which suggest, here more than elsewhere, that Albertus is deeply skeptical of some of the more improbably stories/descriptions that linger in these zoological encyclopedias. As I discussed in my last paragraph, Albertus was interested in experience giving knowledge of the world. In most cases, he takes as true (or at least does not dispute) many of the claims that today we might find spurious (see, for example, the cure-all deer.) However, note the following line in the dragon entry, following a description of dragons killing elephants via constriction: "... I do not consider these things as sufficiently proven by experience." Similarly, he disagrees with the possibility of giant flying dragons: "... it is not possible for such a great weight as the largest ones have to borne and suspended in the air on wings." (Albertus, 1726). I find it interesting that it is with the dragons that he takes issue, and not with the many other unreliable or implausible entries found throughout the text. I don't really know what to make of this, however. I again must resist my urge to read this as "modern scientific text" wherein both dragons and miracles would be disregarded, and instead must try to understand a world in which one would be not only plausible, but necessary, while the other is not "sufficiently proved by experience."

NW

Albert and the Animals

In all of our readings there has been a tension between the seemingly human qualities and behaviors of many animals and the physical animality of humans.  The writers of the bestiaries acknowledge that humans are animals by definition (they have an animus, they are animate bodies), but distinguish them from the rest of the animals based on their rational soul and their creation in the image of God.  In the sixth tract of Book 8 of On Animals, Albert Magnus attempts to explain this distinction in light of the surprisingly human-like and seemingly intelligent behaviors that he attributes to many animals in his previous chapters.  I’m still trying to puzzle out exactly how he explains this distinction, so I apologize in advance for rambling.

            As I understand it, Albert’s distinction is twofold.  In the first place, only humans have reason and thus can speculate.  Secondly, though some other animals participate in the whole range of internal and external senses, the quality of these senses vary among species, and all are inferior to the humans’ sensory abilities.  It’s worth noting that while the first distinction is one of kind, the second is one of degree. 

Albert acknowledges that “it does not seem probable that those which participate in experimental knowledge,… the estimative power,… imagination, and sensation, do not also somehow participate in reason” (Book 8, tract 6, 227).  He obviously intends to refute this, but first sets out on a digression on the varying sensory powers of animals.

It’s odd to me that, after setting up the false thesis that animals must somehow participate in reason, Albert doesn’t immediately say why it’s untrue.  Instead, he explains that while some animals have all the internal and external senses that humans have, the animals’ senses are inferior. 

According to Albert, animals’ (and humans’) external and internal sensory abilities are determined by their physiology.  Foe example, and animal with “large, hard, watery eyes” will have inferior vision to one with “a clear eye and unified vision” (Book 8, Tract 6, 228).  This will then affect the quality of the image that reaches their internal senses, and their ability to react.  Thus the one with poor vision will be more easily deceived, according the Albert.  The same goes for internal physiology: for example, the hardness or softness of the brain affects the animal’s short- and long-term memory.  For Albert, there is a direct link between the physical body and the senses, but there is no analogous link between physiology and reason.

I recall that near the end of class, Professor Fulton Brown said something to suggest that, if there were another animal with perfect senses, they might be able to speculate.  Upon rereading this section, I have to disagree.  When Albert finally does return to the question of animals’ rationality, there doesn’t seem to be a causal link between their sensory powers and the ability to speculate (their lack of reason in independent of their imperfect senses).  He says that, “although some animals participate equally in the number of senses… they nevertheless do not participate in an equal way.  They participate in speculation and in the speculatives in no what whatever, since… this abstraction does not occur without reason and intellect” (Book 8, tract 6, 235).  This is the closest he comes to connecting the two, and there is no real connection.  Nonetheless, the fact that he structures his argument in this way makes it tempting to try to find some connection between the two.

If I were to try to find a justification for tying the two together, I would look back to the fundamental distinction between man and other animals: that Adam was created in the image of God.  Not only does this justify humans’ unique capacity for reason, it also creates a physiological distinction between humans and the other animals.  If humans are created in God’s image, this also explains why their eyes, ears, brains, etc. are physiologically different from those of other animals.  Humans and animals exist on a spectrum of sensory capabilities, but because their corporeal form is a reflection of the divine form, human physiology is distinctly superior.

W.A.