14 Montequieu on Climate

IF it be true, that the temper of the mind and the passions of the heart are extremely different in different climates, the laws ought to be relative both to the variety of those passions, and to the variety of those tempers.

A cold air* constringes the extremities of the external fibres of the body; this increases their elasticity, and favours the return of the blood from the extreme parts to the heart. It contracts† those very fibres; consequently, it increases also their force. On the contrary, a warm air relaxes and lengthens the extremes of the fibres; of course, it diminishes their force and elasticity.

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People are therefore more vigorous in cold climates. Here, the action of the heart and the reaction of the extremities of the fibres are better performed, the temperature of the humours is greater, the blood moves freer towards the heart, and, reciprocally, the heart has more power. This superiority of strength must produce various effects; for instance, a greater boldness, that is, more courage; a greater sense of superiority, that is, less desire of revenge; a greater opinion of security, that is, more frankness, less suspicion, policy, and cunning. In short, this must be productive of very different tempers. Put a man into a close warm place, and, for the reasons above given, he will feel a great faintness. If, under this circumstance, you propose a bold enterprize to him, I believe you will find him very little disposed towards it: his present weakness will throw him into a despondency; he will be afraid of every thing, being in a state of total incapacity. The inhabitants of warm countries are, like old men, timorous; the people in cold countries are, like young men, brave. If we reflect on the late‡ wars, (which are more recent in our memory, and in which we can better distinguish some particular effects, that escape us at a greater distance of time,) we shall find that the northern people, transplanted into southern regions∥, did not perform such exploits as their countrymen, who, fighting in their own climate, possessed their full vigour and courage.

This strength of the fibres, in northern nations, is the cause that the coarser juices are extracted from their aliments. From hence two things result: one, that the parts of the chyle, or lymph, are more [294] proper, by reason of their large surface, to be applied to, and to nourish, the fibres: the other, that they are less proper, from their coarseness, to give a certain subtlety to the nervous juice. Those people have, therefore, large bodies and but little vivacity.

The nerves, that terminate from all parts in the cutis, form each a nervous bundle; generally speaking, the whole nerve is not moved, but a very minute part. In warm climates, where the cutis is relaxed, the ends of the nerves are expanded, and laid open to the weakest action of the smallest objects. In cold countries, the cutis is constringed and the papillæ compressed; the miliary glands are in some measure paralytic; and the sensation does not reach the brain but when it is very strong, and proceeds from the whole nerve at once. Now, imagination, taste, sensibility, and vivacity, depend on an infinite number of small sensations.

I have observed the outermost part of a sheep’s tongue, where, to the naked eye, it seems covered with papillæ. On these papillæ I have discerned, through a microscope, small hairs, or a kind of down; between the papillæ were pyramids, shaped towards the ends like pincers. Very likely these pyramids are the principal organ of taste.

I caused the half of this tongue to be frozen, and, observing it with the naked eye, I found the papillæ considerably diminished; even some rows of them were sunk into their sheath. The outermost part I examined with the microscope, and perceived no pyramids. In proportion as the frost went off, the papillæ seemed to the naked eye to rise, and with the microscope the miliary glands began to appear.

This observation confirms what I have been saying, that, in cold countries, the nervous glands are less expanded; they sink deeper into their sheaths, [295] or they are sheltered from the action of external objects; consequently, they have not such lively sensations.

In cold countries they have very little sensibility for pleasure; in temperate countries they have more; in warm countries their sensibility is exquisite. As climates are distinguished by degrees of latitude, we might distinguish them also, in some measure, by those of sensibility. I have been at the opera in England and in Italy, where I have seen the same pieces and the same performers, and yet the same music produces such different effects on the two nations; one is so cold and phlegmatic, and the other so lively and enraptured, that it seems almost inconceivable.

It is the same with regard to pain, which is excited by the laceration of some fibre of the body. The Author of nature has made it an established rule, that this pain should be more acute in proportion as the laceration is greater: now, it is evident, that the large bodies and coarse fibres of the people of the North are less capable of laceration than the delicate fibres of the inhabitants of warm countries; consequently, the soul is there less sensible of pain. You must flay a Muscovite alive to make him feel.

From this delicacy of organs, peculiar to warm climates, it follows, that the soul is most sensibly moved by whatever relates to the union of the two sexes: here every thing leads to this object.

In northern climates, scarcely has the animal part of love a power of making itself felt. In temperate climates, love, attended by a thousand appendages, endeavours to please by things that have, at first, the appearance, though not the reality, of this passion. In warmer climates, it is liked for its own sake, it is the only cause of happiness, it is life itself.

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In southern countries, a machine, of a delicate frame but strong sensibility, resigns itself either to a love which rises, and is incessantly laid, in a seraglio; or to a passion which leaves women in a greater independence, and is consequently exposed to a thousand inquietudes. In northern regions, a machine, robust and heavy, finds a pleasure in whatever is apt to throw the spirits into motion; such as hunting, travelling, war, and wine. If we travel towards the North, we meet with people who have few vices, many virtues, and a great share of frankness and sincerity. If we draw near the South, we fancy ourselves intirely removed from the verge of morality: here the strongest passions are productive of all manner of crimes, each man endeavouring, let the means be what they will, to indulge his inordinate desires. In temperate climates, we find the inhabitants inconstant in their manners, as well as in their vices and virtues: the climate has not a quality determinate enough to fix them.

The heat of the climate may be so excessive as to deprive the body of all vigour and strength. Then the faintness is communicated to the mind: there is no curiosity, no enterprize, no generosity of sentiment; the inclinations are all passive; indolence constitutes the utmost happiness; scarcely any punishment is so severe as mental employment; and slavery is more supportable than the force and vigour of mind necessary for human conduct.