That Divine Wisdom that moves all the known parts of the world had
made so deep an impression upon the Stoics, and on Plato before
them, that they believed the whole world to be an animal, but a
rational and wise animal--in short, the Supreme God. This
philosophy reduced Polytheism, or the multitude of gods, to Deism,
or one God, and that one God to Nature, which according to them was
eternal, infallible, intelligent, omnipotent, and divine. Thus
philosophers, by striving to keep from and rectify the notions of
poets, dwindled again at last into poetical fancies, since they
assigned, as the inventors of fables did, a life, an intelligence,
an art, and a design to all the parts of the universe that appear
most inanimate. Undoubtedly they were sensible of the wonderful art
that is conspicuous in nature, and their only mistake lay in
ascribing to the work the skill of the Artificer.
SECT. XXX. Of Man.
Let us not stop any longer with animals inferior to man. It is high
time to consider and study the nature of man himself, in order to
discover Him whose image he is said to bear. I know but two sorts
of beings in all nature: those that are endowed with knowledge or
reason, and those that are not Now man is a compound of these two
modes of being. He has a body, as the most inanimate corporeal
beings have; and he has a spirit, a mind, or a soul--that is, a
thought whereby he knows himself, and perceives what is about him.
If it be true that there is a First Being who has drawn or created
all the rest from nothing, man is truly His image; for he has, like
Him, in his nature all the real perfection that is to be found in
those two various kinds or modes of being. But an image is but an
image still, and can be but an adumbration or shadow of the true
Perfect Being.
Let us begin to study man by the contemplation of his body. "I know
not," said a mother to her children in the Holy Writ, "how you were
formed in my womb." Nor is it, indeed, the wisdom of the parents
that forms so compounded and so regular a work. They have no share
in that wonderful art; let us therefore leave them, and trace it up
higher.
SECT. XXXI. Of the Structure of Man's Body.
The body is made of clay; but let us admire the Hand that framed and
polished it. The Artificer's Seal is stamped upon His work. He
seems to have delighted in making a masterpiece with so vile a
matter. Let us cast our eyes upon that body, in which the bones
sustain the flesh that covers them. The nerves that are extended in
it make up all its strength; and the muscles with which the sinews
weave themselves, either by swelling or extending themselves,
perform the most exact and regular motions. The bones are divided
at certain distances, but they have joints, whereby they are set one
within another, and are tied by nerves and tendons. Cicero admires,
with reason, the excellent art with which the bones are knit
together. For what is more supple for all various motions? And, on
the other hand, what is more firm and durable? Even after a body is
dead, and its parts are separated by corruption, we find that these
joints and ligaments can hardly be destroyed. Thus this human
machine or frame is either straight or crooked, stiff or supple, as
we please. From the brain, which is the source of all the nerves,
spring the spirits, which are so subtle that they escape the sight;
and nevertheless so real, and of so great activity and force, that
they perform all the motions of the machine, and make up all in
strength. These spirits are in an instant conveyed to the very
extremities of the members. Sometimes they flow gently and
regularly, sometimes they move with impetuosity, as occasion
requires; and they vary ad infinitum the postures, gestures, and
other actions of the body.
SECT. XXXII. Of the Skin.
Let us consider the flesh. It is covered in certain places with a
soft and tender skin, for the ornament of the body. If that skin,
that renders the object so agreeable, and gives it so sweet a
colour, were taken off, the same object would become ghastly, and
create horror. In other places that same skin is harder and
thicker, in order to resist the fatigue of those parts. As, for
instance, how harder is the skin of the feet than that of the face?
And that of the hinder part of the head than that of the forehead?
That skin is all over full of holes like a sieve: but those holes,
which are called pores, are imperceptible. Although sweat and other
transpirations exhale through those pores, the blood never runs out
that way. That skin has all the tenderness necessary to make it
transparent, and give the face a lively, sweet, and graceful colour.
If the skin were less close, and less smooth, the face would look
bloody, and excoriated. Now, who is that knew how to temper and mix
those colours with such nicety as to make a carnation which painters
admire, but never can perfectly imitate?
SECT. XXXIII. Of Veins and Arteries.
There are in man's body numberless branches of blood-vessels. Some
of them carry the blood from the centre to the extreme parts, and
are called arteries. Through those various vessels runs the blood,
a liquor soft and oily, and by this oiliness proper to retain the
most subtle spirits, just as the most subtle and spirituous essences
are preserved in gummy bodies. This blood moistens the flesh, as
springs and rivers water the earth; and after it has filtrated in
the flesh, it returns to its source, more slowly, and less full of
spirits: but it renews, and is again subtilised in that source, in
order to circulate without ceasing.
SECT. XXXIV. Of the Bones, and their Jointing.
Do you consider that excellent order and proportion of the limbs?
The legs and thighs are great bones jointed one with another, and
knit together by tendons. They are two sorts of pillars, equal and
regular, erected to support the whole fabric. But those pillars
fold; and the rotula of the knee is a bone of a circular figure,
which is placed on purpose on the joint, in order to fill it up, and
preserve it, when the bones fold, for the bending of the knee. Each
column or pillar has its pedestal, which is composed of various
inlaid parts, so well jointed together, that they can either bend,
or keep stiff, as occasion requires. The pedestal, I mean the foot,
turns, at a man's pleasure, under the pillar. In this foot we find
nothing but nerves, tendons, and little bones closely knit, that
this part may, at once, be either more supple or more firm,
according to various occasions. Even the toes, with their articles
and nails, serve to feel the ground a man walks on, to lean and
stand with more dexterity and nimbleness, the better to preserve the
equilibrium of the body, to rise, or to stoop. The two feet stretch
forward, to keep the body from falling that way, when it stoops or
bends. The two pillars are jointed together at the top, to bear up
the rest of the body, but are still divided there in such a manner,
that that joint affords man the conveniency of resting himself, by
sitting on the two biggest muscles of the body.
The body of the structure is proportioned to the height of the
pillars. It contains such parts as are necessary for life, and
which consequently ought to be placed in the centre, and shut up in
the securest place. Therefore two rows of ribs pretty close to one
another, that come out of the backbone, as the branches of a tree do
from its trunk, form a kind of hoop, to hide and shelter those noble
and tender parts. But because the ribs could not entirely shut up
that centre of the human body, without hindering the dilatation of
the stomach and of the entrails, they form that hoop but to a
certain place, below which they leave an empty space, that the
inside may freely distend and stretch, both for respiration and
feeding.
As for the backbone, all the works of man afford nothing so artfully
and curiously wrought. It would be too stiff, and too frangible or
brittle, if it were made of one single bone: and in such a case man
could never bend or stoop. The author of this machine has prevented
that inconveniency by forming vertebrae, which jointing one with
another make up a whole, consisting of several pieces of bones, more
strong than if it were of a single piece. This compound being
sometimes supple and pliant, and sometimes stiff, stands either
upright, or bends, in a moment, as a man pleases. All these
vertebrae have in the middle a gutter or channel, that serves to
convey a continuation of the substance of the brain to the
extremities of the body, and with speed to send thither spirits
through that pipe.
But who can forbear admiring the nature of the bones? They are very
hard; and we see that even the corruption of all the rest of the
body, after death, does not affect them. Nevertheless, they are
full of numberless holes and cavities that make them lighter; and in
the middle they are full of the marrow, or pith, that is to nourish
them. They are bored exactly in those places through which the
ligaments that knit them are to pass. Moreover, their extremities
are bigger than the middle, and form, as it were, two semicircular
heads, to make one bone turn more easily with another, that so the
whole may fold and bend without trouble.
SECT. XXXV. Of the Organs.
Within the enclosure of the ribs are placed in order all the great
organs such as serve to make a man breathe; such as digest the
aliments; and such as make new blood. Respiration, or breathing, is
necessary to temper inward heat, occasioned by the boiling of the
blood, and by the impetuous course of the spirits. The air is a
kind of food that nourishes the animal, and by means of which he
renews himself every moment of his life. Nor is digestion less
necessary to prepare sensible aliments towards their being changed
into blood, which is a liquor apt to penetrate everywhere, and to
thicken into flesh in the extreme parts, in order to repair in all
the members what they lose continually both by transpiration and the
waste of spirits. The lungs are like great covers, which being
spongy, easily dilate and contract themselves, and as they
incessantly take in and blow out a great deal of air, they form a
kind of bellows that are in perpetual motion. The stomach has a
dissolvent that causes hunger, and puts man in mind of his want of
food. That dissolvent, which stimulates and pricks the stomach,
does, by that very uneasiness, prepare for it a very lively
pleasure, when its craving is satisfied by the aliments. Then man,
with delight, fills his belly with strange matter, which would
create horror in him if he could see it as soon as it has entered
his stomach, and which even displeases him, when he sees it being
already satisfied. The stomach is made in the figure of a bagpipe.
There the aliments being dissolved by a quick coction, or digestion,
are all confounded, and make up a soft liquor, which afterwards
becomes a kind of milk, called chyle; and which being at last
brought into the heart, receives there, through the plenty of
spirits, the form, vivacity, and colour of blood. But while the
purest juice of the aliments passes from the stomach into the pipes
destined for the preparation of chyle and blood, the gross particles
of the same aliments are separated, just as bran is from flour by a
sieve; and they are dejected downwards to ease the body of them,
through the most hidden passages, and the most remote from the
organs of the senses, lest these be offended at them. Thus the
wonders of this machine are so great and numerous, that we find some
unfathomable, even in the most abject and mortifying functions of
the body, which modesty will not allow to be more particularly
explained.
SECT. XXXVI. Of the Inward Parts.
I own that the inward parts are not so agreeable to the sight as the
outward; but then be pleased to observe they are not made to be
seen. Nay, it was necessary according to art and design that they
should not be discovered without horror, and that a man should not
without violent reluctance go about to discover them by cutting open
this machine in another man. It is this very horror that prepares
compassion and humanity in the hearts of men when one sees another
wounded or hurt. Add to this, with St. Austin, that there are in
those inward parts a proportion, order, and mechanism which still
please more an attentive, inquisitive mind than external beauty can
please the eyes of the body. That inside of man--which is at once
so ghastly and horrid and so wonderful and admirable--is exactly as
it should be to denote dirt and clay wrought by a Divine hand, for
we find in it both the frailty of the creature and the art of the
Creator.
SECT. XXXVII. Of the Arms and their Use.
From the top of that precious fabric we have described hang the two
arms, which are terminated by the hands, and which bear a perfect
symmetry one with another. The arms are knit with the shoulders in
such a manner that they have a free motion, in that joint. They are
besides divided at the elbow and at the wrist that they may fold,
bend, and turn with quickness. The arms are of a just length to
reach all the parts of the body. They are nervous and full of
muscles, that they may, as well as the back, be often in action and
sustain the greatest fatigue of all the body. The hands are a
contexture of nerves and little bones set one within another in such
a manner that they have all the strength and suppleness necessary to
feel the neighbouring bodies, to seize on them, hold them fast,
throw them, draw them to one, push them off, disentangle them, and
untie them one from another.
The fingers, the ends of which are armed with nails, are by the
delicacy and variety of their motions contrived to exercise the most
curious and marvellous arts. The arms and hands serve also,
according as they are either extended, folded, or turned, to poise
the body in such a manner as that it may stoop without any danger of
falling. The whole machine has, besides, independently from all
after-thoughts, a kind of spring that poises it on a sudden and
makes it find the equilibrium in all its different postures and
positions.
SECT. XXXVIII. Of the Neck and Head.
Above the body rises the neck, which is either firm or flexible at
pleasure. Must a man bear a heavy burden on his head? This neck
becomes as stiff as if it were made up of one single bone. Has he a
mind to bow or turn his head? The neck bends every way as if all
its bones were disjointed. This neck, a little raised above the
shoulders, bears up with ease the head, which over-rules and governs
the whole body. If it were less big it would bear no proportion
with the rest of the machine; and if it were bigger it would not
only be disproportioned and deformed, but, besides, its weight would
both crush the neck and put man in danger of falling on the side it
should lean a little too much. This head, fortified on all sides by
very thick and very hard bones in order the better to preserve the
precious treasure it encloses, is jointed with the vertebrae of the
neck, and has a very quick communication with all the other parts of
the body. It contains the brain, whose moist, soft, and spongy
substance is made up of tender filaments or threads woven together;
this is the centre of all the wonders we shall speak of afterwards.
The skull is regularly perforated, or bored, with exact proportion,
and symmetry, for, the two eyes, the two ears, the mouth, and the
nostrils. There are nerves destined for sensations, that exercise
and play in most of those pipes. The nose, which has no nerves for
its sensation, has a cribriform, or spongy bone, to let odours pass
on to the brain. Amongst the organs of these sensations the chief
are double, to preserve to one side what the other might happen to
be defective in by any accident. These two organs of the same
sensation are symmetrically placed either on the forepart or on the
sides, that man may use them with more ease to the right or to the
left or right against him--that is to say, towards the places his
joints direct his steps and all his actions. Besides, the
flexibility of the neck makes all those organs turn in an instant
which way soever he pleases. All the hinder part of the head, which
is the least able to defend itself, is therefore the thickest. It
is adorned with hair which at the same time serves to fortify the
head against the injuries of the air; and, on the other hand, the
hair likewise adorns the fore part of the head and renders the face
more graceful. The face is the fore part of the head, wherein the
principal sensations meet and centre with an order and proportion
that render it very beautiful unless some accident or other happen
to alter and impair so regular a piece of work. The two eyes are
equal, being placed about the middle, on the two sides of the head,
that they may, without trouble, discover afar off both on the right
and left all strange objects, and that they may commodiously watch
for the safety of all the parts of the body. The exact symmetry
with which they are placed is the ornament of the face; and He that
made them has kindled in them I know not what celestial flame, the
like of which all the rest of nature does not afford. These eyes
are a sort of looking-glasses, wherein all the objects of the whole
world are painted by turns and without confusion in the bottom of
the retina that the thinking part of man may see them in those
looking-glasses. But though we perceive all objects by a double
organ, yet we never see the objects double, because the two nerves
that are subservient to sight in our eyes are but two branches that
unite in one pipe, as the two glasses of a pair of spectacles unite
in the upper part that joins them together. The two eyes are
adorned with two equal eyebrows, and, that they may open and close,
they are wrapped up with lids edged with hair that defend so
delicate a part.
SECT. XXXIX. Of the Forehead and Other Parts of the Face.
The forehead gives majesty and gracefulness to all the face, and
serves to heighten all its features. Were it not for the nose,
which is placed in the middle, the whole face would look flat and
deformed, of which they are fully convinced who have happened to see
men in whom that part of the face is mutilated. It is placed just
above the mouth, that it may the more easily discern, by the odours,
whatever is most proper to feed man. The two nostrils serve at once
both for the respiration and smell. Look upon the lips: their
lively colour, freshness, figure, seat, and proportion, with the
other features, render the face most beautiful. The mouth, by the
correspondence of its motions with those of the eyes, animates,
gladdens, suddens, softens, or troubles the face, and by sensible
marks expresses every passion. The lips not only open to receive
food, but by their suppleness and the variety of their motions serve
likewise to vary the sounds that form speech. When they open they
discover a double row of teeth with which the mouth is adorned.
These teeth are little bones set in order in the two jaw-bones,
which have a spring to open and another to shut in such a manner
that the teeth grind, like a mill, the aliments in order to prepare
their digestion. But these aliments thus ground go down into the
stomach, through a pipe different from that through which we
breathe, and these two pipes, though so neighbouring, have nothing
common.
SECT. XL. Of the Tongue and Teeth.
The tongue is a contexture of small muscles and nerves so very
supple, that it winds and turns like a serpent, with unconceivable
mobility and pliantness. It performs in the mouth the same office
which either the fingers or the bow of a master of music perform on
a musical instrument: for sometimes it strikes the teeth, sometimes
the roof of the mouth. There is a pipe that goes into the inside of
the neck, called throat, from the roof of the mouth to the breast,
which is made up of cartilaginous rings nicely set one within
another, and lined within with a very smooth membrane, in order to
render the air that is pushed from the lungs more sonorous. On the
side of the roof of the mouth the end of that pipe is opened like a
flute, by a slit, that either extends, or contracts itself as is
necessary to render the voice either big or slender, hollow or
clear. But lest the aliments, which have their separate pipe,
should slide into the windpipe I have been describing, there is a
kind of valve that lies on the orifice of the organ of the voice,
and playing like a drawbridge, lets the aliments freely pass through
their proper channel, but never suffers the least particle or drop
to fall into the slit of the windpipe. This sort of valve has a
very free motion, and easily turns any way, so that by shaking on
that half-opened orifice, it performs the softest modulations of the
voice. This instance is sufficient to show, by-the-by, and without
entering long-winded details of anatomy, what a marvellous art there
is in the frame of the inward parts. And indeed the organ I have
described is the most perfect of all musical instruments, nor have
these any perfection, but so far as they imitate that.
SECT. XLI. Of the Smell, Taste, and Hearing.
Who were able to explain the niceness of the organs by which man
discerns the numberless savours and odours of bodies? But how is it
possible for so many different voices to strike at once my ear
without confounding one another, and for those sounds to leave in
me, after they have ceased to be, so lively and so distinct images
of what they have been? How careful was the Artificer who made our
bodies to give our eyes a moist, smooth, and sliding cover to close
them; and why did He leave our ears open? Because, says Cicero, the
eyes must be shut against the light in order to sleep; and, in the
meantime, the ears ought to remain open in order to give us warning,
and wake us by the report of noise, when we are in danger of being
surprised. Who is it that, in an instant, imprints in my eye the
heaven, the sea, and the earth, seated at almost an infinite
distance? How can the faithful images of all the objects of the
universe, from the sun to an atom, range themselves distinctly in so
small an organ? Is not the substance of the brain, which preserves,
in order, such lively representations of all the objects that have
made an impression upon us ever since we were in the world, a most
wonderful prodigy? Men admire with reason the invention of books,
wherein the history of so many events, and the collection of so many
thoughts, are preserved. But what comparison can be made between
the best book and the brain of a learned man? There is no doubt but
such a brain is a collection infinitely more precious, and of a far
more excellent contrivance, than a book. It is in that small
repository that a man never misses finding the images he has
occasion for. He calls them, and they come; he dismisses them, and
they sink I know not where, and disappear, to make room for others.
A man shuts or opens his fancy at pleasure, like a book. He turns,
as it were, its leaves; and, in an instant, goes from one end to the
other. There is even in memory a sort of table, like the index of a
book, which shows where certain remote images are to be found. We
do not find that these innumerable characters, which the mind of man
reads inwardly with so much rapidity, leave any distinct trace or
print in the brain, when we open it. That admirable book is but a
soft substance, or a sort of bottom made up of tender threads, woven
one with another. Now what skilful hand has laid up in that kind of
dirt, which appears so shapeless, such precious images, ranged with
such excellent and curious art?
SECT. XLII. Of the Proportion of Man's Body.
Such is the body of man in general: for I do not enter into an
anatomical detail, my design being only to discover the art that is
conspicuous in nature, by the simple cast of an eye, without any
science. The body of man might undoubtedly be either much bigger
and taller, or much lesser and smaller. But if, for instance, it
were but one foot high, it would be insulted by most animals, that
would tread and crush it under their feet. If it were as tall as a
high steeple, a small number of men would in a few days consume all
the aliments a whole country affords. They could find neither
horses nor any other beasts of burden either to carry them on their
backs or draw them in a machine with wheels; nor could they find
sufficient quantity of materials to build houses proportioned to
their bigness; and as there could be but a small number of men upon
earth, so they should want most conveniences. Now, who is it that
has so well regulated the size of man to so just a standard? Who is
it that has fixed that of other animals and living creatures, with
proportion to that of man? Of all animals, man only stands upright
on his feet, which gives him a nobleness and majesty that
distinguishes him, even as to the outside, from all that lives upon
earth. Not only his figure is the noblest, but he is also the
strongest and most dextrous of all animals, in proportion to his
bigness. Let one nicely examine the bulk and weight of the most
terrible beasts, and he will find, that though they have more matter
than the body of a man, yet a vigorous man has more strength of body
than most wild beasts. Nor are these dreadful to him, except in
their teeth and claws. But man, who has not such natural arms in
his limbs, has yet hands, whose dexterity to make artificial weapons
surpasses all that nature has bestowed upon beasts. Thus man either
pierces with his darts or draws into his snares, masters, and leads
in chains the strongest and fiercest animals. Nay, he has the skill
to tame them in their captivity, and to sport with them as he
pleases. He teaches lions and tigers to caress him: and gets on
the back of elephants.
SECT. XLIII. Of the Soul, which alone, among all Creatures, Thinks
and Knows.
But the body of man, which appears to be the masterpiece of nature,
is not to be compared to his thought. It is certain that there are
bodies that do not think: man, for instance, ascribes no knowledge
to stone, wood, or metals, which undoubtedly are bodies. Nay, it is
so natural to believe that matter cannot think, that all
unprejudiced men cannot forbear laughing when they hear any one
assert that beasts are but mere machines; because they cannot
conceive that mere machines can have such knowledge as they pretend
to perceive in beasts. They think it to be like children's playing,
and talking to their puppets, the ascribing any knowledge to mere
machines. Hence it is that the ancients themselves, who knew no
real substance but the body, pretended, however, that the soul of a
man was a fifth element, or a sort of quintessence without name,
unknown here below, indivisible, immutable, and altogether celestial
and divine, because they could not conceive that the terrestrial
matter of the four elements could think, and know itself:
Aristoteles quintam quandam naturam censet esse, e qua sit mens.
Cogitare enim, et providere, et discere, et docere. . . . in horum
quatuor generum nullo inesse putat; quintum genus adhibet vacans
nomine.
SECT. XLIV. Matter Cannot Think.
But let us suppose whatever you please, for I will not enter the
lists with any sect of philosophers: here is an alternative which
no philosopher can avoid. Either matter can become a thinking
substance, without adding anything to it, or matter cannot think at
all, and so what thinks in us is a substance distinct from matter,
and which is united to it. If matter can acquire the faculty of
thinking without adding anything to it, it must, at least, be owned
that all matter does not think, and that even some matter that now
thinks did not think fifty years ago; as, for instance, the matter
of which the body of a young man is made up did not think ten years
before he was born. It must then be concluded that matter can
acquire the faculty of thinking by a certain configuration, ranging,
and motion of its parts. Let us, for instance, suppose the matter
of a stone, or of a heap of sand. It is agreed this part of matter
has no manner of thought; and therefore to make it begin to think,
all its parts must be configurated, ranged, and moved a certain way
and to a certain degree. Now, who is it that knew how to find, with
so much niceness, that proportion, order, and motion that way, and
to such a degree, above and below which matter would never think?
Who is it that has given all those just, exact, and precise
modifications to a vile and shapeless matter, in order to form the
body of a child, and to render it rational by degrees? If, on the
contrary, it be affirmed that matter cannot become a thinking
substance without adding something to it, and that another being
must be united to it, I ask, what will that other thinking being be,
whilst the matter, to which it is united, only moves? Therefore,
here are two natures or substances very unlike and distinct. We
know one by figures and local motions only; as we do the other by
perceptions and reasonings. The one does not imply, or create the
idea of the other, for their respective ideas have nothing in
common.
SECT. XLV. Of the Union of the Soul and Body, of which God alone
can be the Author.
But now, how comes it to pass that beings so unlike are so
intimately united together in man? Whence comes it that certain
motions of the body so suddenly and so infallibly raise certain
thoughts in the soul? Whence comes it that the thoughts of the
soul, so suddenly and so infallibly, occasion certain motions in the
body? Whence proceeds so regular a society, for seventy or
fourscore years, without any interruption? How comes it to pass
that this union of two beings, and two operations, so very
different, make up so exact a compound, that many are tempted to
believe it to be a simple and indivisible whole? What hand had the
skill to unite and tie together these two extremes and opposites?
It is certain they did not unite themselves by mutual consent, for
matter having of itself neither thought nor will, to make terms and
conditions, it could not enter into an agreement with the mind. On
the other hand, the mind does not remember that it ever made an
agreement with matter; nor could it be subjected to such an
agreement, if it had quite forgot it. If the mind had freely, and
of its own accord, resolved to submit to the impressions of matter,
it would not, however, subject itself to them but when it should
remember such a resolution, which, besides, it might alter at
pleasure. Nevertheless, it is certain that in spite of itself it is
dependent on the body, and that it cannot free itself from its
dependence, unless it destroy the organs of the body by a violent
death. Besides, although the mind had voluntarily subjected itself
to matter, it would not follow that matter were reciprocally
subjected to the mind. The mind would indeed have certain thoughts
when the body should have certain motions, but the body would not be
determined to have, in its turn, certain motions, as soon as the
mind should have certain thoughts. Now it is most certain that this
dependence is reciprocal. Nothing is more absolute than the command
of the mind over the body. The mind wills, and, instantly, all the
members of the body are in motion, as if they were acted by the most
powerful machines. On the other hand, nothing is more manifest than
the power and influence of the body over the mind. The body is in
motion, and, instantly the mind is forced to think either with
pleasure or pain, upon certain objects. Now, what hand equally
powerful over these two divers and distinct natures has been able to
bring them both under the same yoke, and hold them captive in so
exact and inviolable a society? Will any man say it was chance? If
he does, will he be able either to understand what he means, or to
make it understood by others? Has chance, by a concourse of atoms,
hooked together the parts of the body with the mind? If the mind
can be hooked with some parts of the body, it must have parts
itself, and consequently be a perfect body, in which case, we
relapse into the first answer, which I have already confuted. If,
on the contrary, the mind has no parts, nothing can hook it with
those of the body, nor has chance wherewithal to tie them together.
In short, my alternative ever returns, and is peremptory and
decisive. If the mind and body are a whole made up of matter only,
how comes it to pass that this matter, which yesterday did not, has
this day begun to think? Who is it that has bestowed upon it what
it had not, and which is without comparison more noble than
thoughtless matter? What bestows thought upon it, has it not
itself, and how can it give what it has not? Let us even suppose
that thought should result from a certain configuration, ranging,
and degree of motion a certain way, of all the parts of matter:
what artificer has had the skill to find out all those just, nice,
and exact combinations, in order to make a thinking machine? If, on
the contrary, the mind and body are two distinct natures, what power
superior to those two natures has been able to unite and tie
together without the mind's assent, or so much as its knowing which
way that union was made? Who is it that with such absolute and
supreme command over-rules both minds and bodies, and keeps them in
society and correspondence, and under a sort of incomprehensible
policy?
SECT. XLVI. The Soul has an Absolute Command over the Body.
Be pleased to observe that the command of my mind over my body is
supreme and absolute in its bounded extent, since my single will,
without any effort or preparation, causes all the members of my body
to move on a sudden and immediately, according to the rules of
mechanics. As the Scripture gives us the character of God, who said
after the creation of the universe, "Let there be light, and there
was light"--in like manner, the inward word of my soul alone,
without any effort or preparation, makes what it says. I say, for
instance, within myself, through that inward, simple, and
momentaneous word, "Let my body move, and it moves." At the command
of that simple and intimate will, all the parts of my body are at
work. Immediately all nerves are distended, all the springs hasten
to concur together, and the whole machine obeys, just as if every
one of the most secret of those organs heard a supreme and
omnipotent voice. This is certainly the most simple and most
effectual power that can be conceived. All the other beings within
our knowledge afford not the like instance of it, and this is
precisely what men that are sensible and persuaded of a Deity
ascribe to it in all the universe.
Shall I ascribe it to my feeble mind, or rather to the power it has
over my body, which is so vastly different from it? Shall I believe
that my will has that supreme command of its own nature, though in
itself so weak and imperfect? But how comes it to pass that, among
so many bodies, it has that power over no more than one? For no
other body moves according to its desires. Now, who is it that gave
over one body the power it had over no other? Will any man be again
so bold as to ascribe this to chance?
SECT. XLVII. The Power of the Soul over the Body is not only
Supreme or Absolute, but Blind at the same time.
But that power, which is so supreme and absolute, is blind at the
same time. The most simple and ignorant peasant knows how to move
his body as well as a philosopher the most skilled in anatomy. The
mind of a peasant commands his nerves, muscles, and tendons, which
he knows not, and which he never heard of. He finds them without
knowing how to distinguish them, or knowing where they lie; he calls
precisely upon such as he has occasion for, nor does he mistake one
for the other. If a rope-dancer, for instance, does but will, the
spirits instantly run with impetuousness, sometimes to certain
nerves, sometimes to others--all which distend or slacken in due
time. Ask him which of them he set a-going, and which way he begun
to move them? He will not so much as understand what you mean. He
is an absolute stranger to what he has done in all the inward
springs of his machine. The lute-player, who is perfectly well
acquainted with all the strings of his instrument, who sees them
with his eyes, and touches them one after another with his fingers,
yet mistakes them sometimes. But the soul that governs the machine
of man's body moves all its springs in time, without seeing or
discerning them, without being acquainted with their figure,
situation, or strength, and yet it never mistakes. What prodigy is
here! My mind commands what it knows not, and cannot see; what
neither has, nor is capable of any knowledge. And yet it is
infallibly obeyed. How much blindness and how much power at once is
here! The blindness is man's; but the power, whose is it? To whom
shall we ascribe it, unless it be to Him who sees what man does not
see, and performs in him what passes his understanding? It is to no
purpose my mind is willing to move the bodies that surround it, and
which it knows very distinctly; for none of them stirs, and it has
not power to move the least atom by its will. There is but one
single body, which some superior Power must have made its property.
With respect to this body, my mind is but willing, and all the
springs of that machine, which are unknown to it, move in time and
in concert to obey him. St. Augustin, who made these reflections,
has expressed them excellently well. "The inward parts of our
bodies," says he, "cannot be living but by our souls; but our souls
animate them far more easily than they can know them. . . . The
soul knows not the body which is subject to it. . . . It does not
know why it does not move the nerves but when it pleases; and why,
on the contrary, the pulsation of veins goes on without
interruption, whether the mind will or no. It knows not which is
the first part of the body it moves immediately, in order thereby to
move all the rest. . . . It does not know why it feels in spite of
itself, and moves the members only when it pleases. It is the mind
does these things in the body. But how comes it to pass it neither
knows what she does, nor in what manner it performs it? Those who
learn, anatomy," continues that father, "are taught by others what
passes within, and is performed by themselves. Why," says he, "do I
know, without being taught, that there is in the sky, at a
prodigious distance from me, a sun and stars; and why have I
occasion for a master to learn where motion begins? . . . When I
move my finger, I know not how what I perform within myself is
performed. We are too far above, and cannot comprehend ourselves."
SECT. XLVIII. The Sovereignty of the Soul over the Body
principally appears in the Images imprinted in the Brain.
It is certain we cannot sufficiently admire either the absolute
power of the soul over corporeal organs which she knows not, or the
continual use it makes of them without discerning them. That
sovereignty principally appears with respect to the images imprinted
in our brain. I know all the bodies of the universe that have made
any impression on my senses for a great many years past. I have
distinct images of them that represent them to me, insomuch that I
believe I see them even when they exist no more. My brain is like a
closet full of pictures, which should move and set themselves in
order at the master's pleasure. Painters, with all their art and
skill, never attain but an imperfect likeness; whereas the pictures
I have in my head are so faithful, that it is by consulting them I
perceive all the defects of those made by painters, and correct them
within myself. Now, do these images, more like their original than
the masterpieces of the art of painting, imprint themselves in my
head without any art? Is my brain a book, all the characters of
which have ranged themselves of their own accord? If there be any
art in the case, it does not proceed from me. For I find within me
that collection of images without having ever so much as thought
either to imprint them, or set them in order. Moreover, all these
images either appear or retire as I please, without any confusion.
I call them back, and they return; I dismiss them, and they sink I
know not where. They either assemble or separate, as I please. But
I neither know where they lie, nor what they are. Nevertheless I
find them always ready. The agitation of so many images, old and
new, that revive, join, or separate, never disturbs a certain order
that is amongst them. If some of them do not appear at the first
summons, at least I am certain they are not far off. They may lurk
in some deep corner, but I am not totally ignorant of them as I am
of things I never knew; for, on the contrary, I know confusedly what
I look for. If any other image offers itself in the room of that I
called for, I immediately dismiss it, telling it, "It is not you I
have occasion for." But, then, where lie objects half-forgotten?
They are present within me, since I look for them there, and find
them at last. Again, in what manner are they there, since I look
for them a long while in vain? What becomes of them? "I am no
more," says St. Augustin, "what I was when I had the thoughts I
cannot find again. I know not," continues that father, "either how
it comes to pass that I am thus withdrawn from and deprived of
myself, or how I am afterwards brought back and restored to myself.
I am, as it were, another man, and carried to another place, when I
look for, and do not find, what I had trusted to my memory. In such
a case we cannot reach, and are, in a manner, strangers remote from
ourselves. Nor do we come at us but when we find what we are in
quest of. But where is it we look for but within us? Or what is it
we look for but ourselves? . . . So unfathomable a difficulty
astonishes us!" I distinctly remember I have known what I do not
know at present. I remember my very oblivion. I call to mind the
pictures or images of every person in every period of life wherein I
have seen them formerly, so that the same person passes several
times in my head. At first, I see one a child, then a young, and
afterwards an old, man. I place wrinkles in the same face in which,
on the other side, I see the tender graces of infancy. I join what
subsists no more with what is still, without confounding these
extremes. I preserve I know not what, which, by turns, is all that
I have seen since I came into the world. Out of this unknown store
come all the perfumes, harmonies, tastes, degrees, and mixtures of
colours; in short, all the figures that have passed through my
senses, and which they have trusted to my brain. I revive when I
please the joy I felt thirty years ago. It returns; but sometimes
it is not the same it was formerly, and appears without rejoicing
me. I remember I have been well pleased, and yet am not so while I
have that remembrance. On the other hand, I renew past sorrows and
troubles. They are present; for I distinctly perceive them such as
they were formerly, and not the least part of their bitterness and
lively sense escapes my memory. But yet they are no more the same;
they are dulled, and neither trouble nor disquiet me. I perceive
all their severity without feeling it; or, if I feel it, it is only
by representation, which turns a former smart and racking pain into
a kind of sport and diversion, for the image of past sorrows
rejoices me. It is the same with pleasures: a virtuous mind is
afflicted by the memory of its disorderly unlawful enjoyments. They
are present, for they appear with all their softest and most
flattering attendants; but they are no more themselves, and such
joys return only to make us uneasy.
SECT. XLIX. Two Wonders of the Memory and Brain.
Here, therefore, are two wonders equally incomprehensible. The
first, that my brain is a kind of book, that contains a number
almost infinite of images, and characters ranged in an order I did
not contrive, and of which chance could not be the author. For I
never had the least thought either of writing anything in my brain,
or to place in any order the images and characters I imprinted in
it. I had no other thought but only to see the objects that struck
my senses. Neither could chance make so marvellous a book: even
all the art of man is too imperfect ever to reach so high a
perfection, therefore what hand had the skill to compose it?
The second wonder I find in my brain, is to see that my mind reads
with so much ease, whatever it pleases, in that inward book; and
read even characters it does not know. I never saw the traces or
figures imprinted in my brain, and even the substance of my brain
itself, which is like the paper of that book, is altogether unknown
to me. All those numberless characters transpose themselves, and
afterwards resume their rank and place to obey my command. I have,
as it were, a divine power over a work I am unacquainted with, and
which is incapable of knowledge. That which understands nothing,
understands my thought and performs it instantly. The thought of
man has no power over bodies: I am sensible of it by running over
all nature. There is but one single body which my bare will moves,
as if it were a deity; and even moves the most subtle and nicest
springs of it, without knowing them. Now, who is it that united my
will to this body, and gave it so much power over it?
SECT. L. The Mind of Man is mixed with Greatness and Weakness.
Its Greatness consists in two things. First, the Mind has the Idea
of the Infinite.
Let us conclude these observations by a short reflection on the
essence of our mind; in which I find an incomprehensible mixture of
greatness and weakness. Its greatness is real: for it brings
together the past and the present, without confusion; and by its
reasoning penetrates into futurity. It has the idea both of bodies
and spirits. Nay, it has the idea of the infinite: for it supposes
and affirms all that belongs to it, and rejects and denies all that
is not proper to it. If you say that the infinite is triangular,
the mind will answer without hesitation, that what has no bounds can
have no figure. If you desire it to assign the first of the units
that make up an infinite number, it will readily answer, that there
can be no beginning, end, or number in the infinite; because if one
could find either a first or last unit in it, one might add some
other unit to that, and consequently increase the number. Now a
number cannot be infinite, when it is capable of some addition, and
when a limit may be assigned to it, on the side where it may receive
an increase.
SECT. LI. The Mind knows the Finite only by the Idea of the
Infinite.
It is even in the infinite that my mind knows the finite. When we
say a man is sick, we mean a man that has no health; and when we
call a man weak, we mean one that has no strength. We know
sickness, which is a privation of health, no other way but by
representing to us health itself as a real good, of which such a man
is deprived; and, in like manner, we only know weakness, by
representing to us strength as a real advantage, which such a man is
not master of. We know darkness, which is nothing real, only by
denying, and consequently by conceiving daylight, which is most
real, and most positive. In like manner we know the finite only by
assigning it a bound, which is a mere negation of a greater extent;
and consequently only the privation of the infinite. Now a man
could never represent to himself the privation of the infinite,
unless he conceived the infinite itself: just as he could not have
a notion of sickness, unless he had an idea of health, of which it
is only a privation. Now, whence comes that idea of the infinite in
us?
SECT. LII. Secondly, the Ideas of the Mind are Universal, Eternal,
and Immutable.
Oh! how great is the mind of man! He carries within him wherewithal
to astonish, and infinitely to surpass himself: since his ideas are
universal, eternal, and immutable. They are universal: for when I
say it is impossible to be and not to be; the whole is bigger than a
part of it; a line perfectly circular has no straight parts; between
two points given the straight line is the shortest; the centre of a
perfect circle is equally distant from all the points of the
circumference; an equilateral triangle has no obtuse or right angle:
all these truths admit of no exception. There never can be any
being, line, circle, or triangle, but according to these rules.
These axioms are of all times, or to speak more properly, they exist
before all time, and will ever remain after any comprehensible
duration. Let the universe be turned topsy-turvy, destroyed, and
annihilated; and even let there be no mind to reason about beings,
lines, circles, and triangles: yet it will ever be equally true in
itself, that the same thing cannot at once be and not be; that a
perfect circle can have no part of a straight line; that the centre
of a perfect circle cannot be nearer one side of the circumference
than the other. Men may, indeed, not think actually on these
truths: and it might even happen that there should be neither
universe nor any mind capable to reflect on these truths: but
nevertheless they are still constant and certain in themselves
although no mind should be acquainted with them; just as the rays of
the sun would not cease being real, although all men should be
blind, and no body have eyes to be sensible of their light. By
affirming that two and two make four, says St. Augustin, man is not
only certain that he speaks truth, but he cannot doubt that such a
proposition was ever equally true, and must be so eternally. These
ideas we carry within ourselves have no bounds, and cannot admit of
any. It cannot be said that what I have affirmed about the centre
of perfect circles is true only in relation to a certain number of
circles; for that proposition is true, through evident necessity,
with respect to all circles ad infinitum. These unbounded ideas can
never be changed, altered, impaired, or defaced in us; for they make
up the very essence of our reason. Whatever effort a man may make
in his own mind, yet it is impossible for him ever to entertain a
serious doubt about the truths which those ideas clearly represent
to us. For instance, I never can seriously call in question,
whether the whole is bigger than one of its parts; or whether the
centre of a perfect circle is equally distant from all the points of
the circumference. The idea of the infinite is in me like that of
numbers, lines, circles, a whole, and a part. The changing our
ideas would be, in effect, the annihilating reason itself. Let us
judge and make an estimate of our greatness by the immutable
infinite stamp within us, and which can never be defaced from our
minds. But lest such a real greatness should dazzle and betray us,
by flattering our vanity, let us hasten to cast our eyes on our
weakness.
SECT. LIII. Weakness of Man's Mind.
That same mind that incessantly sees the infinite, and, through the
rule of the infinite, all finite things, is likewise infinitely
ignorant of all the objects that surround it. It is altogether
ignorant of itself, and gropes about in an abyss of darkness. It
neither knows what it is, nor how it is united with a body; nor
which way it has so much command over all the springs of that body,
which it knows not. It is ignorant of its own thoughts and wills.
It knows not, with certainty, either what it believes or wills. It
often fancies to believe and will, what it neither believes nor
wills. It is liable to mistake, and its greatest excellence is to
acknowledge it. To the error of its thoughts, it adds the disorder
and irregularity of its will and desires; so that it is forced to
groan in the consciousness and experience of its corruption. Such
is the mind of man, weak, uncertain, stinted, full of errors. Now,
who is it that put the idea of the infinite, that is to say of
perfection, in a subject so stinted and so full of imperfection?
Did it give itself so sublime, and so pure an idea, which is itself
a kind of infinite in imagery? What finite being distinct from it
was able to give it what bears no proportion with what is limited
within any bounds? Let us suppose the mind of man to be like a
looking-glass, wherein the images of all the neighbouring bodies
imprint themselves. Now what being was able to stamp within us the
image of the infinite, if the infinite never existed? Who can put
in a looking-glass the image of a chimerical object which is not in
being, and which was never placed against the glass? This image of
the infinite is not a confused collection of finite objects, which
the mind may mistake for a true infinite. It is the true infinite
of which we have the thought and idea. We know it so well, that we
exactly distinguish it from whatever it is not; and that no subtilty
can palm upon us any other object in its room. We are so well
acquainted with it, that we reject from it any propriety that
denotes the least bound or limit. In short, we know it so well,
that it is in it alone we know all the rest, just as we know the
night by the day, sickness by health. Now, once more, whence comes
so great an image? Does it proceed from nothing? Can a stinted
limited being imagine and invent the infinite, if there be no
infinite at all? Our weak and short-sighted mind cannot of itself
form that image, which, at this rate, should have no author. None
of the outward objects can give us that image: for they can only
give us the image of what they are, and they are limited and
imperfect. Therefore, from whence shall we derive that distinct
image which is unlike anything within us, and all we know here
below, without us? Whence does it proceed? Where is that infinite
we cannot comprehend, because it is really infinite: and which
nevertheless we cannot mistake, because we distinguish it from
anything that is inferior to it? Sure it must be somewhere,
otherwise how could it imprint itself in our minds?
SECT. LIV. The Ideas of Man are the Immutable Rules of his
Judgment.
But besides the idea of the infinite, I have yet universal and
immutable notions, which are the rule and standard of all my
judgments; insomuch that I cannot judge of anything but by
consulting them; nor am I free to judge contrary to what they
represent to me. My thoughts are so far from being able to correct
or form that rule, that they are themselves corrected, in spite of
myself, by that superior rule; and invincibly subjected to its
decision. Whatever effort my mind can make, I can never be brought,
as I observed before, to entertain a doubt whether two and two make
four; whether the whole is bigger than one of its parts; or whether
the centre of a perfect circle be equally distant from all the
points of the circumference. I am not free to deny those
propositions; and if I happen to deny those truths, or others much
like them, there is in me something above myself, which forces me to
return to the rule. That fixed and immutable rule is so inward and
intimate, that I am tempted to take it for myself. But it is above
me, since it corrects and rectifies me; gives me a distrust of
myself, and makes me sensible of my impotency. It is something that
inspires me every moment, provided I hearken to it, and I never err
or mistake except when I am not attentive to it. What inspires me
would for ever preserve me from error, if I were docile, and acted
without precipitation; for that inward inspiration would teach me to
judge aright of things within my reach, and about which I have
occasion to form a judgment. As for others, it would teach me not
to judge of them at all, which second lesson is no less important
than the first. That inward rule is what I call my reason; but I
speak of my reason without penetrating into the extent of those
words, as I speak of nature and instinct, without knowing what those
expressions mean.
SECT. LV. What Man's Reason is.
It is certain my reason is within me, for I must continually
recollect myself to find it; but the superior reason that corrects
me upon occasion, and which I consult, is none of mine, nor is it
part of myself. That rule is perfect and immutable; whereas I am
changeable and imperfect. When I err, it preserves its rectitude.
When I am undeceived, it is not set right, for it never was
otherwise; and still keeping to truth has the authority to call, and
bring me back to it. It is an inward master that makes me either be
silent or speak; believe, or doubt; acknowledge my errors, or
confirm my judgment. I am instructed by hearkening to it; whereas I
err and go astray when I hearken to myself. That Master is
everywhere, and His voice is heard, from one end of the universe to
the other, by all men as well as me. Whilst He corrects and
rectifies me in France, He corrects and sets right other men in
China, Japan, Mexico, and in Peru, by the same principles.
SECT. LVI. Reason is the Same in all Men, of all Ages and
Countries.
Two men who never saw or heard of one another, and who never
entertained any correspondence with any other man that could give
them common notions, yet speak at two extremities of the earth,
about a certain number of truths, as if they were in concert. It is
infallibly known beforehand in one hemisphere, what will be answered
in the other upon these truths. Men of all countries and of all
ages, whatever their education may have been, find themselves
invincibly subjected and obliged to think and speak in the same
manner. The Master who incessantly teaches us makes all of us think
the same way. Whenever we hastily judge, without hearkening to His
voice, in diffidence of ourselves, we think and utter dreams full of
extravagance. Thus what appears most to be part of ourselves, and
our very essence, I mean our reason, is least our own, and what, on
the contrary, ought to be accounted most borrowed. We continually
receive a reason superior to us, as we incessantly breathe the air,
which is a foreign body; or as we incessantly see all the objects
near us by the light of the sun, whose rays are bodies foreign to
our eyes. That superior reason over-rules and governs, to a certain
degree, with an absolute power all men, even the least rational, and
makes them all ever agree, in spite of themselves, upon those
points. It is she that makes a savage in Canada think about a great
many things, just as the Greek and Roman philosophers did. It is
she that made the Chinese geometricians find out much of the same
truths with the Europeans, whilst those nations so very remote were
unknown one to another. It is she that makes people in Japan
conclude, as in France, that two and two make four; nor is it
apprehended that any nation shall ever change their opinion about
it. It is she that makes men think nowadays about certain points,
just as men thought about the same four thousand years ago. It is
she that gives uniform thoughts to the most jealous and jarring men,
and the most irreconcilable among themselves. It is by her that men
of all ages and countries are, as it were, chained about an
immovable centre, and held in the bonds of amity by certain
invariable rules, called first principles, notwithstanding the
infinite variations of opinions that arise in them from their
passion, avocations, and caprices, which over-rule all their other
less-clear judgments. It is through her that men, as depraved as
they are, have not yet presumed openly to bestow on vice the name of
virtue, and that they are reduced to dissemble being just, sincere,
moderate, benevolent, in order to gain one another's esteem. The
most wicked and abandoned of men cannot be brought to esteem what
they wish they could esteem, or to despise what they wish they could
despise. It is not possible to force the eternal barrier of truth
and justice. The inward master, called reason, intimately checks
the attempt with absolute power, and knows how to set bounds to the
most impudent folly of men. Though vice has for many ages reigned
with unbridled licentiousness, virtue is still called virtue; and
the most brutish and rash of her adversaries cannot yet deprive her
of her name. Hence it is that vice, though triumphant in the world,
is still obliged to disguise itself under the mask of hypocrisy or
sham honesty, to gain the esteem it has not the confidence to
expect, if it should go bare-faced. Thus, notwithstanding its
impudence, it pays a forced homage to virtue, by endeavouring to
adorn itself with her fairest outside in order to receive the honour
and respect she commands from men. It is true virtuous men are
exposed to censure; and they are, indeed, ever reprehensible in this
life, through their natural imperfections; but yet the most vicious
cannot totally efface in themselves the idea of true virtue. There
never was yet any man upon earth that could prevail either with
others, or himself, to allow, as a received maxim, that to be
knavish, passionate, and mischievous, is more honourable than to be
honest, moderate, good-natured, and benevolent.
SECT. LVII. Reason in Man is Independent of and above Him.
I have already evinced that the inward and universal master, at all
times, and in all places, speaks the same truths. We are not that
master: though it is true we often speak without, and higher than
him. But then we mistake, stutter, and do not so much as understand
ourselves. We are even afraid of being made sensible of our
mistakes, and we shut up our ears, lest we should be humbled by his
corrections. Certainly the man who is apprehensive of being
corrected and reproved by that uncorruptible reason, and ever goes
astray when he does not follow it, is not that perfect, universal,
and immutable reason, that corrects him, in spite of himself. In
all things we find, as it were, two principles within us. The one
gives, the other receives; the one fails, or is defective; the other
makes up; the one mistakes, the other rectifies; the one goes awry,
through his inclination, the other sets him right. It was the
mistaken and ill-understood experience of this that led the
Marcionites and Manicheans into error. Every man is conscious
within himself of a limited and inferior reason, that goes astray
and errs, as soon as it gets loose from an entire subordination, and
which mends its error no other way, but by returning under the yoke
of another superior, universal, and immutable reason. Thus
everything within us argues an inferior, limited, communicated, and
borrowed reason, that wants every moment to be rectified by another.
All men are rational by means of the same reason, that communicates
itself to them, according to various degrees. There is a certain
number of wise men; but the wisdom from which they draw theirs, as
from an inexhaustible source, and which makes them what they are, is
but ONE.
SECT. LVIII. It is the Primitive Truth, that Lights all Minds, by
communicating itself to them.
Where is that wisdom? Where is that reason, at once both common and
superior to all limited and imperfect reasons of mankind? Where is
that oracle, which is never silent, and against which all the vain
prejudices of men cannot prevail? Where is that reason which we
have ever occasion to consult, and which prevents us to create in us
the desire of hearing its voice? Where is that lively light which
lighteth every man that cometh into the world? Where is that pure
and soft light, which not only lights those eyes that are open, but
which opens eyes that are shut; cures sore eyes; gives eyes to those
that have none to see it; in short, which raises the desire of being
lighted by it, and gains even their love, who were afraid to see it?
Every eye sees it; nor would it see anything, unless it saw it;
since it is by that light and its pure rays that the eye sees
everything. As the sensibler sun in the firmament lights all
bodies, so the sun of intelligence lights all minds. The substance
of a man's eye is not the light: on the contrary, the eye borrows,
every moment, the light from the rays of the sun. Just in the same
manner, my mind is not the primitive reason, or universal and
immutable truth; but only the organ through which that original
light passes, and which is lighted by it. There is a sun of spirits
that lights them far better than the visible sun lights bodies.
This sun of spirits gives us, at once, both its light, and the love
of it, in order to seek it. That sun of truth leaves no manner of
darkness, and shines at the same time in the two hemispheres. It
lights us as much by night as by day; nor does it spread its rays
outwardly; but inhabits in every one of us. A man can never deprive
another man of its beams. One sees it equally, in whatever corner
of the universe he may lurk. A man never needs say to another, step
aside, to let me see that sun; you rob me of its rays; you take away
my share of it. That sun never sets: nor suffers any cloud, but
such as are raised by our passions. It is a day without shadow. It
lights the savages even in the deepest and darkest caves; none but
sore eyes wink against its light; nor is there indeed any man so
distempered and so blind, but who still walks by the glimpse of some
duskish light he retains from that inward sun of consciences. That
universal light discovers and represents all objects to our minds;
nor can we judge of anything but by it; just as we cannot discern
anybody but by the rays of the sun.
SECT. LIX. It is by the Light of Primitive Truth a Man Judges
whether what one says to him be True or False.
Men may speak and discourse to us in order to instruct us: but we
cannot believe them any farther, than we find a certain conformity
or agreement between what they say, and what the inward master says.
After they have exhausted all their arguments, we must still return,
and hearken to him, for a final decision. If a man should tell us
that a part equals the whole of which it is a part, we should not be
able to forbear laughing, and instead of persuading us, he would
make himself ridiculous to us. It is in the very bottom of
ourselves, by consulting the inward master, that we must find the
truths that are taught us, that is, which are outwardly proposed to
us. Thus, properly speaking, there is but one true Master, who
teaches all, and without whom one learns nothing. Other masters
always refer and bring us back to that inward school where he alone
speaks. It is there we receive what we have not; it is there we
learn what we were ignorant of; and find what we had lost by
oblivion. It is in the intimate bottom of ourselves, he keeps in
store for us certain truths, that lie, as it were, buried, but which
revive upon occasion; and it is there, in short, that we reject the
falsehood we had embraced. Far from judging that master, it is by
him alone we are judged peremptorily in all things. He is a judge
disinterested, impartial, and superior to us. We may, indeed,
refuse hearing him, and raise a din to stun our ears: but when we
hear him it is not in our power to contradict him. Nothing is more
unlike man than that invisible master that instructs and judges him
with so much severity, uprightness, and perfection. Thus our
limited, uncertain, defective, fallible reason, is but a feeble and
momentaneous inspiration of a primitive, supreme, and immutable
reason, which communicates itself with measure, to all intelligent
beings.
SECT. LX. The Superior Reason that resides in Man is God Himself;
and whatever has been above discovered to be in Man, are evident
Footsteps of the Deity.
It cannot be said that man gives himself the thoughts he had not
before; much less can it be said that he receives them from other
men, since it is certain he neither does nor can admit anything from
without, unless he finds it in his own bottom, by consulting within
him the principles of reason, in order to examine whether what he is
told is agreeable or repugnant to them. Therefore there is an
inward school wherein man receives what he neither can give himself,
nor expect from other men who live upon trust as well as himself.
Here then, are two reasons I find within me; one of which, is
myself, the other is above me. That which is myself is very
imperfect, prejudiced, liable to error, changeable, headstrong,
ignorant, and limited; in short it possesses nothing but what is
borrowed. The other is common to all men, and superior to them. It
is perfect, eternal, immutable, ever ready to communicate itself in
all places, and to rectify all minds that err and mistake; in short,
incapable of ever being either exhausted or divided, although it
communicates itself to all who desire it. Where is that perfect
reason which is so near me, and yet so different from me? Where is
it? Sure it must be something real; for nothing or nought cannot
either be perfect or make perfect imperfect natures. Where is that
supreme reason? Is it not the very God I look for?
SECT. LXI. New sensible Notices of the Deity in Man, drawn from
the Knowledge he has of Unity.
I still find other traces or notices of the Deity within me: here
is a very sensible one. I am acquainted with prodigious numbers
with the relations that are between them. Now how come I by that
knowledge? It is so very distinct that I cannot seriously doubt of
it; and so, immediately, without the least hesitation, I rectify any
man that does not follow it in computation. If a man says seventeen
and three make twenty-two, I presently tell him seventeen and three
make but twenty; and he is immediately convinced by his own light,
and acquiesces in my correction. The same Master who speaks within
me to correct him speaks at the same time within him to bid him
acquiesce. These are not two masters that have agreed to make us
agree. It is something indivisible, eternal, immutable, that speaks
at the same time with an invincible persuasion in us both. Once
more, how come I by so just a notion of numbers? All numbers are
but repeated units. Every number is but a compound, or a repetition
of units. The number of two, for instance, is but two units; the
number of four is reducible to one repeated four times. Therefore
we cannot conceive any number without conceiving unity, which is the
essential foundation of any possible number; nor can we conceive any
repetition of units without conceiving unity itself, which is its
basis.
But which way can I know any real unit? I never saw, nor so much as
imagined any by the report of my senses. Let me take, for instance,
the most subtle atom; it must have a figure, length, breadth, and
depth, a top and a bottom, a left and a right side; and again the
top is not the bottom, nor one side the other. Therefore this atom
is not truly one, for it consists of parts. Now a compound is a
real number, and a multitude of beings. It is not a real unit, but
a collection of beings, one of which is not the other. I therefore
never learnt by my eyes, my ears, my hands, nor even by my
imagination, that there is in nature any real unity; on the
contrary, neither my senses nor my imagination ever presented to me
anything but what is a compound, a real number or a multitude. All
unity continually escapes me; it flies me as it were by a kind of
enchantment. Since I look for it in so many divisions of an atom, I
certainly have a distinct idea of it; and it is only by its simple
and clear idea that I arrive, by the repetition of it, at the
knowledge of so many other numbers. But since it escapes me in all
the divisions of the bodies of nature, it clearly follows that I
never came by the knowledge of it, through the canal of my senses
and imagination. Here therefore is an idea which is in me
independently from the senses, imagination, and impressions of
bodies.