THE EXISTENCE OF GOD

SECTION I. Metaphysical Proofs of the Existence of God are not

within Everybody's reach.

I cannot open my eyes without admiring the art that shines

throughout all nature; the least cast suffices to make me perceive

the Hand that makes everything.

Men accustomed to meditate upon metaphysical truths, and to trace up

things to their first principles, may know the Deity by its idea;

and I own that is a sure way to arrive at the source of all truth.

But the more direct and short that way is, the more difficult and

unpassable it is for the generality of mankind who depend on their

senses and imagination.

An ideal demonstration is so simple, that through its very

simplicity it escapes those minds that are incapable of operations

purely intellectual. In short, the more perfect is the way to find

the First Being, the fewer men there are that are capable to follow

it.

SECT. II. Moral Proofs of the Existence of God are fitted to every

man's capacity.

But there is a less perfect way, level to the meanest capacity. Men

the least exercised in reasoning, and the most tenacious of the

prejudices of the senses, may yet with one look discover Him who has

drawn Himself in all His works. The wisdom and power He has stamped

upon everything He has made are seen, as it were, in a glass by

those that cannot contemplate Him in His own idea. This is a

sensible and popular philosophy, of which any man free from passion

and prejudice is capable. Humana autem anima rationalis est, quae

mortalibus peccati poena tenebatur, ad hoc diminutionis redacta ut

per conjecturas rerum visibilium ad intelligenda invisibilia

niteretur; that is, "The human soul is still rational, but in such a

manner that, being by the punishment of sin detained in the bonds of

death, it is so far reduced that it can only endeavour to arrive at

the knowledge of things invisible through the visible."

SECT. III. Why so few Persons are attentive to the Proofs Nature

affords of the Existence of God.

If a great number of men of subtle and penetrating wit have not

discovered God with one cast of the eye upon nature, it is not

matter of wonder; for either the passions they have been tossed by

have still rendered them incapable of any fixed reflection, or the

false prejudices that result from passions have, like a thick cloud,

interposed between their eyes and that noble spectacle. A man

deeply concerned in an affair of great importance, that should take

up all the attention of his mind, might pass several days in a room

treating about his concerns without taking notice of the proportions

of the chamber, the ornaments of the chimney, and the pictures about

him, all which objects would continually be before his eyes, and yet

none of them make any impression upon him. In this manner it is

that men spend their lives; everything offers God to their sight,

and yet they see it nowhere. "He was in the world, and the world

was made by Him, and nevertheless the world did not know Him"--In

mundo erat, et mundus per ipsum factus est, et mundus eum non

cognovit. They pass away their lives without perceiving that

sensible representation of the Deity. Such is the fascination of

worldly trifles that obscures their eyes! Fascinatio nugacitatis

obscurat bona. Nay, oftentimes they will not so much as open them,

but rather affect to keep them shut, lest they should find Him they

do not look for. In short, what ought to help most to open their

eyes serves only to close them faster; I mean the constant duration

and regularity of the motions which the Supreme Wisdom has put in

the universe. St. Austin tells us those great wonders have been

debased by being constantly renewed; and Tully speaks exactly in the

same manner. "By seeing every day the same things, the mind grows

familiar with them as well as the eyes. It neither admires nor

inquires into the causes of effects that are ever seen to happen in

the same manner, as if it were the novelty, and not the importance

of the thing itself, that should excite us to such an inquiry." Sed

assiduitate quotidiana et consuetudine oculorum assuescunt animi,

neque admirantur neque requirunt rationes earum rerum, quas semper

vident, perinde quasi novit as nos magis quam magnitudo rerum debeat

ad exquirendas causas excitare.

SECT. IV. All Nature shows the Existence of its Maker.

But, after all, whole nature shows the infinite art of its Maker.

When I speak of an art, I mean a collection of proper means chosen

on purpose to arrive at a certain end; or, if you please, it is an

order, a method, an industry, or a set design. Chance, on the

contrary, is a blind and necessary cause, which neither sets in

order nor chooses anything, and which has neither will nor

understanding. Now I maintain that the universe bears the character

and stamp of a cause infinitely powerful and industrious; and, at

the same time, that chance (that is, the blind and fortuitous

concourse of causes necessary and void of reason) cannot have formed

this universe. To this purpose it is not amiss to call to mind the

celebrated comparisons of the ancients.

SECT. V. Noble Comparisons proving that Nature shows the Existence

of its Maker. First Comparison, drawn from Homer's "Iliad."

Who will believe that so perfect a poem as Homer's "Iliad" was not

the product of the genius of a great poet, and that the letters of

the alphabet, being confusedly jumbled and mixed, were by chance, as

it were by the cast of a pair of dice, brought together in such an

order as is necessary to describe, in verses full of harmony and

variety, so many great events; to place and connect them so well

together; to paint every object with all its most graceful, most

noble, and most affecting attendants; in short, to make every person

speak according to his character in so natural and so forcible a

manner? Let people argue and subtilise upon the matter as much as

they please, yet they never will persuade a man of sense that the

"Iliad" was the mere result of chance. Cicero said the same in

relation to Ennius's "Annals;" adding that chance could never make

one single verse, much less a whole poem. How then can a man of

sense be induced to believe, with respect to the universe, a work

beyond contradiction more wonderful than the "Iliad," what his

reason will never suffer him to believe in relation to that poem?

Let us attend another comparison, which we owe to St. Gregory

Nazianzenus.

SECT. VI. Second Comparison, drawn from the Sound of Instruments.

If we heard in a room, from behind a curtain, a soft and harmonious

instrument, should we believe that chance, without the help of any

human hand, could have formed such an instrument? Should we say

that the strings of a violin, for instance, had of their own accord

ranged and extended themselves on a wooden frame, whose several

parts had glued themselves together to form a cavity with regular

apertures? Should we maintain that the bow formed without art

should be pushed by the wind to touch every string so variously, and

with such nice justness? What rational man could seriously

entertain a doubt whether a human hand touched such an instrument

with so much harmony? Would he not cry out, "It is a masterly hand

that plays upon it?" Let us proceed to inculcate the same truth.

SECT. VII. Third Comparison, drawn from a Statue.

If a man should find in a desert island a fine statue of marble, he

would undoubtedly immediately say, "Sure, there have been men here

formerly; I perceive the workmanship of a skilful statuary; I admire

with what niceness he has proportioned all the limbs of this body,

in order to give them so much beauty, gracefulness, majesty, life,

tenderness, motion, and action!"

What would such a man answer if anybody should tell him, "That's

your mistake; a statuary never carved that figure. It is made, I

confess, with an excellent gusto, and according to the rules of

perfection; but yet it is chance alone made it. Among so many

pieces of marble there was one that formed itself of its own accord

in this manner; the rains and winds have loosened it from the

mountains; a violent storm has thrown it plumb upright on this

pedestal, which had prepared itself to support it in this place. It

is a perfect Apollo, like that of Belvedere; a Venus that equals

that of the Medicis; an Hercules, like that of Farnese. You would

think, it is true, that this figure walks, lives, thinks, and is

just going to speak. But, however, it is not in the least beholden

to art; and it is only a blind stroke of chance that has thus so

well finished and placed it."

SECT. VIII. Fourth Comparison, drawn from a Picture.

If a man had before his eyes a fine picture, representing, for

example, the passage of the Red Sea, with Moses, at whose voice the

waters divide themselves, and rise like two walls to let the

Israelites pass dryfoot through the deep, he would see, on the one

side, that innumerable multitude of people, full of confidence and

joy, lifting up their hands to heaven; and perceive, on the other

side, King Pharaoh with the Egyptians frighted and confounded at the

sight of the waves that join again to swallow them up. Now, in good

earnest, who would be so bold as to affirm that a chambermaid,

having by chance daubed that piece of cloth, the colours had of

their own accord ranged themselves in order to produce that lively

colouring, those various attitudes, those looks so well expressing

different passions, that elegant disposition of so many figures

without confusion, that decent plaiting of draperies, that

management of lights, that degradation of colours, that exact

perspective--in short, all that the noblest genius of a painter can

invent? If there were no more in the case than a little foam at the

mouth of a horse, I own, as the story goes, and which I readily

allow without examining into it, that a stroke of a pencil thrown in

a pet by a painter might once in many ages happen to express it

well. But, at least, the painter must beforehand have, with design,

chosen the most proper colours to represent that foam, in order to

prepare them at the end of his pencil; and, therefore, it were only

a little chance that had finished what art had begun. Besides, this

work of art and chance together being only a little foam, a confused

object, and so most proper to credit a stroke of chance--an object

without form, that requires only a little whitish colour dropped

from a pencil, without any exact figure or correction of design.

What comparison is there between that foam with a whole design of a

large continued history, in which the most fertile fancy and the

boldest genius, supported by the perfect knowledge of rules, are

scarce sufficient to perform what makes an excellent picture? I

cannot prevail with myself to leave these instances without desiring

the reader to observe that the most rational men are naturally

extreme loath to think that beasts have no manner of understanding,

and are mere machines. Now, whence proceeds such an invincible

averseness to that opinion in so many men of sense? It is because

they suppose, with reason, that motions so exact, and according to

the rules of perfect mechanism, cannot be made without some

industry; and that artless matter alone cannot perform what argues

so much knowledge. Hence it appears that sound reason naturally

concludes that matter alone cannot, either by the simple laws of

motion, or by the capricious strokes of chance, make even animals

that are mere machines. Those philosophers themselves, who will not

allow beasts to have any reasoning faculty, cannot avoid

acknowledging that what they suppose to be blind and artless in

these machines is yet full of wisdom and art in the First Mover, who

made their springs and regulated their movements. Thus the most

opposite philosophers perfectly agree in acknowledging that matter

and chance cannot, without the help of art, produce all we observe

in animals.

SECT. IX. A Particular Examination of Nature.

After these comparisons, about which I only desire the reader to

consult himself, without any argumentation, I think it is high time

to enter into a detail of Nature. I do not pretend to penetrate

through the whole; who is able to do it? Neither do I pretend to

enter into any physical discussion. Such way of reasoning requires

a certain deep knowledge, which abundance of men of wit and sense

never acquired; and, therefore, I will offer nothing to them but the

simple prospect of the face of Nature. I will entertain them with

nothing but what everybody knows, and which requires only a little

calm and serious attention.

SECT. X. Of the General Structure of the Universe.

Let us, in the first place, stop at the great object that first

strikes our sight, I mean the general structure of the universe.

Let us cast our eyes on this earth that bears us. Let us look on

that vast arch of the skies that covers us; those immense regions of

air, and depths of water that surround us; and those bright stars

that light us. A man who lives without reflecting thinks only on

the parts of matter that are near him, or have any relation to his

wants. He only looks upon the earth as on the floor of his chamber,

and on the sun that lights him in the daytime as on the candle that

lights him in the night. His thoughts are confined within the place

he inhabits. On the contrary, a man who is used to contemplate and

reflect carries his looks further, and curiously considers the

almost infinite abysses that surround him on all sides. A large

kingdom appears then to him but a little corner of the earth; the

earth itself is no more to his eyes than a point in the mass of the

universe; and he admires to see himself placed in it, without

knowing which way he came there.

SECT. XI. Of the Earth.

Who is it that hung and poised this motionless globe of the earth?

Who laid its foundation? Nothing seems more vile and contemptible;

for the meanest wretches tread it under foot; but yet it is in order

to possess it that we part with the greatest treasures. If it were

harder than it is, man could not open its bosom to cultivate it; and

if it were less hard it could not bear them, and they would sink

everywhere as they do in sand, or in a bog. It is from the

inexhaustible bosom of the earth we draw what is most precious.

That shapeless, vile, and rude mass assumes the most various forms;

and yields alone, by turns, all the goods we can desire. That dirty

soil transforms itself into a thousand fine objects that charm the

eye. In the compass of one year it turns into branches, twigs,

buds, leaves, blossoms, fruits, and seeds, in order, by those

various shapes, to multiply its liberalities to mankind. Nothing

exhausts the earth; the more we tear her bowels the more she is

liberal. After so many ages, during which she has produced

everything, she is not yet worn out. She feels no decay from old

age, and her entrails still contain the same treasures. A thousand

generations have passed away, and returned into her bosom.

Everything grows old, she alone excepted: for she grows young again

every year in the spring. She is never wanting to men; but foolish

men are wanting to themselves in neglecting to cultivate her. It is

through their laziness and extravagance they suffer brambles and

briars to grow instead of grapes and corn. They contend for a good

they let perish. The conquerors leave uncultivated the ground for

the possession of which they have sacrificed the lives of so many

thousand men, and have spent their own in hurry and trouble. Men

have before them vast tracts of land uninhabited and uncultivated;

and they turn mankind topsy-turvy for one nook of that neglected

ground in dispute. The earth, if well cultivated, would feed a

hundred times more men than now she does. Even the unevenness of

ground which at first seems to be a defect turns either into

ornament or profit. The mountains arose and the valleys descended

to the place the Lord had appointed for them. Those different

grounds have their particular advantages, according to the divers

aspects of the sun. In those deep valleys grow fresh and tender

grass to feed cattle. Next to them opens a vast champaign covered

with a rich harvest. Here, hills rise like an amphitheatre, and are

crowned with vineyards and fruit trees. There high mountains carry

aloft their frozen brows to the very clouds, and the torrents that

run down from them become the springs of rivers. The rocks that

show their craggy tops bear up the earth of mountains just as the

bones bear up the flesh in human bodies. That variety yields at

once a ravishing prospect to the eye, and, at the same time,

supplies the divers wants of man. There is no ground so barren but

has some profitable property. Not only black and fertile soil but

even clay and gravel recompense a man's toil. Drained morasses

become fruitful; sand for the most part only covers the surface of

the earth; and when, the husbandman has the patience to dig deeper

he finds a new ground that grows fertile as fast as it is turned and

exposed to the rays of the sun.

There is scarce any spot of ground absolutely barren if a man do not

grow weary of digging, and turning it to the enlivening sun, and if

he require no more from it than it is proper to bear, amidst stones

and rocks there is sometimes excellent pasture; and their cavities

have veins, which, being penetrated by the piercing rays of the sun,

furnish plants with most savoury juices for the feeding of herds and

flocks. Even sea-coasts that seem to be the most sterile and wild

yield sometimes either delicious fruits or most wholesome medicines

that are wanting in the most fertile countries. Besides, it is the

effect of a wise over-ruling providence that no land yields all that

is useful to human life. For want invites men to commerce, in order

to supply one another's necessities. It is therefore that want that

is the natural tie of society between nations: otherwise all the

people of the earth would be reduced to one sort of food and

clothing; and nothing would invite them to know and visit one

another.

SECT. XII. Of Plants.

All that the earth produces being corrupted, returns into her bosom,

and becomes the source of a new production. Thus she resumes all

she has given in order to give it again. Thus the corruption of

plants, and the excrements of the animals she feeds, feed her, and

improve her fertility. Thus, the more she gives the more she

resumes; and she is never exhausted, provided they who cultivate her

restore to her what she has given. Everything comes from her bosom,

everything returns to it, and nothing is lost in it. Nay, all seeds

multiply there. If, for instance, you trust the earth with some

grains of corn, as they corrupt they germinate and spring; and that

teeming parent restores with usury more ears than she had received

grains. Dig into her entrails, you will find in them stone and

marble for the most magnificent buildings. But who is it that has

laid up so many treasures in her bosom, upon condition that they

should continually produce themselves anew? Behold how many

precious and useful metals; how many minerals designed for the

conveniency of man!

Admire the plants that spring from the earth: they yield food for

the healthy, and remedies for the sick. Their species and virtues

are innumerable. They deck the earth, yield verdure, fragrant

flowers, and delicious fruits. Do you see those vast forests that

seem as old as the world? Those trees sink into the earth by their

roots, as deep as their branches shoot up to the sky. Their roots

defend them against the winds, and fetch up, as it were by

subterranean pipes, all the juices destined to feed the trunk. The

trunk itself is covered with a tough bark that shelters the tender

wood from the injuries of the air. The branches distribute by

several pipes the sap which the roots had gathered up in the trunk.

In summer the boughs protect us with their shadow against the

scorching rays of the sun. In winter, they feed the fire that

preserves in us natural heat. Nor is burning the only use wood is

fit for; it is a soft though solid and durable matter, to which the

hand of man gives, with ease, all the forms he pleases for the

greatest works of architecture and navigation. Moreover, fruit

trees by bending their boughs towards the earth seem to offer their

crop to man. The trees and plants, by letting their fruit or seed

drop down, provide for a numerous posterity about them. The

tenderest plant, the least of herbs and pulse are, in little, in a

small seed, all that is displayed in the highest plants and largest

tree. Earth that never changes produces all those alterations in

her bosom.

SECT. XIII. Of Water.

Let us now behold what we call water. It is a liquid, clear, and

transparent body. On the one hand it flows, slips, and runs away;

and on the other it assumes all the forms of the bodies that

surround it, having properly none of its own. If water were more

rarefied, or thinner, it would be a kind of air; and so the whole

surface of the earth would be dry and sterile. There would be none

but volatiles; no living creature could swim; no fish could live;

nor would there be any traffic by navigation. What industrious and

sagacious hand has found means to thicken the water, by subtilising

the air, and so well to distinguish those two sorts of fluid bodies?

If water were somewhat more rarefied, it could no longer sustain

those prodigious floating buildings, called ships. Bodies that have

the least ponderosity would presently sink under water. Who is it

that took care to frame so just a configuration of parts, and so

exact a degree of motion, as to make water so fluid, so penetrating,

so slippery, so incapable of any consistency: and yet so strong to

bear, and so impetuous to carry off and waft away, the most unwieldy

bodies? It is docile; man leads it about as a rider does a well-

managed horse. He distributes it as he pleases; he raises it to the

top of steep mountains, and makes use of its weight to let it fall,

in order to rise again, as high as it was at first. But man who

leads waters with such absolute command is in his turn led by them.

Water is one of the greatest moving powers that man can employ to

supply his defects in the most necessary arts, either through the

smallness or weakness of his body. But the waters which,

notwithstanding their fluidity, are such ponderous bodies, do

nevertheless rise above our heads, and remain a long while hanging

there. Do you see those clouds that fly, as it were, on the wings

of the winds? If they should fall, on a sudden, in watery pillars,

rapid like a torrent, they would drown and destroy everything where

they should happen to fall, and the other grounds would remain dry.

What hand keeps them in those pendulous reservatories, and permits

them to fall only by drops as if they distilled through a gardener's

watering-pot? Whence comes it that in some hot countries, where

scarce any rain ever falls, the nightly dews are so plentiful that

they supply the want of rain; and that in other countries, such as

the banks of the Nile and Ganges, the regular inundation of rivers,

at certain seasons of the year, never fails to make up what the

inhabitants are deficient in for the watering of the ground? Can

one imagine measures better concerted to render all countries

fertile and fruitful?

Thus water quenches, not only the thirst of men, but likewise of

arid lands: and He who gave us that fluid body has carefully

distributed it throughout the earth, like pipes in a garden. The

waters fall from the tops of mountains where their reservatories are

placed. They gather into rivulets in the bottom of valleys. Rivers

run in winding streams through vast tracts of land, the better to

water them; and, at last, they precipitate themselves into the sea,

in order to make it the centre of commerce for all nations. That

ocean, which seems to be placed in the midst of lands, to make an

eternal separation between them, is, on the contrary, the common

rendezvous of all the people of the earth, who could not go by land

from one end of the world to the other without infinite fatigue,

tedious journeys, and numberless dangers. It is by that trackless

road, across the bottomless deep, that the whole world shakes hands

with the new; and that the new supplies the old with so many

conveniences and riches. The waters, distributed with so much art,

circulate in the earth, just as the blood does in a man's body. But

besides this perpetual circulation of the water, there is besides

the flux and reflux of the sea. Let us not inquire into the causes

of so mysterious an effect. What is certain is that the tide

carries, or brings us back to certain places, at precise hours. Who

is it that makes it withdraw, and then come back with so much

regularity? A little more or less motion in that fluid mass would

disorder all nature; for a little more motion in a tide or flood

would drown whole kingdoms. Who is it that knew how to take such

exact measures in immense bodies? Who is it that knew so well how

to keep a just medium between too much and too little? What hand

has set to the sea the unmovable boundary it must respect through

the series of all ages by telling it: There, thy proud waves shall

come and break? But these waters so fluid become, on a sudden,

during the winter, as hard as rocks. The summits of high mountains

have, even at all times, ice and snow, which are the springs of

rivers, and soaking pasture-grounds render them more fertile. Here

waters are sweet to quench the thirst of man; there they are briny,

and yield a salt that seasons our meat, and makes it incorruptible.

In fine, if I lift up my eyes, I perceive in the clouds that fly

above us a sort of hanging seas that serve to temper the air, break

the fiery rays of the sun, and water the earth when it is too dry.

What hand was able to hang over our heads those great reservatories

of waters? What hand takes care never to let them fall but in

moderate showers?

SECT. XIV. Of the Air.

After having considered the waters, let us now contemplate another

mass yet of far greater extent. Do you see what is called air? It

is a body so pure, so subtle, and so transparent, that the rays of

the stars, seated at a distance almost infinite from us, pierce

quite through it, without difficulty, and in an instant, to light

our eyes. Had this fluid body been a little less subtle, it would

either have intercepted the day from us, or at most would have left

us but a duskish and confused light, just as when the air is filled

with thick fogs. We live plunged in abysses of air, as fishes do in

abysses of water. As the water, if it were subtilised, would become

a kind of air, which would occasion the death of fishes, so the air

would deprive us of breath if it should become more humid and

thicker. In such a case we should drown in the waves of that

thickened air, just as a terrestrial animal drowns in the sea. Who

is it that has so nicely purified that air we breathe? If it were

thicker it would stifle us; and if it were too subtle it would want

that softness which continually feeds the vitals of man. We should

be sensible everywhere of what we experience on the top of the

highest mountains, where the air is so thin that it yields no

sufficient moisture and nourishment for the lungs. But what

invisible power raises and lays so suddenly the storms of that great

fluid body, of which those of the sea are only consequences? From

what treasury come forth the winds that purify the air, cool

scorching heats, temper the sharpness of winter, and in an instant

change the whole face of heaven? On the wings of those winds the

clouds fly from one end of the horizon to the other. It is known

that certain winds blow in certain seas, at some stated seasons.

They continue a fixed time, and others succeed them, as it were on

purpose, to render navigation both commodious and regular: so that

if men are but as patient, and as punctual as the winds, they may,

with ease, perform the longest voyages.

SECT. XV. Of Fire.

Do you see that fire that seems kindled in the stars, and spreads

its light on all sides? Do you see that flame which certain

mountains vomit up, and which the earth feeds with sulphur within

its entrails? That same fire peaceably lurks in the veins of

flints, and expects to break out, till the collision of another body

excites it to shock cities and mountains. Man has found the way to

kindle it, and apply it to all his uses, both to bend the hardest

metals, and to feed with wood, even in the most frozen climes, a

flame that serves him instead of the sun, when the sun removes from

him. That subtle flame glides and penetrates into all seeds. It

is, as it were, the soul of all living things; it consumes all that

is impure, and renews what it has purified. Fire lends its force

and activity to weak men. It blows up, on a sudden, buildings and

rocks. But have we a mind to confine it to a more moderate use? It

warms man, and makes all sorts of food fit for his eating. The

ancients, in admiration of fire, believed it to be a celestial gift,

which man had stolen from the gods.

SECT. XVI. Of Heaven.

It is time to lift up our eyes to heaven. What power has built over

our heads so vast and so magnificent an arch? What a stupendous

variety of admirable objects is here? It is, no doubt, to present

us with a noble spectacle that an Omnipotent Hand has set before our

eyes so great and so bright objects. It is in order to raise our

admiration of heaven, says Tully, that God made man unlike the rest

of animals. He stands upright, and lifts up his head, that he may

be employed about the things that were above him. Sometimes we see

a duskish azure sky, where the purest fires twinkle. Sometimes we

behold, in a temperate heaven, the softest colours mixed with such

variety as it is not in the power of painting to imitate. Sometimes

we see clouds of all shapes and figures, and of all the brightest

colours, which every moment shift that beautiful decoration by the

finest accidents and various effects of light. What does the

regular succession of day and night denote? For so many ages as are

past the sun never failed serving men, who cannot live without it.

Many thousand years are elapsed, and the dawn never once missed

proclaiming the approach of the day. It always begins precisely at

a certain moment and place. The sun, says the holy writ, knows

where it shall set every day. By that means it lights, by turns,

the two hemispheres, or sides of the earth, and visits all those for

whom its beams are designed. The day is the time for society and

labour; the night, wrapping up the earth with its shadow, ends, in

its turn, all manner of fatigue and alleviates the toil of the day.

It suspends and quiets all; and spreads silence and sleep

everywhere. By refreshing the bodies it renews the spirits. Soon

after day returns to summon again man to labour and revive all

nature.

SECT. XVII. Of the Sun.

But besides the constant course by which the sun forms days and

nights it makes us sensible of another, by which for the space of

six months it approaches one of the poles, and at the end of those

six months goes back with equal speed to visit the other pole. This

excellent order makes one sun sufficient for the whole earth. If it

were of a larger size at the same distance, it would set the whole

globe on fire and the earth would be burnt to ashes; and if, at the

same distance, it were lesser, the earth would be all over frozen

and uninhabitable. Again, if in the same magnitude it were nearer

us, it would set us in flames; and if more remote, we should not be

able to live on the terrestrial globe for want of heat. What pair

of compasses, whose circumference encircles both heaven and earth,

has fixed such just dimensions? That star does no less befriend

that part of the earth from which it removes, in order to temper it,

than that it approaches to favour it with its beams. Its kind,

beneficent aspect fertilises all it shines upon. This change

produces that of the seasons, whose variety is so agreeable. The

spring silences bleak frosty winds, brings forth blossoms and

flowers, and promises fruits. The summer yields rich harvests. The

autumn bestows the fruits promised by the spring. The winter, which

is a kind of night wherein man refreshes and rests himself, lays up

all the treasures of the earth in its centre with no other design

but that the next spring may display them with all the graces of

novelty. Thus nature, variously attired, yields so many fine

prospects that she never gives man leisure to be disgusted with what

he possesses.

But how is it possible for the course of the sun to be so regular?

It appears that star is only a globe of most subtle flame. Now,

what is it that keeps that flame, so restless and so impetuous,

within the exact bounds of a perfect globe? What hand leads that

flame in so strait a way and never suffers it to slip one side or

other? That flame is held by nothing, and there is no body that can

either guide it or keep it under; for it would soon consume whatever

body it should be enclosed in. Whither is it going? Who has taught

it incessantly and so regularly to turn in a space where it is free

and unconstrained? Does it not circulate about us on purpose to

serve us? Now if this flame does not turn, and if on the contrary

it is our earth that turns, I would fain know how it comes to be so

well placed in the centre of the universe, as it were the focus or

the heart of all nature. I would fain know also how it comes to

pass that a globe of so subtle matter never slips on any side in

that immense space that surrounds it, and wherein it seems to stand

with reason that all fluid bodies ought to yield to the impetuosity

of that flame.

In fine, I would fain know how it comes to pass that the globe of

the earth, which is so very hard, turns so regularly about that

planet in a space where no solid body keeps it fast to regulate its

course. Let men with the help of physics contrive the most

ingenious reasons to explain this phenomenon; all their arguments,

supposing them to be true, will become proofs of the Deity. The

more the great spring that directs the machine of the universe is

exact, simple, constant, certain, and productive of abundance of

useful effects, the more it is plain that a most potent and most

artful hand knew how to pitch upon the spring which is the most

perfect of all.

SECT. XVIII. Of the Stars.

But let us once more view that immense arched roof where the stars

shine, and which covers our heads like a canopy. If it be a solid

vault, what architect built it? Who is it that has fixed so many

great luminous bodies to certain places of that arch and at certain

distances? Who is it that makes that vault turn so regularly about

us? If on the contrary the skies are only immense spaces full of

fluid bodies, like the air that surrounds us, how comes it to pass

that so many solid bodies float in them without ever sinking or ever

coming nearer one another? For all astronomical observations that

have been made in so many ages not the least disorder or irregular

motion has yet been discovered in the heavens. Will a fluid body

range in such constant and regular order bodies that swim circularly

within its sphere? But what does that almost innumerable multitude

of stars mean? The profusion with which the hand of God has

scattered them through His work shows nothing is difficult to His

power. He has cast them about the skies as a magnificent prince

either scatters money by handfuls or studs his clothes with precious

stones. Let who will say, if he pleases, that the stars are as many

worlds like the earth we inhabit; I grant it for one moment; but

then, how potent and wise must He be who makes worlds as numberless

as the grains of sand that cover the sea-shore, and who, without any

trouble, for so many ages governs all these wandering worlds as a

shepherd does a flock of sheep? If on the contrary they are only,

as it were, lighted torches to shine in our eyes in this small globe

called earth, how great is that power which nothing can fatigue,

nothing can exhaust? What a profuse liberality it is to give man in

this little corner of the universe so marvellous a spectacle!

But among those stars I perceive the moon, which seems to share with

the sun the care and office of lighting us. She appears at set

times with all the other stars, when the sun is obliged to go and

carry back the day to the other hemisphere. Thus night itself,

notwithstanding its darkness, has a light, duskish indeed, but soft

and useful. That light is borrowed from the sun, though absent:

and thus everything is managed with such excellent art in the

universe that a globe near the earth, and as dark as she of itself,

serves, nevertheless, to send back to her, by reflection, the rays

it receives from the sun; and that the sun lights by means of the

moon the people that cannot see him while he must light others.

It may be said that the motion of the stars is settled and regulated

by unchangeable laws. I suppose it is; but this very supposition

proves what I labour to evince. Who is it that has given to all

nature laws at once so constant and so wholesome, laws so very

simple, that one is tempted to believe they establish themselves of

their own accord, and so productive of beneficial and useful effects

that one cannot avoid acknowledging a marvellous art in them?

Whence proceeds the government of that universal machine which

incessantly works for us without so much as our thinking upon it?

To whom shall we ascribe the choice and gathering of so many deep

and so well conceited springs, and of so many bodies, great and

small, visible and invisible, which equally concur to serve us? The

least atom of this machine that should happen to be out of order

would unhinge all nature. For the springs and movements of a watch

are not put together with so much art and niceness as those of the

universe. What then must be a design so extensive, so coherent, so

excellent, so beneficial? The necessity of those laws, instead of

deterring me from inquiring into their author, does but heighten my

curiosity and admiration. Certainly, it required a hand equally

artful and powerful to put in His work an order equally simple and

teeming, constant and useful. Wherefore I will not scruple to say

with the Scripture, "Let every star haste to go whither the Lord

sends it; and when He speaks let them answer with trembling, Here we

are," Ecce adsumus.

SECT. XIX. Of Animals, Beasts, Fowl, Birds, Fishes, Reptiles, and

Insects.

But let us turn our eyes towards animals, which still are more

worthy of admiration than either the skies or stars. Their species

are numberless. Some have but two feet, others four, others again a

great many. Some walk; others crawl, or creep; others fly; others

swim; others fly, walk, or swim, by turns. The wings of birds, and

the fins of fishes, are like oars, that cut the waves either of air

or water, and steer the floating body either of the bird, or fish,

whose structure is like that of a ship. But the pinions of birds

have feathers with a down, that swells in the air, and which would

grow unwieldy in the water. And, on the contrary, the fins of

fishes have sharp and dry points, which cut the water, without

imbibing it, and which do not grow heavier by being wet. A sort of

fowl that swim, such as swans, keep their wings and most of their

feathers above water, both lest they should wet them and that they

may serve them, as it were, for sails. They have the art to turn

those feathers against the wind, and, in a manner, to tack, as ships

do when the wind does not serve. Water-fowls, such as ducks, have

at their feet large skins that stretch, somewhat like rackets, to

keep them from sinking on the oozy and miry banks of rivers.

Amongst the animals, wild beasts, such as lions, have their biggest

muscles about the shoulders, thighs, and legs; and therefore these

animals are nimble, brisk, nervous, and ready to rush forward.

Their jaw-bones are prodigiously large, in proportion to the rest of

their bodies. They have teeth and claws, which serve them, as

terrible weapons, to tear in pieces and devour other animals. For

the same reason, birds of prey, such as eagles, have a beak and

pounces that pierce everything. The muscles of their pinions are

extreme large and brawny, that their wings may have a stronger and

more rapid motion: and so those creatures, though somewhat heavy,

soar aloft and tower up easily to the very clouds, from whence they

shoot, like a thunderbolt, on the quarry they have in view. Other

animals have horns. The greatest strength of some lies in their

backs and necks; and others can only kick. Every species, however,

has both offensive and defensive arms. Their hunting is a kind of

war, which they wage one against another, for the necessities of

life. They have also laws and a government among themselves. Some,

like tortoises, carry the house wherein they were born; others build

theirs, as birds do, on the highest branches of trees, to preserve

their young from the insult of unwinged creatures, and they even lay

their nests in the thickest boughs to hide them from their enemies.

Another, such as the beaver, builds in the very bottom of a pond the

sanctuary he prepares for himself, and knows how to cast up dikes

around it, to preserve himself by the neighbouring inundation.

Another, like a mole, has so pointed and so sharp a snout, that in

one moment he pierces through the hardest ground in order to provide

for himself a subterranean retreat. The cunning fox digs a kennel

with two holes to go out and come in at, that he may not be either

surprised or trapped by the huntsmen. The reptiles are of another

make. They curl, wind, shrink, and stretch by the springs of their

muscles; they creep, twist about, squeeze, and hold fast the bodies

they meet in their way; and easily slide everywhere. Their organs

are almost independent one on the other; so that they still live

when they are cut into two. The long-legged birds, says Cicero, are

also long-necked in proportion, that they may bring down their bill

to the ground, and take up their food. It is the same with the

camel; but the elephant, whose neck through its bigness would be too

heavy if it were as long as that of the camel, was furnished with a

trunk, which is a contexture of nerves and muscles, which he

stretches, shrinks, winds, and turns every way, to seize on bodies,

lift them up, or throw them off: for which reason the Latins called

that trunk a hand.

Certain animals seem to be made on purpose for man. The dog is born

to caress and fawn upon him; to obey and be under command; to give

him an agreeable image of society, friendship, fidelity, and

tenderness; to be true to his trust; eagerly to hunt down, course,

and catch several other creatures, to leave them afterwards to man,

without retaining any part of the quarry. The horse, and such other

animals, are within the reach and power of man; to ease him of his

labour, and to take upon them a thousand burdens. They are born to

carry, to walk, to supply man's weakness, and to obey all his

motions. Oxen are endowed with strength and patience, in order to

draw the plough and till the ground. Cows yield streams of milk.

Sheep have in their fleeces a superfluity which is not for them, and

which still grows and renews, as it were to invite men to shear them

every year. Even goats furnish man with a long hair, for which they

have no use, and of which he makes stuffs to cover himself. The

skins of some beasts supply men with the finest and best linings, in

the countries that are most remote from the sun.

Thus the Author of nature has clothed beasts according to their

necessities; and their spoils serve afterwards to clothe men, and

keep them warm in those frozen climes. The living creatures that

have little or no hair have a very thick and very hard skin, like

scales; others have even scales that cover one another, as tiles on

the top of a house, and which either open or shut, as it best suits

with the living creature, either to extend itself or shrink. These

skins and scales serve the necessities of men: and thus in nature,

not only plants but animals also are made for our use. Wild beasts

themselves either grow tame or, at least, are afraid of man. If all

countries were peopled and governed as they ought to be, there would

not be anywhere beasts should attack men. For no wild beasts would

be found but in remote forests, and they would be preserved in order

to exercise the courage, strength, and dexterity of mankind, by a

sport that should represent war; so that there never would be any

occasion for real wars among nations. But observe that living

creatures that are noxious to man are the least teeming, and that

the most useful multiply most. There are, beyond comparison, more

oxen and sheep killed than bears or wolves; and nevertheless the

number of bears and wolves is infinitely less than that of oxen and

sheep still on earth. Observe likewise, with Cicero, that the

females of every species have a number of teats proportioned to that

of the young ones they generally bring forth. The more young they

bear, with the more milk-springs has nature supplied them, to suckle

them.

While sheep let their wool grow for our use, silk-worms, in

emulation with each other, spin rich stuffs and spend themselves to

bestow them upon us. They make of their cod a kind of tomb, and

shutting up themselves in their own work, they are new-born under

another figure, in order to perpetuate themselves. On the other

hand, the bees carefully suck and gather the juice of odorous and

fragrant flowers, in order to make their honey; and range it in such

an order as may serve for a pattern to men. Several insects are

transformed, sometimes into flies, sometimes into worms, or maggots.

If one should think such insects useless, let him consider that what

makes a part of the great spectacle of the universe, and contributes

to its variety, is not altogether useless to sedate and

contemplative men. What can be more noble, and more magnificent,

than that great number of commonwealths of living creatures so well

governed, and every species of which has a different frame from the

other? Everything shows how much the skill and workmanship of the

artificer surpasses the vile matter he has worked upon. Every

living creature, nay even gnats, appear wonderful to me. If one

finds them troublesome, he ought to consider that it is necessary

that some anxiety and pain be mixed with man's conveniences: for if

nothing should moderate his pleasures, and exercise his patience, he

would either grow soft and effeminate, or forget himself.

SECT. XX. Admirable Order in which all the Bodies that make up the

Universe are ranged.

Let us now consider the wonders that shine equally both in the

largest and the smallest bodies. On the one side, I see the sun so

many thousand times bigger than the earth; I see him circulating in

a space, in comparison of which he is himself but a bright atom. I

see other stars, perhaps still bigger than he, that roll in other

regions, still farther distant from us. Beyond those regions, which

escape all measure, I still confusedly perceive other stars, which

can neither be counted nor distinguished. The earth, on which I

stand, is but one point, in proportion to the whole, in which no

bound can ever be found. The whole is so well put together, that

not one single atom can be put out of its place without unhinging

this immense machine; and it moves in such excellent order that its

very motion perpetuates its variety and perfection. Sure it must be

the hand of a being that does everything without any trouble that

still keeps steady, and governs this great work for so many ages;

and whose fingers play with the universe, to speak with the

Scripture.

SECT. XXI. Wonders of the Infinitely Little.

On the other hand the work is no less to be admired in little than

in great: for I find as well in little as in great a kind of

infinite that astonishes me. It surpasses my imagination to find in

a hand-worm, as one does in an elephant or whale, limbs perfectly

well organised; a head, a body, legs, and feet, as distinct and as

well formed as those of the biggest animals. There are in every

part of those living atoms, muscles, nerves, veins, arteries, blood;

and in that blood ramous particles and humours; in these humours

some drops that are themselves composed of several particles: nor

can one ever stop in the discussion of this infinite composition of

so infinite a whole.

The microscope discovers to us in every object as it were a thousand

other objects that had escaped our notice. But how many other

objects are there in every object discovered by the microscope which

the microscope itself cannot discover? What should not we see if we

could still subtilise and improve more and more the instruments that

help out weak and dull sight? Let us supply by our imagination what

our eyes are defective in; and let our fancy itself be a kind of

microscope, and represent to us in every atom a thousand new and

invisible worlds: but it will never be able incessantly to paint to

us new discoveries in little bodies; it will be tired, and forced at

last to stop, and sink, leaving in the smallest organ of a body a

thousand wonders undiscovered.

SECT. XXII. Of the Structure or Frame of the Animal.

Let us confine ourselves within the animal's machine, which has

three things that never can be too much admired: First, it has in

it wherewithal to defend itself against those that attack it, in

order to destroy it. Secondly, it has a faculty of reviving itself

by food. Thirdly, it has wherewithal to perpetuate its species by

generation. Let us bestow some considerations on these three

things.

SECT. XXIII. Of the Instinct of the Animal.

Animals are endowed with what is called instinct, both to approach

useful and beneficial objects, and to avoid such as may be noxious

and destructive to them. Let us not inquire wherein this instinct

consists, but content ourselves with matter of fact, without

reasoning upon it.

The tender lamb smells his dam afar off, and runs to meet her. A

sheep is seized with horror at the approach of a wolf, and flies

away before he can discern him. The hound is almost infallible in

finding out a stag, a buck, or a hare, only by the scent. There is

in every animal an impetuous spring, which, on a sudden, gathers all

the spirits; distends all the nerves; renders all the joints more

supple and pliant; and increases in an incredible manner, upon

sudden dangers, his strength, agility, speed, and cunning, in order

to make him avoid the object that threatens his destruction. The

question in this place is not to know whether beasts are endowed

with reason or understanding; for I do not pretend to engage in any

philosophical inquiry. The motions I speak of are entirely

indeliberate, even in the machine of man. If, for instance, a man

that dances on a rope should, at that time, reason on the laws and

rules of equilibrium, his reasoning would make him lose that very

equilibrium which he preserves admirably well without arguing upon

the matter, and reason would then be of no other use to him but to

throw him on the ground. The same happens with beasts; nor will it

avail anything to object that they reason as well as men, for this

objection does not in the least weaken my proof; and their reasoning

can never serve to account for the motions we admire most in them.

Will any one affirm that they know the nicest rules of mechanics,

which they observe with perfect exactness, whenever they are to run,

leap, swim, hide themselves, double, use shifts to avoid pursuing

hounds, or to make use of the strongest part of their bodies to

defend themselves? Will he say that they naturally understand the

mathematics which men are ignorant of? Will he dare to advance that

they perform with deliberation and knowledge all those impetuous and

yet so exact motions which even men perform without study or

premeditation? Will he allow them to make use of reason in those

motions, wherein it is certain man does not? It is an instinct,

will he say, that beasts are governed by. I grant it: for it is,

indeed, an instinct. But this instinct is an admirable sagacity and

dexterity, not in the beasts, who neither do, nor can then, have

time to reason, but in the superior wisdom that governs them. That

instinct, or wisdom, that thinks and watches for beasts, in

indeliberate things, wherein they could neither watch nor think,

even supposing them to be as reasonable as we, can be no other than

the wisdom of the Artificer that made these machines. Let us

therefore talk no more of instinct or nature, which are but fine

empty names in the mouth of the generality that pronounce them.

There is in what they call nature and instinct a superior art and

contrivance, of which human invention is but a shadow. What is

beyond all question is, that there are in beasts a prodigious number

of motions entirely indeliberate, and which yet are performed

according to the nicest rules of mechanics. It is the machine alone

that follows those rules: which is a fact independent from all

philosophy; and matter of fact is ever decisive. What would a man

think of a watch that should fly or slip away, turn, again, or

defend itself, for its own preservation, if he went about to break

it? Would he not admire the skill of the artificer? Could he be

induced to believe that the springs of that watch had formed,

proportioned, ranged, and united themselves, by mere chance? Could

he imagine that he had clearly explained and accounted for such

industrious and skilful operation by talking of the nature and

instinct of a watch that should exactly show the hour to his master,

and slip away from such as should go about to break its springs to

pieces?

SECT. XXIV. Of Food.

What is more noble than a machine which continually repairs and

renews itself? The animal, stinted to his own strength, is soon

tired and exhausted by labour; but the more he takes pains, the more

he finds himself pressed to make himself amends for his labour, by

more plentiful feeding. Aliments daily restore the strength he had

lost. He puts into his body another substance that becomes his own,

by a kind of metamorphosis. At first it is pounded, and being

changed into a liquor, it purifies, as if it were strained through a

sieve, in order to separate anything that is gross from it;

afterwards it arrives at the centre, or focus of the spirits, where

it is subtilised, and becomes blood. And running at last, and

penetrating through numberless vessels to moisten all the members,

it filtrates in the flesh, and becomes itself flesh. So many

aliments, and liquors of various colours, are then no more than one

and the same flesh; and food which was but an inanimate body

preserves the life of the animal, and becomes part of the animal

himself; the other parts of which he was composed being exhaled by

an insensible and continual transpiration. The matter which, for

instance, was four years ago such a horse, is now but air, or dung.

What was then either hay, or oats, is become that same horse, so

fiery and vigorous--at least, he is accounted the same horse,

notwithstanding this insensible change of his substance.

SECT. XXV. Of Sleep.

The natural attendant of food is sleep; in which the animal forbears

not only all his outward motions, but also all the principal inward

operations which might too much stir and dissipate the spirits. He

only retains respiration, and digestion; so that all motions that

might wear out his strength are suspended, and all such as are

proper to recruit and renew it go on freely of themselves. This

repose, which is a kind of enchantment, returns every night, while

darkness interrupts and hinders labour. Now, who is it that

contrived such a suspension? Who is it that so well chose the

operations that ought to continue; and, with so just discernment,

excluded all such as ought to be interrupted? The next day all past

fatigue is gone and vanished. The animal works on, as if he had

never worked before; and this reviving gives him a vivacity and

vigour that invites him to new labour. Thus the nerves are still

full of spirits, the flesh smooth, the skin whole, though one would

think it should waste and tear; the living body of the animal soon

wears out inanimate bodies, even the most solid that are about it;

and yet does not wear out itself. The skin of a horse, for

instance, wears out several saddles; and the flesh of a child,

though very delicate and tender, wears out many clothes, whilst it

daily grows stronger. If this renewing of spirits were perfect, it

would be real immortality, and the gift of eternal youth. But the

same being imperfect, the animal insensibly loses his strength,

decays and grows old, because everything that is created ought to

bear a mark of nothingness from which it was drawn; and have an end.

SECT. XXVI. Of Generation.

What is more admirable than the multiplication of animals? Look

upon the individuals: no animal is immortal. Everything grows old,

everything passes away, everything disappears, everything, in short,

is annihilated. Look upon the species: everything subsists,

everything is permanent and immutable, though in a constant

vicissitude. Ever since there have been on earth men that have

taken care to preserve the memory of events, no lions, tigers, wild

boars, or bears, were ever known to form themselves by chance in

caves or forests. Neither do we see any fortuitous productions of

dogs or cats. Bulls and sheep are never born of themselves, either

in stables, folds, or on pasture grounds. Every one of those

animals owes his birth to a certain male and female of his species.

All those different species are preserved much the same in all ages.

We do not find that for three thousand years past any one has

perished or ceased; neither do we find that any one multiplies to

such an excess as to be a nuisance or inconveniency to the rest. If

the species of lions, bears, and tigers multiplied to a certain

excessive degree, they would not only destroy the species of stags,

bucks, sheep, goats, and bulls, but even get the mastery over

mankind, and unpeople the earth. Now who maintains so just a

measure as never either to extinguish those different species, or

never to suffer them to multiply too fast?

But this continual propagation of every species is a wonder with

which we are grown too familiar. What would a man think of a

watchmaker who should have the art to make watches, which, of

themselves, should produce others ad infinitum in such a manner that

two original watches should be sufficient to multiply and perpetuate

their species over the whole earth? What would he say of an

architect that should have the skill to build houses, which should

build others, to renew the habitations of men, before the first

should decay and be ready to fall to the ground? It is, however,

what we daily see among animals. They are no more, if you please,

than mere machines, as watches are. But, after all, the Author of

these machines has endowed them with a faculty to reproduce or

perpetuate themselves ad infinitum by the conjunction of both sexes.

Affirm, if you please, that this generation of animals is performed

either by moulds or by an express configuration of every individual;

which of these two opinions you think fit to pitch upon, it comes

all to one; nor is the skill of the Artificer less conspicuous. If

you suppose that at every generation the individual, without being

cast into a mould, receives a configuration made on purpose, I ask,

who it is that manages and directs the configuration of so

compounded a machine, and which argues so much art and industry?

If, on the contrary, to avoid acknowledging any art in the case you

suppose that everything is determined by the moulds, I go back to

the moulds themselves, and ask, who is it that prepared them? In my

opinion they are still greater matter of wonder than the very

machines which are pretended to come out of them.

Therefore let who will suppose that there were moulds in the animals

that lived four thousand years ago, and affirm, if he pleases, that

those moulds were so inclosed one within another ad infinitum, that

there was a sufficient number for all the generations of those four

thousand years; and that there is still a sufficient number ready

prepared for the formation of all the animals that shall preserve

their species in all succeeding ages. Now, these moulds, which, as

I have observed, must have all the configuration of the animal, are

as difficult to be explained or accounted for as the animals

themselves, and are besides attended with far more unexplicable

wonders. It is certain that the configuration of every individual

animal requires no more art and power than is necessary to frame all

the springs that make up that machine; but when a man supposes

moulds: first, he must affirm that every mould contains in little,

with unconceivable niceness, all the springs of the machine itself.

Now, it is beyond dispute that there is more art in making so

compound a work in little than in a larger bulk. Secondly, he must

suppose that every mould, which is an individual prepared for a

first generation, contains distinctly within itself other moulds

contained within one another ad infinitum, for all possible

generations, in all succeeding ages. Now what can be more artful

and more wonderful in matter of mechanism than such a preparation of

an infinite number of individuals, all formed beforehand in one from

which they are to spring? Therefore the moulds are of no use to

explain the generations of animals without supposing any art or

skill. For, on the contrary, moulds would argue a more artificial

mechanism and more wonderful composition.

What is manifest and indisputable, independently from all the

systems of philosophers, is that the fortuitous concourse of atoms

never produces, without generation, in any part of the earth, any

lions, tigers, bears, elephants, stags, bulls, sheep, cats, dogs, or

horses. These and the like are never produced but by the encounter

of two of their kind of different sex. The two animals that produce

a third are not the true authors of the art that shines in the

composition of the animal engendered by them. They are so far from

knowing how to perform that art, that they do not so much as know

the composition or frame of the work that results from their

generation. Nay, they know not so much as any particular spring of

it; having been no more than blind and unvoluntary instruments, made

use of for the performance of a marvellous art, to which they are

absolute strangers, and of which they are perfectly ignorant. Now I

would fain know whence comes that art, which is none of theirs?

What power and wisdom knows how to employ, for the performance of

works of so ingenious and intricate a design, instruments so

uncapable to know what they are doing, or to have any notion of it?

Nor does it avail anything to suppose that beasts are endowed with

reason. Let a man suppose them to be as rational as he pleases in

other things, yet he must own, that in generation they have no share

in the art that is conspicuous in the composition of the animals

they produce.

Let us carry the thing further, and take for granted the most

wonderful instances that are given of the skill and forecast of

animals. Let us admire, as much as you please, the certainty with

which a hound takes a spring into a third way, as soon as he finds

by his nose that the game he pursues has left no scent in the other

two. Let us admire the hind, who, they say, throws a good way off

her young fawn, into some hidden place, that the hounds may not find

him out by the scent of his strain. Let us even admire the spider

who with her cobwebs lays subtle snares to trap flies, and fall

unawares upon them before they can disentangle themselves. Let us

also admire the hern, who, they say, puts his head under his wing,

in order to hide his bill under his feathers, thereby to stick the

breast of the bird of prey that stoops at him. Let us allow the

truth of all these wonderful instances of rationality; for all

nature is full of such prodigies. But what must we infer from them?

In good earnest, if we carefully examine the matter, we shall find

that they prove too much. Shall we say that animals are more

rational than we? Their instinct has undoubtedly more certainty

than our conjectures. They have learnt neither logic nor geometry,

neither have they any course or method of improvement, or any

science. Whatever they do is done of a sudden without study,

preparation, or deliberation. We commit blunders and mistakes every

hour of the day after we have a long while argued and consulted

together; whereas animals, without any reasoning or premeditation,

perform every hour what seems to require most discernment, choice,

and exactness. Their instinct is in many things infallible; but

that word instinct is but a fair name void of sense. For what can

an instinct more just, exact, precise, and certain than reason

itself mean but a more perfect reason? We must therefore suppose a

wonderful reason and understanding either in the work or in the

artificer; either in the machine or in him that made it. When, for

instance, I find that a watch shows the hours with such exactness as

surpasses my knowledge, I presently conclude that if the watch

itself does not reason, it must have been made by an artificer who,

in that particular, reasoned better and had more skill than myself.

In like manner, when I see animals, who every moment perform actions

that argue a more certain art and industry than I am master of, I

immediately conclude that such marvellous art must necessarily be

either in the machine or in the artificer that framed it. Is it in

the animal himself? But how is it possible he should be so wise and

so infallible in some things? And if this art is not in him, it

must of necessity be in the Supreme Artificer that made that piece

of work, just as all the art of a watch is in the skill of the

watchmaker.

SECT. XXVII. Though Beasts commit some Mistakes, yet their

Instinct is, in many cases, Infallible.

Do not object to me that the instinct of beasts is in some things

defective, and liable to error. It is no wonder beasts are not

infallible in everything, but it is rather a wonder they are so in

many cases. If they were infallible in everything, they should be

endowed with a reason infinitely perfect; in short, they should be

deities. In the works of an infinite Power there can be but a

finite perfection, otherwise God should make creatures like or equal

to Himself, which is impossible. He therefore cannot place

perfection, nor consequently reason, in his works, without some

bounds and restrictions. But those bounds do not prove that the

work is void of order or reason. Because I mistake sometimes, it

does not follow that I have no reason at all, and that I do

everything by mere chance, but only that my reason is stinted and

imperfect. In like manner, because a beast is not by his instinct

infallible in everything, though he be so in many, it does not

follow that there is no manner of reason in that machine, but only

that such a machine has not a boundless reason. But, after all, it

is a constant truth that in the operations of that machine there is

a regular conduct, a marvellous art, and a skill which in many cases

amounts to infallibility. Now, to whom shall we ascribe this

infallible skill? To the work, or its Artificer?

SECT. XXVIII. It is impossible Beasts should have Souls.

If you affirm that beasts have souls different from their machines,

I immediately ask you, "Of what nature are those souls entirely

different from and united to bodies? Who is it that knew how to

unite them to natures so vastly different? Who is it that has such

absolute command over so opposite natures, as to put and keep them

in such a regular and constant a society, and wherein mutual

agreement and correspondence are so necessary and so quick?

If, on the contrary, you suppose that the same matter may sometimes

think, and sometimes not think, according to the various wrangling

and configurations it may receive, I will not tell you in this place

that matter cannot think; and that one cannot conceive that the

parts of a stone, without adding anything to it, may ever know

themselves, whatever degree of motion, whatever figure, you may give

them. I will only ask you now wherein that precise ranging and

configuration of parts, which you speak of, consists? According to

your opinion there must be a degree of motion wherein matter does

not yet reason, and then another much like it wherein, on a sudden,

it begins to reason and know itself. Now, who is it that knew how

to pitch upon that precise degree of motion? Who is it that has

discovered the line in which the parts ought to move? Who is it

that has measured the dimensions so nicely as to find out and state

the bigness and figure every part must have to keep all manner of

proportions between themselves in the whole? Who is it that has

regulated the outward form by which all those bodies are to be

stinted? In a word, who is it that has found all the combinations

wherein matter thinks, and without the least of which matter must

immediately cease to think? If you say it is chance, I answer that

you make chance rational to such a degree as to be the source of

reason itself. Strange prejudice and intoxication of some men, not

to acknowledge a most intelligent cause, from which we derive all

intelligence; and rather choose to affirm that the purest reason is

but the effect of the blindest of all causes in such a subject as

matter, which of itself is altogether incapable of knowledge!

Certainly there is nothing a man of sense would not admit rather

than so extravagant and absurd an opinion.

SECT. XXIX. Sentiments of some of the Ancients concerning the Soul

and Knowledge of Beasts.

The philosophy of the ancients, though very lame and imperfect, had

nevertheless a glimpse of this difficulty; and, therefore, in order

to remove it, some of them pretended that the Divine Spirit

interspersed and scattered throughout the universe is a superior

Wisdom that continually operates in all nature, especially in

animals, just as souls act in bodies; and that this continual

impression or impulse of the Divine Spirit, which the vulgar call

instinct, without knowing the true signification of that word, was

the life of all living creatures. They added, "That those sparks of

the Divine Spirit were the principle of all generations; that

animals received them in their conception and at their birth; and

that the moment they died those divine particles disengaged

themselves from all terrestrial matter in order to fly up to heaven,

where they shone and rolled among the stars. It is this philosophy,

at once so magnificent and so fabulous, which Virgil so gracefully

expresses in the following verses upon bees:--

"Esse apibus partem divinae mentis, et haustus

AEtherios dixere: Deum namque ire per omnes

Terrasque, tractusque maris, caelumque profundum.

Hinc pecudes, armenta viros, genus omne ferarum,

Quemque sibi tenues nascentem arcessere vitas.

Scilicet huc reddi deinde, ac resoluta referri

Omnia, nec morti esse locum, sed viva volare

Sideris in numerum, atque alto succedere caelo."