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Poe_EurekaAProsePoem.txt
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EUREKA:
A PROSE POEM.
BY
EDGAR A. POE.
NEW-YORK:
GEO. P. PUTNAM,
OF LATE FIRM OF “WILEY & PUTNAM,”
155 BROADWAY.
MDCCCXLVIII.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848,
BY EDGAR A. POE,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the
Southern District of New-York.
LEAVITT, TROW & CO Prs.,
33 Ann-street.
WITH VERY PROFOUND RESPECT,
This Work is Dedicated
TO
ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT.
PREFACE.
To the few who love me and whom I love—to those who feel rather than to
those who think—to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in
the only realities—I offer this Book of Truths, not in its character of
Truth-Teller, but for the Beauty that abounds in its Truth; constituting
it true. To these I present the composition as an Art-Product alone:—let
us say as a Romance; or, if I be not urging too lofty a claim, as a
Poem.
_What I here propound is true_:—therefore it cannot die:—or if by any
means it be now trodden down so that it die, it will “rise again to the
Life Everlasting.”
Nevertheless it is as a Poem only that I wish this work to be judged
after I am dead.
E. A. P.
EUREKA:
AN ESSAY ON THE MATERIAL AND SPIRITUAL UNIVERSE.
It is with humility really unassumed—it is with a sentiment even of
awe—that I pen the opening sentence of this work: for of all conceivable
subjects I approach the reader with the most solemn—the most
comprehensive—the most difficult—the most august.
What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their
sublimity—sufficiently sublime in their simplicity—for the mere
enunciation of my theme?
I design to speak of the _Physical, Metaphysical and Mathematical—of the
Material and Spiritual Universe:—of its Essence, its Origin, its
Creation, its Present Condition and its Destiny_. I shall be so rash,
moreover, as to challenge the conclusions, and thus, in effect, to
question the sagacity, of many of the greatest and most justly
reverenced of men.
In the beginning, let me as distinctly as possible announce—not the
theorem which I hope to demonstrate—for, whatever the mathematicians may
assert, there is, in this world at least, _no such thing_ as
demonstration—but the ruling idea which, throughout this volume, I shall
be continually endeavoring to suggest.
My general proposition, then, is this:—_In the Original Unity of the
First Thing lies the Secondary Cause of All Things, with the Germ of
their Inevitable Annihilation_.
In illustration of this idea, I propose to take such a survey of the
Universe that the mind may be able really to receive and to perceive an
individual impression.
He who from the top of Ætna casts his eyes leisurely around, is affected
chiefly by the _extent_ and _diversity_ of the scene. Only by a rapid
whirling on his heel could he hope to comprehend the panorama in the
sublimity of its _oneness_. But as, on the summit of Ætna, _no_ man has
thought of whirling on his heel, so no man has ever taken into his brain
the full uniqueness of the prospect; and so, again, whatever
considerations lie involved in this uniqueness, have as yet no practical
existence for mankind.
I do not know a treatise in which a survey of the _Universe_—using the
word in its most comprehensive and only legitimate acceptation—is taken
at all:—and it may be as well here to mention that by the term
“Universe,” wherever employed without qualification in this essay, I
mean to designate _the utmost conceivable expanse of space, with all
things, spiritual and material, that can be imagined to exist within the
compass of that expanse_. In speaking of what is ordinarily implied by
the expression, “Universe,” I shall take a phrase of limitation—“the
Universe of stars.” Why this distinction is considered necessary, will
be seen in the sequel.
But even of treatises on the really limited, although always assumed as
the _un_limited, Universe of _stars_, I know none in which a survey,
even of this limited Universe, is so taken as to warrant deductions from
its _individuality_. The nearest approach to such a work is made in the
“Cosmos” of Alexander Von Humboldt. He presents the subject, however,
_not_ in its individuality but in its generality. His theme, in its last
result, is the law of _each_ portion of the merely physical Universe, as
this law is related to the laws of _every other_ portion of this merely
physical Universe. His design is simply synœretical. In a word, he
discusses the universality of material relation, and discloses to the
eye of Philosophy whatever inferences have hitherto lain hidden _behind_
this universality. But however admirable be the succinctness with which
he has treated each particular point of his topic, the mere multiplicity
of these points occasions, necessarily, an amount of detail, and thus an
involution of idea, which precludes all _individuality_ of impression.
It seems to me that, in aiming at this latter effect, and, through it,
at the consequences—the conclusions—the suggestions—the speculations—or,
if nothing better offer itself the mere guesses which may result from
it—we require something like a mental gyration on the heel. We need so
rapid a revolution of all things about the central point of sight that,
while the minutiæ vanish altogether, even the more conspicuous objects
become blended into one. Among the vanishing minutiæ, in a survey of
this kind, would be all exclusively terrestrial matters. The Earth would
be considered in its planetary relations alone. A man, in this view,
becomes mankind; mankind a member of the cosmical family of
Intelligences.
And now, before proceeding to our subject proper, let me beg the
reader’s attention to an extract or two from a somewhat remarkable
letter, which appears to have been found corked in a bottle and floating
on the _Mare Tenebrarum_—an ocean well described by the Nubian
geographer, Ptolemy Hephestion, but little frequented in modern days
unless by the Transcendentalists and some other divers for crotchets.
The date of this letter, I confess, surprises me even more particularly
than its contents; for it seems to have been written in the year _two_
thousand eight hundred and forty-eight. As for the passages I am about
to transcribe, they, I fancy, will speak for themselves.
“Do you know, my dear friend,” says the writer, addressing, no doubt, a
contemporary—“Do you know that it is scarcely more than eight or nine
hundred years ago since the metaphysicians first consented to relieve
the people of the singular fancy that there exist _but two practicable
roads to Truth_? Believe it if you can! It appears, however, that long,
long ago, in the night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher called
Aries and surnamed Tottle.” [Here, possibly, the letter-writer means
Aristotle; the best names are wretchedly corrupted in two or three
thousand years.] “The fame of this great man depended mainly upon his
demonstration that sneezing is a natural provision, by means of which
over-profound thinkers are enabled to expel superfluous ideas through
the nose; but he obtained a scarcely less valuable celebrity as the
founder, or at all events as the principal propagator, of what was
termed the _de_ductive or _à priori_ philosophy. He started with what he
maintained to be axioms, or self-evident truths:—and the now well
understood fact that _no_ truths are _self_-evident, really does not
make in the slightest degree against his speculations:—it was sufficient
for his purpose that the truths in question were evident at all. From
axioms he proceeded, logically, to results. His most illustrious
disciples were one Tuclid, a geometrician,” [meaning Euclid] “and one
Kant, a Dutchman, the originator of that species of Transcendentalism
which, with the change merely of a C for a K, now bears his peculiar
name.
“Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme, until the advent of one Hog,
surnamed ‘the Ettrick shepherd,’ who preached an entirely different
system, which he called the _à posteriori_ or _in_ductive. His plan
referred altogether to sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing,
and classifying facts—_instantiæ Naturæ_, as they were somewhat
affectedly called—and arranging them into general laws. In a word, while
the mode of Aries rested on _noumena_, that of Hog depended on
_phenomena_; and so great was the admiration excited by this latter
system that, at its first introduction, Aries fell into general
disrepute. Finally, however, he recovered ground, and was permitted to
divide the empire of Philosophy with his more modern rival:—the savans
contenting themselves with proscribing all _other_ competitors, past,
present, and to come; putting an end to all controversy on the topic by
the promulgation of a Median law, to the effect that the Aristotelian
and Baconian roads are, and of right ought to be, the solo possible
avenues to knowledge:—‘Baconian,’ you must know, my dear friend,” adds
the letter-writer at this point, “was an adjective invented as
equivalent to Hog-ian, and at the same time more dignified and
euphonious.
“Now I do assure you most positively”—proceeds the epistle—“that I
represent these matters fairly; and you can easily understand how
restrictions so absurd on their very face must have operated, in those
days, to retard the progress of true Science, which makes its most
important advances—as all History will show—by seemingly intuitive
_leaps_. These ancient ideas confined investigation to crawling; and I
need not suggest to you that crawling, among varieties of locomotion, is
a very capital thing of its kind;—but because the tortoise is sure of
foot, for this reason must we clip the wings of the eagles? For many
centuries, so great was the infatuation, about Hog especially, that a
virtual stop was put to all thinking, properly so called. No man dared
utter a truth for which he felt himself indebted to his soul alone. It
mattered not whether the truth was even demonstrably such; for the
dogmatizing philosophers of that epoch regarded only _the road_ by which
it professed to have been attained. The end, with them, was a point of
no moment, whatever:—‘the means!’ they vociferated—‘let us look at the
means!’—and if, on scrutiny of the means, it was found to come neither
under the category Hog, nor under the category Aries (which means ram),
why then the savans went no farther, but, calling the thinker a fool
and branding him a ‘theorist,’ would never, thenceforward, have any
thing to do either with _him_ or with his truths.
“Now, my dear friend,” continues the letter-writer, “it cannot be
maintained that by the crawling system, exclusively adopted, men would
arrive at the maximum amount of truth, even in any long series of ages;
for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be counterbalanced
even by _absolute_ certainty in the snail processes. But their certainty
was very far from absolute. The error of our progenitors was quite
analogous with that of the wiseacre who fancies he must necessarily see
an object the more distinctly, the more closely he holds it to his eyes.
They blinded themselves, too, with the impalpable, titillating Scotch
snuff of _detail_; and thus the boasted facts of the Hog-ites were by no
means always facts—a point of little importance but for the assumption
that they always _were_. The vital taint, however, in Baconianism—its
most lamentable fount of error—lay in its tendency to throw power and
consideration into the hands of merely perceptive men—of those
inter-Tritonic minnows, the microscopical savans—the diggers and pedlers
of minute _facts_, for the most part in physical science—facts all of
which they retailed at the same price upon the highway; their value
depending, it was supposed, simply upon the _fact of their fact_,
without reference to their applicability or inapplicability in the
development of those ultimate and only legitimate facts, called Law.
“Than the persons”—the letter goes on to say—“Than the persons thus
suddenly elevated by the Hog-ian philosophy into a station for which
they were unfitted—thus transferred from the sculleries into the parlors
of Science—from its pantries into its pulpits—than these individuals a
more intolerant—a more intolerable set of bigots and tyrants never
existed on the face of the earth. Their creed, their text and their
sermon were, alike, the one word ‘_fact_’—but, for the most part, even
of this one word, they knew not even the meaning. On those who ventured
to _disturb_ their facts with the view of putting them in order and to
use, the disciples of Hog had no mercy whatever. All attempts at
generalization were met at once by the words ‘theoretical,’ ‘theory,’
‘theorist’—all _thought_, to be brief, was very properly resented as a
personal affront to themselves. Cultivating the natural sciences to the
exclusion of Metaphysics, the Mathematics, and Logic, many of these
Bacon-engendered philosophers—one-idead, one-sided and lame of a
leg—were more wretchedly helpless—more miserably ignorant, in view of
all the comprehensible objects of knowledge, than the veriest unlettered
hind who proves that he knows something at least, in admitting that he
knows absolutely nothing.
“Nor had our forefathers any better right to talk about _certainty_,
when pursuing, in blind confidence, the _à priori_ path of axioms, or of
the Ram. At innumerable points this path was scarcely as straight as a
ram’s-horn. The simple truth is, that the Aristotelians erected their
castles upon a basis far less reliable than air; _for no such things as
axioms ever existed or can possibly exist at all_. This they must have
been very blind, indeed, not to see, or at least to suspect; for, even
in their own day, many of their long-admitted ‘axioms’ had been
abandoned:—‘_ex nihilo nihil fit_,’ for example, and a ‘thing cannot act
where it is not,’ and ‘there cannot be antipodes,’ and ‘darkness cannot
proceed from light.’ These and numerous similar propositions formerly
accepted, without hesitation, as axioms, or undeniable truths, were,
even at the period of which I speak, seen to be altogether
untenable:—how absurd in these people, then, to persist in relying upon
a basis, as immutable, whose mutability had become so repeatedly
manifest!
“But, even through evidence afforded by themselves against themselves,
it is easy to convict these _à priori_ reasoners of the grossest
unreason—it is easy to show the futility—the impalpability of their
axioms in general. I have now lying before me”—it will be observed that
we still proceed with the letter—“I have now lying before me a book
printed about a thousand years ago. Pundit assures me that it is
decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, which is ‘Logic.’ The
author, who was much esteemed in his day, was one Miller, or Mill; and
we find it recorded of him, as a point of some importance, that he rode
a mill-horse whom he called Jeremy Bentham:—but let us glance at the
volume itself!
“Ah!—‘Ability or inability to conceive,’ says Mr. Mill very properly,
‘is _in no case_ to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth.’ Now,
that this is a palpable truism no one in his senses will deny. _Not_ to
admit the proposition, is to insinuate a charge of variability in Truth
itself, whose very title is a synonym of the Steadfast. If ability to
conceive be taken as a criterion of Truth, then a truth to _David_ Hume
would very seldom be a truth to _Joe_; and ninety-nine hundredths of
what is undeniable in Heaven would be demonstrable falsity upon Earth.
The proposition of Mr. Mill, then, is sustained. I will not grant it to
be an _axiom_; and this merely because I am showing that _no_ axioms
exist; but, with a distinction which could not have been cavilled at
even by Mr. Mill himself, I am ready to grant that, _if_ an axiom _there
be_, then the proposition of which we speak has the fullest right to be
considered an axiom—that no _more_ absolute axiom _is_—and,
consequently, that any subsequent proposition which shall conflict with
this one primarily advanced, must be either a falsity in itself—that is
to say no axiom—or, if admitted axiomatic, must at once neutralize both
itself and its predecessor.
“And now, by the logic of their own propounder, let us proceed to test
any one of the axioms propounded. Let us give Mr. Mill the fairest of
play. We will bring the point to no ordinary issue. We will select for
investigation no common-place axiom—no axiom of what, not the less
preposterously because only impliedly, he terms his secondary class—as
if a positive truth by definition could be either more or less
positively a truth:—we will select, I say, no axiom of an
unquestionability so questionable as is to be found in Euclid. We will
not talk, for example, about such propositions as that two straight
lines cannot enclose a space, or that the whole is greater than any one
of its parts. We will afford the logician _every_ advantage. We will
come at once to a proposition which he regards as the acme of the
unquestionable—as the quintessence of axiomatic undeniability. Here it
is:—‘Contradictions cannot _both_ be true—that is, cannot cöexist in
nature.’ Here Mr. Mill means, for instance,—and I give the most forcible
instance conceivable—that a tree must be either a tree or _not_ a
tree—that it cannot be at the same time a tree _and_ not a tree:—all
which is quite reasonable of itself and will answer remarkably well as
an axiom, until we bring it into collation with an axiom insisted upon a
few pages before—in other words—words which I have previously
employed—until we test it by the logic of its own propounder. ‘A tree,’
Mr. Mill asserts, ‘must be either a tree or _not_ a tree.’ Very
well:—and now let me ask him, _why_. To this little query there is but
one response:—I defy any man living to invent a second. The sole answer
is this:—‘Because we find it _impossible to conceive_ that a tree can be
any thing else than a tree or not a tree.’ This, I repeat, is Mr. Mill’s
sole answer:—he will not _pretend_ to suggest another:—and yet, by his
own showing, his answer is clearly no answer at all; for has he not
already required us to admit, _as an axiom_, that ability or inability
to conceive is _in no case_ to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic
truth? Thus all—absolutely _all_ his argumentation is at sea without a
rudder. Let it not be urged that an exception from the general rule is
to be made, in cases where the ‘impossibility to conceive’ is so
peculiarly great as when we are called upon to conceive a tree _both_ a
tree and _not_ a tree. Let no attempt, I say, be made at urging this
sotticism; for, in the first place, there are no _degrees_ of
‘impossibility,’ and thus no one impossible conception can be _more_
peculiarly impossible than another impossible conception:—in the second
place, Mr. Mill himself, no doubt after thorough deliberation, has most
distinctly, and most rationally, excluded all opportunity for exception,
by the emphasis of his proposition, that, _in no case_, is ability or
inability to conceive, to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic
truth:—in the third place, even were exceptions admissible at all, it
remains to be shown how any exception is admissible _here_. That a tree
can be both a tree and not a tree, is an idea which the angels, or the
devils, _may_ entertain, and which no doubt many an earthly Bedlamite,
or Transcendentalist, _does_.
“Now I do not quarrel with these ancients,” continues the letter-writer,
“_so much_ on account of the transparent frivolity of their logic—which,
to be plain, was baseless, worthless and fantastic altogether—as on
account of their pompous and infatuate proscription of all _other_ roads
to Truth than the two narrow and crooked paths—the one of creeping and
the other of crawling—to which, in their ignorant perversity, they have
dared to confine the Soul—the Soul which loves nothing so well as to
soar in those regions of illimitable intuition which are utterly
incognizant of ‘_path_.’
“By the bye, my dear friend, is it not an evidence of the mental slavery
entailed upon those bigoted people by their Hogs and Rams, that in spite
of the eternal prating of their savans about _roads_ to Truth, none of
them fell, even by accident, into what we now so distinctly perceive to
be the broadest, the straightest and most available of all mere
roads—the great thoroughfare—the majestic highway of the _Consistent_?
Is it not wonderful that they should have failed to deduce from the
works of God the vitally momentous consideration that _a perfect
consistency can be nothing but an absolute truth_? How plain—how rapid
our progress since the late announcement of this proposition! By its
means, investigation has been taken out of the hands of the ground-moles,
and given as a duty, rather than as a task, to the true—to the _only_ true
thinkers—to the generally-educated men of ardent imagination. These
latter—our Keplers—our Laplaces—‘speculate’—‘theorize’—these are the
terms—can you not fancy the shout of scorn with which they would be
received by our progenitors, were it possible for them to be looking
over my shoulders as I write? The Keplers, I repeat, speculate—theorize—and
their theories are merely corrected—reduced—sifted—cleared, little by
little, of their chaff of inconsistency—until at length there stands
apparent an unencumbered _Consistency_—a consistency which the most
stolid admit—because it _is_ a consistency—to be an absolute and an
unquestionable _Truth_.
“I have often thought, my friend, that it must have puzzled these
dogmaticians of a thousand years ago, to determine, even, by which of
their two boasted roads it is that the cryptographist attains the
solution of the more complicate cyphers—or by which of them Champollion
guided mankind to those important and innumerable truths which, for so
many centuries, have lain entombed amid the phonetical hieroglyphics of
Egypt. In especial, would it not have given these bigots some trouble to
determine by which of their two roads was reached the most momentous and
sublime of _all_ their truths—the truth—the fact of _gravitation_?
Newton deduced it from the laws of Kepler. Kepler admitted that these
laws he _guessed_—these laws whose investigation disclosed to the
greatest of British astronomers that principle, the basis of all
(existing) physical principle, in going behind which we enter at once
the nebulous kingdom of Metaphysics. Yes!—these vital laws Kepler
_guessed_—that is to say, he _imagined_ them. Had he been asked to point
out either the _de_ductive or _in_ductive route by which he attained
them, his reply might have been—‘I know nothing about _routes_—but I
_do_ know the machinery of the Universe. Here it is. I grasped it with
_my soul_—I reached it through mere dint of _intuition_.’ Alas, poor
ignorant old man! Could not any metaphysician have told him that what he
called ‘intuition’ was but the conviction resulting from _de_ductions or
_in_ductions of which the processes were so shadowy as to have escaped
his consciousness, eluded his reason, or bidden defiance to his capacity
of expression? How great a pity it is that some ‘moral philosopher’ had
not enlightened him about all this! How it would have comforted him on
his death-bed to know that, instead of having gone intuitively and thus
unbecomingly, he had, in fact, proceeded decorously and
legitimately—that is to say Hog-ishly, or at least Ram-ishly—into the
vast halls where lay gleaming, untended, and hitherto untouched by
mortal hand—unseen by mortal eye—the imperishable and priceless secrets
of the Universe!
“Yes, Kepler was essentially a _theorist_; but this title, _now_ of so
much sanctity, was, in those ancient days, a designation of supreme
contempt. It is only _now_ that men begin to appreciate that divine old
man—to sympathize with the prophetical and poetical rhapsody of his
ever-memorable words. For _my_ part,” continues the unknown
correspondent, “I glow with a sacred fire when I even think of them, and
feel that I shall never grow weary of their repetition:—in concluding
this letter, let me have the real pleasure of transcribing them once
again:—‘_I care not whether my work be read now or by posterity. I can
afford to wait a century for readers when God himself has waited six
thousand years for an observer. I triumph. I have stolen the golden
secret of the Egyptians. I will indulge my sacred fury._’”
Here end my quotations from this very unaccountable and, perhaps,
somewhat impertinent epistle; and perhaps it would be folly to comment,
in any respect, upon the chimerical, not to say revolutionary, fancies
of the writer—whoever he is—fancies so radically at war with the
well-considered and well-settled opinions of this age. Let us proceed,
then, to our legitimate thesis, _The Universe_.
This thesis admits a choice between two modes of discussion:—We may
_as_cend or _de_scend. Beginning at our own point of view—at the Earth
on which we stand—we may pass to the other planets of our system—thence
to the Sun—thence to our system considered collectively—and thence,
through other systems, indefinitely outwards; or, commencing on high at
some point as definite as we can make it or conceive it, we may come
down to the habitation of Man. Usually—that is to say, in ordinary
essays on Astronomy—the first of these two modes is, with certain
reservation, adopted:—this for the obvious reason that astronomical
_facts_, merely, and principles, being the object, that object is best
fulfilled in stepping from the known because proximate, gradually onward
to the point where all certitude becomes lost in the remote. For my
present purpose, however,—that of enabling the mind to take in, as if
from afar and at one glance, a distinct conception of the _individual_
Universe—it is clear that a descent to small from great—to the outskirts
from the centre (if we could establish a centre)—to the end from the
beginning (if we could fancy a beginning) would be the preferable
course, but for the difficulty, if not impossibility, of presenting, in
this course, to the unastronomical, a picture at all comprehensible in
regard to such considerations as are involved in _quantity_—that is to
say, in number, magnitude and distance.
Now, distinctness—intelligibility, at all points, is a primary feature
in my general design. On important topics it is better to be a good deal
prolix than even a very little obscure. But abstruseness is a quality
appertaining to no subject _per se_. All are alike, in facility of
comprehension, to him who approaches them by properly graduated steps.
It is merely because a stepping-stone, here and there, is heedlessly
left unsupplied in our road to the Differential Calculus, that this
latter is not altogether as simple a thing as a sonnet by Mr. Solomon
Seesaw.
By way of admitting, then, no _chance_ for misapprehension, I think it
advisable to proceed as if even the more obvious facts of Astronomy were
unknown to the reader. In combining the two modes of discussion to which
I have referred, I propose to avail myself of the advantages peculiar to
each—and very especially of the _iteration in detail_ which will be
unavoidable as a consequence of the plan. Commencing with a descent, I
shall reserve for the return upwards those indispensable considerations
of _quantity_ to which allusion has already been made.
Let us begin, then, at once, with that merest of words, “Infinity.”
This, like “God,” “spirit,” and some other expressions of which the
equivalents exist in all languages, is by no means the expression of an
idea—but of an effort at one. It stands for the possible attempt at an
impossible conception. Man needed a term by which to point out the
_direction_ of this effort—the cloud behind which lay, forever
invisible, the _object_ of this attempt. A word, in fine, was demanded,
by means of which one human being might put himself in relation at once
with another human being and with a certain _tendency_ of the human
intellect. Out of this demand arose the word, “Infinity;” which is thus
the representative but of the _thought of a thought_.
As regards _that_ infinity now considered—the infinity of space—we often
hear it said that “its idea is admitted by the mind—is acquiesced in—is
entertained—on account of the greater difficulty which attends the
conception of a limit.” But this is merely one of those _phrases_ by
which even profound thinkers, time out of mind, have occasionally taken
pleasure in deceiving _themselves_. The quibble lies concealed in the
word “difficulty.” “The mind,” we are told, “entertains the idea of
_limitless_, through the greater _difficulty_ which it finds in
entertaining that of _limited_, space.” Now, were the proposition but
fairly _put_, its absurdity would become transparent at once. Clearly,
there is no mere _difficulty_ in the case. The assertion intended, if
presented _according_ to its intention and without sophistry, would run
thus:—“The mind admits the idea of limitless, through the greater
_impossibility_ of entertaining that of limited, space.”
It must be immediately seen that this is not a question of two
statements between whose respective credibilities—or of two arguments
between whose respective validities—the _reason_ is called upon to
decide:—it is a matter of two conceptions, directly conflicting, and
each avowedly impossible, one of which the _intellect_ is supposed to be
capable of entertaining, on account of the greater _impossibility_ of
entertaining the other. The choice is _not_ made between two
difficulties;—it is merely _fancied_ to be made between two
impossibilities. Now of the former, there _are_ degrees—but of the
latter, none:—just as our impertinent letter-writer has already
suggested. A task _may_ be more or less difficult; but it is either
possible or not possible:—there are no gradations. It _might_ be more
_difficult_ to overthrow the Andes than an ant-hill; but it _can_ be no
more _impossible_ to annihilate the matter of the one than the matter of
the other. A man may jump ten feet with less _difficulty_ than he can
jump twenty, but the _impossibility_ of his leaping to the moon is not a
whit less than that of his leaping to the dog-star.
Since all this is undeniable: since the choice of the mind is to be made
between _impossibilities_ of conception: since one impossibility cannot
be greater than another: and since, thus, one cannot be preferred to
another: the philosophers who not only maintain, on the grounds
mentioned, man’s _idea_ of infinity but, on account of such
supposititious idea, _infinity itself_—are plainly engaged in
demonstrating one impossible thing to be possible by showing how it is
that some one other thing—is impossible too. This, it will be said, is
nonsense; and perhaps it is:—indeed I think it very capital
nonsense—but forego all claim to it as nonsense of mine.
The readiest mode, however, of displaying the fallacy of the
philosophical argument on this question, is by simply adverting to a
_fact_ respecting it which has been hitherto quite overlooked—the fact
that the argument alluded to both proves and disproves its own
proposition. “The mind is impelled,” say the theologians and others, “to
admit a _First Cause_, by the superior difficulty it experiences in
conceiving cause beyond cause without end.” The quibble, as before, lies
in the word “difficulty”—but _here_ what is it employed to sustain? A
First Cause. And what is a First Cause? An ultimate termination of
causes. And what is an ultimate termination of causes? Finity—the
Finite. Thus the one quibble, in two processes, by God knows how many
philosophers, is made to support now Finity and now Infinity—could it
not be brought to support something besides? As for the
quibblers—_they_, at least, are insupportable. But—to dismiss them:—what
they prove in the one case is the identical nothing which they
demonstrate in the other.
Of course, no one will suppose that I here contend for the absolute
impossibility of _that_ which we attempt to convey in the word
“Infinity.” My purpose is but to show the folly of endeavoring to prove
Infinity itself or even our conception of it, by any such blundering
ratiocination as that which is ordinarily employed.
Nevertheless, as an individual, I may be permitted to say that _I
cannot_ conceive Infinity, and am convinced that no human being can. A
mind not thoroughly self-conscious—not accustomed to the introspective
analysis of its own operations—will, it is true, often deceive itself by
supposing that it _has_ entertained the conception of which we speak. In
the effort to entertain it, we proceed step beyond step—we fancy point
still beyond point; and so long as we _continue_ the effort, it may be
said, in fact, that we are _tending_ to the formation of the idea
designed; while the strength of the impression that we actually form or
have formed it, is in the ratio of the period during which we keep up
the mental endeavor. But it is in the act of discontinuing the
endeavor—of fulfilling (as we think) the idea—of putting the finishing
stroke (as we suppose) to the conception—that we overthrow at once the
whole fabric of our fancy by resting upon some one ultimate and
therefore definite point. This fact, however, we fail to perceive, on
account of the absolute coincidence, in time, between the settling down
upon the ultimate point and the act of cessation in thinking.—In
attempting, on the other hand, to frame the idea of a _limited_ space,
we merely converse the processes which involve the impossibility.
We _believe_ in a God. We may or may not _believe_ in finite or in
infinite space; but our belief, in such cases, is more properly
designated as _faith_, and is a matter quite distinct from that belief
proper—from that _intellectual_ belief—which presupposes the mental
conception.
The fact is, that, upon the enunciation of any one of that class of
terms to which “Infinity” belongs—the class representing _thoughts of
thought_—he who has a right to say that he thinks _at all_, feels
himself called upon, _not_ to entertain a conception, but simply to
direct his mental vision toward some given point, in the intellectual
firmament, where lies a nebula never to be resolved. To solve it,
indeed, he makes no effort; for with a rapid instinct he comprehends,
not only the impossibility, but, as regards all human purposes, the
_inessentiality_, of its solution. He perceives that the Deity has not
_designed_ it to be solved. He sees, at once, that it lies _out_ of the
brain of man, and even _how_, if not exactly _why_, it lies out of it.
There _are_ people, I am aware, who, busying themselves in attempts at
the unattainable, acquire very easily, by dint of the jargon they emit,
among those thinkers-that-they-think with whom darkness and depth are
synonymous, a kind of cuttle-fish reputation for profundity; but the
finest quality of Thought is its self-cognizance; and, with some little
equivocation, it may be said that no fog of the mind can well be greater
than that which, extending to the very boundaries of the mental domain,
shuts out even these boundaries themselves from comprehension.
It will now be understood that, in using the phrase, “Infinity of
Space,” I make no call upon the reader to entertain the impossible
conception of an _absolute_ infinity. I refer simply to the “_utmost
conceivable expanse_” of space—a shadowy and fluctuating domain, now
shrinking, now swelling, in accordance with the vacillating energies of
the imagination.
_Hitherto_, the Universe of stars has always been considered as
coincident with the Universe proper, as I have defined it in the
commencement of this Discourse. It has been always either directly or
indirectly assumed—at least since the dawn of intelligible
Astronomy—that, were it possible for us to attain any given point in
space, we should still find, on all sides of us, an interminable
succession of stars. This was the untenable idea of Pascal when making
perhaps the most successful attempt ever made, at periphrasing the
conception for which we struggle in the word “Universe.” “It is a
sphere,” he says, “of which the centre is everywhere, the circumference,
nowhere.” But although this intended definition is, in fact, _no_
definition of the Universe of _stars_, we may accept it, with some
mental reservation, as a definition (rigorous enough for all practical
purposes) of the Universe _proper_—that is to say, of the Universe of
_space_. This latter, then, let us regard as “_a sphere of which the
centre is everywhere, the circumference nowhere_.” In fact, while we
find it impossible to fancy an _end_ to space, we have no difficulty in
picturing to ourselves any one of an infinity of _beginnings_.
As our starting-point, then, let us adopt the _Godhead_. Of this
Godhead, _in itself_, he alone is not imbecile—he alone is not impious
who propounds—nothing. “_Nous ne connaissons rien_,” says the Baron de
Bielfeld—“_Nous ne connaissons rien de la nature ou de l’essence de
Dieu:—pour savoir ce qu’il est, il faut être Dieu même._”—“We know
absolutely _nothing_ of the nature or essence of God:—in order to
comprehend what he is, we should have to be God ourselves.”
“_We should have to be God ourselves!_”—With a phrase so startling as
this yet ringing in my ears, I nevertheless venture to demand if this
our present ignorance of the Deity is an ignorance to which the soul is
_everlastingly_ condemned.
By _Him_, however—_now_, at least, the Incomprehensible—by Him—assuming
him as _Spirit_—that is to say, as _not Matter_—a distinction which, for
all intelligible purposes, will stand well instead of a definition—by
Him, then, existing as Spirit, let us content ourselves, to-night, with
supposing to have been _created_, or made out of Nothing, by dint of his
Volition—at some point of Space which we will take as a centre—at some
period into which we do not pretend to inquire, but at all events
immensely remote—by Him, then again, let us suppose to have been
created——_what_? This is a vitally momentous epoch in our
considerations. _What_ is it that we are justified—that alone we are
justified in supposing to have been, primarily and solely, _created_?
We have attained a point where only _Intuition_ can aid us:—but now let
me recur to the idea which I have already suggested as that alone which
we can properly entertain of intuition. It is but _the conviction
arising from those inductions or deductions of which the processes are
so shadowy as to escape our consciousness, elude our reason, or defy our
capacity of expression_. With this understanding, I now assert—that an
intuition altogether irresistible, although inexpressible, forces me to
the conclusion that what God originally created—that that Matter which,
by dint of his Volition, he first made from his Spirit, or from
Nihility, _could_ have been nothing but Matter in its utmost conceivable
state of——what?—of _Simplicity_?
This will be found the sole absolute _assumption_ of my Discourse. I use
the word “assumption” in its ordinary sense; yet I maintain that even
this my primary proposition, is very, very far indeed, from being really
a mere assumption. Nothing was ever more certainly—no human conclusion
was ever, in fact, more regularly—more rigorously _de_duced:—but, alas!
the processes lie out of the human analysis—at all events are beyond the
utterance of the human tongue.
Let us now endeavor to conceive what Matter must be, when, or if, in its
absolute extreme of _Simplicity_. Here the Reason flies at once to
Imparticularity—to a particle—to _one_ particle—a particle of _one_
kind—of _one_ character—of _one_ nature—of _one size_—of one form—a
particle, therefore, “_without_ form and void”—a particle positively a
particle at all points—a particle absolutely unique, individual,
undivided, and not indivisible only because He who _created_ it, by dint
of his Will, can by an infinitely less energetic exercise of the same
Will, as a matter of course, divide it.
_Oneness_, then, is all that I predicate of the originally created
Matter; but I propose to show that this _Oneness is a principle
abundantly sufficient to account for the constitution, the existing
phænomena and the plainly inevitable annihilation of at least the
material Universe_.
The willing into being the primordial particle, has completed the act,
or more properly the _conception_, of Creation. We now proceed to the
ultimate purpose for which we are to suppose the Particle created—that
is to say, the ultimate purpose so far as our considerations _yet_
enable us to see it—the constitution of the Universe from it, the
Particle.
This constitution has been effected by _forcing_ the originally and
therefore normally _One_ into the abnormal condition of _Many_. An
action of this character implies rëaction. A diffusion from Unity, under
the conditions, involves a tendency to return into Unity—a tendency
ineradicable until satisfied. But on these points I will speak more
fully hereafter.
The assumption of absolute Unity in the primordial Particle includes
that of infinite divisibility. Let us conceive the Particle, then, to be
only not totally exhausted by diffusion into Space. From the one
Particle, as a centre, let us suppose to be irradiated spherically—in
all directions—to immeasurable but still to definite distances in the
previously vacant space—a certain inexpressibly great yet limited number
of unimaginably yet not infinitely minute atoms.
Now, of these atoms, thus diffused, or upon diffusion, what conditions
are we permitted—not to assume, but to infer, from consideration as well
of their source as of the character of the design apparent in their
diffusion? _Unity_ being their source, and _difference from Unity_ the
character of the design manifested in their diffusion, we are warranted
in supposing this character to be at least _generally_ preserved
throughout the design, and to form a portion of the design itself:—that
is to say, we shall be warranted in conceiving continual differences at
all points from the uniquity and simplicity of the origin. But, for
these reasons, shall we be justified in imagining the atoms
heterogeneous, dissimilar, unequal, and inequidistant? More
explicitly—are we to consider no two atoms as, at their diffusion, of
the same nature, or of the same form, or of the same size?—and, after
fulfilment of their diffusion into Space, is absolute inequidistance,
each from each, to be understood of all of them? In such arrangement,
under such conditions, we most easily and immediately comprehend the
subsequent most feasible carrying out to completion of any such design
as that which I have suggested—the design of variety out of
unity—diversity out of sameness—heterogeneity out of
homogeneity—complexity out of simplicity—in a word, the utmost possible
multiplicity of _relation_ out of the emphatically irrelative _One_.
Undoubtedly, therefore, we _should_ be warranted in assuming all that
has been mentioned, but for the reflection, first, that supererogation
is not presumable of any Divine Act; and, secondly, that the object
supposed in view, appears as feasible when some of the conditions in
question are dispensed with, in the beginning, as when all are
understood immediately to exist. I mean to say that some are involved in
the rest, or so instantaneous a consequence of them as to make the
distinction inappreciable. Difference of _size_, for example, will at
once be brought about through the tendency of one atom to a second, in
preference to a third, on account of particular inequidistance; which is
to be comprehended as _particular inequidistances between centres of
quantity, in neighboring atoms of different form_—a matter not at all
interfering with the generally-equable distribution of the atoms.
Difference of _kind_, too, is easily conceived to be merely a result of
differences in size and form, taken more or less conjointly:—in fact,
since the _Unity_ of the Particle Proper implies absolute homogeneity,
we cannot imagine the atoms, at their diffusion, differing in kind,
without imagining, at the same time, a special exercise of the Divine
Will, at the emission of each atom, for the purpose of effecting, in
each, a change of its essential nature:—so fantastic an idea is the
less to be indulged, as the object proposed is seen to be thoroughly
attainable without such minute and elaborate interposition. We perceive,
therefore, upon the whole, that it would be supererogatory, and
consequently unphilosophical, to predicate of the atoms, in view of
their purposes, any thing more than _difference of form_ at their
dispersion, with particular inequidistance after it—all other
differences arising at once out of these, in the very first processes of
mass-constitution:—We thus establish the Universe on a purely
_geometrical_ basis. Of course, it is by no means necessary to assume
absolute difference, even of form, among _all_ the atoms irradiated—any
more than absolute particular inequidistance of each from each. We are
required to conceive merely that no _neighboring_ atoms are of similar
form—no atoms which can ever approximate, until their inevitable
rëunition at the end.
Although the immediate and perpetual _tendency_ of the disunited atoms
to return into their normal Unity, is implied, as I have said, in their
abnormal diffusion; still it is clear that this tendency will be without
consequence—a tendency and no more—until the diffusive energy, in
ceasing to be exerted, shall leave _it_, the tendency, free to seek its
satisfaction. The Divine Act, however, being considered as determinate,
and discontinued on fulfilment of the diffusion, we understand, at once,
a _rëaction_—in other words, a _satisfiable_ tendency of the disunited
atoms to return into _One_.
But the diffusive energy being withdrawn, and the rëaction having
commenced in furtherance of the ultimate design—_that of the utmost
possible Relation_—this design is now in danger of being frustrated, in
detail, by reason of that very tendency to return which is to effect its
accomplishment in general. _Multiplicity_ is the object; but there is
nothing to prevent proximate atoms, from lapsing _at once_, through the
now satisfiable tendency—_before_ the fulfilment of any ends proposed in
multiplicity—into absolute oneness among themselves:—there is nothing to
impede the aggregation of various _unique_ masses, at various points of
space:—in other words, nothing to interfere with the accumulation of
various masses, each absolutely One.
For the effectual and thorough completion of the general design, we thus
see the necessity for a repulsion of limited capacity—a separative
_something_ which, on withdrawal of the diffusive Volition, shall at the
same time allow the approach, and forbid the junction, of the atoms;
suffering them infinitely to approximate, while denying them positive
contact; in a word, having the power—_up to a certain epoch_—of
preventing their _coalition_, but no ability to interfere with their
_coalescence_ in any respect _or degree_. The repulsion, already
considered as so peculiarly limited in other regards, must be
understood, let me repeat, as having power to prevent absolute
coalition, _only up to a certain epoch_. Unless we are to conceive that
the appetite for Unity among the atoms is doomed to be satisfied
_never_;—unless we are to conceive that what had a beginning is to have
no end—a conception which cannot _really_ be entertained, however much
we may talk or dream of entertaining it—we are forced to conclude that
the repulsive influence imagined, will, finally—under pressure of the
_Unitendency collectively_ applied, but never and in no degree _until_,
on fulfilment of the Divine purposes, such collective application shall
be naturally made—yield to a force which, at that ultimate epoch, shall
be the superior force precisely to the extent required, and thus permit
the universal subsidence into the inevitable, because original and
therefore normal, _One_.—The conditions here to be reconciled are
difficult indeed:—we cannot even comprehend the possibility of their
conciliation;—nevertheless, the apparent impossibility is brilliantly
suggestive.
That the repulsive something actually exists, _we see_. Man neither
employs, nor knows, a force sufficient to bring two atoms into contact.
This is but the well-established proposition of the impenetrability of
matter. All Experiment proves—all Philosophy admits it. The _design_ of
the repulsion—the necessity for its existence—I have endeavored to show;
but from all attempt at investigating its nature have religiously
abstained; this on account of an intuitive conviction that the principle
at issue is strictly spiritual—lies in a recess impervious to our
present understanding—lies involved in a consideration of what now—in
our human state—is _not_ to be considered—in a consideration of _Spirit
in itself_. I feel, in a word, that here the God has interposed, and
here only, because here and here only the knot demanded the
interposition of the God.
In fact, while the tendency of the diffused atoms to return into Unity,
will be recognized, at once, as the principle of the Newtonian Gravity,
what I have spoken of as a repulsive influence prescribing limits to the
(immediate) satisfaction of the tendency, will be understood as _that_
which we have been in the practice of designating now as heat, now as
magnetism, now as _electricity_; displaying our ignorance of its awful
character in the vacillation of the phraseology with which we endeavor
to circumscribe it.
Calling it, merely for the moment, electricity, we know that all
experimental analysis of electricity has given, as an ultimate result,
the principle, or seeming principle, _heterogeneity_. _Only_ where
things differ is electricity apparent; and it is presumable that they
_never_ differ where it is not developed at least, if not apparent. Now,
this result is in the fullest keeping with that which I have reached
unempirically. The design of the repulsive influence I have maintained
to be that of preventing immediate Unity among the diffused atoms; and
these atoms are represented as different each from each. _Difference_ is
their character—their essentiality—just as _no-difference_ was the
essentiality of their source. When we say, then, that an attempt to
bring any two of these atoms together would induce an effort, on the
part of the repulsive influence, to prevent the contact, we may as well
use the strictly convertible sentence that an attempt to bring together
any two differences will result in a development of electricity. All
existing bodies, of course, are composed of these atoms in proximate
contact, and are therefore to be considered as mere assemblages of more
or fewer differences; and the resistance made by the repulsive spirit,
on bringing together any two such assemblages, would be in the ratio of
the two sums of the differences in each:—an expression which, when
reduced, is equivalent to this:—_The amount of electricity developed on
the approximation of two bodies, is proportional to the difference
between the respective sums of the atoms of which the bodies are
composed._ That _no_ two bodies are absolutely alike, is a simple
corollary from all that has been here said. Electricity, therefore,
existing always, is _developed_ whenever _any_ bodies, but _manifested_
only when bodies of appreciable difference, are brought into
approximation.
To electricity—so, for the present, continuing to call it—we _may_ not
be wrong in referring the various physical appearances of light, heat
and magnetism; but far less shall we be liable to err in attributing to
this strictly spiritual principle the more important phænomena of
vitality, consciousness and _Thought_. On this topic, however, I need
pause _here_ merely to suggest that these phænomena, whether observed
generally or in detail, seem to proceed _at least in the ratio of the
heterogeneous_.
Discarding now the two equivocal terms, “gravitation” and “electricity,”
let us adopt the more definite expressions, “_attraction_” and
“_repulsion_.” The former is the body; the latter the soul: the one is
the material; the other the spiritual, principle of the Universe. _No
other principles exist._ _All_ phænomena are referable to one, or to the
other, or to both combined. So rigorously is this the case—so thoroughly
demonstrable is it that attraction and repulsion are the _sole_
properties through which we perceive the Universe—in other words, by
which Matter is manifested to Mind—that, for all merely argumentative
purposes, we are fully justified in assuming that matter _exists_ only
as attraction and repulsion—that attraction and repulsion _are_
matter:—there being no conceivable case in which we may not employ the
term “matter” and the terms “attraction” and “repulsion,” taken
together, as equivalent, and therefore convertible, expressions in
Logic.
I said, just now, that what I have described as the tendency of the
diffused atoms to return into their original unity, would be understood
as the principle of the Newtonian law of gravity: and, in fact, there
can be little difficulty in such an understanding, if we look at the
Newtonian gravity in a merely general view, as a force impelling matter
to seek matter; that is to say, when we pay no attention to the known
_modus operandi_ of the Newtonian force. The general coincidence
satisfies us; but, upon looking closely, we see, in detail, much that
appears _in_coincident, and much in regard to which no coincidence, at
least, is established. For example; the Newtonian gravity, when we think
of it in certain moods, does _not_ seem to be a tendency to _oneness_ at
all, but rather a tendency of all bodies in all directions—a phrase
apparently expressive of a tendency to diffusion. Here, then, is an
_in_coincidence. Again; when we reflect on the mathematical _law_
governing the Newtonian tendency, we see clearly that no coincidence has
been made good, in respect of the _modus operandi_, at least, between
gravitation as known to exist and that seemingly simple and direct
tendency which I have assumed.
In fact, I have attained a point at which it will be advisable to
strengthen my position by reversing my processes. So far, we have gone
on _à priori_, from an abstract consideration of _Simplicity_, as that
quality most likely to have characterized the original action of God.
Let us now see whether the established facts of the Newtonian
Gravitation may not afford us, _à posteriori_, some legitimate
inductions.
What does the Newtonian law declare?—That all bodies attract each other
with forces proportional to their quantities of matter and inversely
proportional to the squares of their distances. Purposely, I have here
given, in the first place, the vulgar version of the law; and I confess
that in this, as in most other vulgar versions of great truths, we find
little of a suggestive character. Let us now adopt a more philosophical
phraseology:—_Every atom, of every body, attracts every other atom, both
of its own and of every other body, with a force which varies inversely
as the squares of the distances between the attracting and attracted
atom._—Here, indeed, a flood of suggestion bursts upon the mind.
But let us see distinctly what it was that Newton _proved_—according to
the grossly irrational definitions of _proof_ prescribed by the
metaphysical schools. He was forced to content himself with showing how
thoroughly the motions of an imaginary Universe, composed of attracting
and attracted atoms obedient to the law he announced, coincide with
those of the actually existing Universe so far as it comes under our
observation. This was the amount of his _demonstration_—that is to say,
this was the amount of it, according to the conventional cant of the
“philosophies.” His successes added proof multiplied by proof—such proof
as a sound intellect admits—but the _demonstration_ of the law itself,
persist the metaphysicians, had not been strengthened in any degree.
“_Ocular_, _physical_ proof,” however, of attraction, here upon Earth,
in accordance with the Newtonian theory, was, at length, much to the
satisfaction of some intellectual grovellers, afforded. This proof arose
collaterally and incidentally (as nearly all important truths have
arisen) out of an attempt to ascertain the mean density of the Earth. In
the famous Maskelyne, Cavendish and Bailly experiments for this purpose,
the attraction of the mass of a mountain was seen, felt, measured, and
found to be mathematically consistent with the immortal theory of the
British astronomer.
But in spite of this confirmation of that which needed none—in spite of
the so-called corroboration of the “theory” by the so-called “ocular and
physical proof”—in spite of the _character_ of this corroboration—the
ideas which even really philosophical men cannot help imbibing of
gravity—and, especially, the ideas of it which ordinary men get and
contentedly maintain, are _seen_ to have been derived, for the most
part, from a consideration of the principle as they find it
developed—_merely in the planet upon which they stand_.
Now, to what does so partial a consideration tend—to what species of
error does it give rise? On the Earth we _see_ and _feel_, only that
gravity impels all bodies towards the _centre_ of the Earth. No man in
the common walks of life could be _made_ to see or to feel anything
else—could be made to perceive that anything, anywhere, has a perpetual,
gravitating tendency in any _other_ direction than to the centre of the
Earth; yet (with an exception hereafter to be specified) it is a fact
that every earthly thing (not to speak now of every heavenly thing) has
a tendency not _only_ to the Earth’s centre but in every conceivable
direction besides.
Now, although the philosophic cannot be said to _err with_ the vulgar in
this matter, they nevertheless permit themselves to be influenced,
without knowing it, by the _sentiment_ of the vulgar idea. “Although the
Pagan fables are not believed,” says Bryant, in his very erudite
“Mythology,” “yet we forget ourselves continually and make inferences
from them as from existing realities.” I mean to assert that the merely
_sensitive perception_ of gravity as we experience it on Earth, beguiles
mankind into the fancy of _concentralization_ or _especiality_
respecting it—has been continually biasing towards this fancy even the
mightiest intellects—perpetually, although imperceptibly, leading them
away from the real characteristics of the principle; thus preventing
them, up to this date, from ever getting a glimpse of that vital truth
which lies in a diametrically opposite direction—behind the principle’s
_essential_ characteristics—those, _not_ of concentralization or
especiality—but of _universality_ and _diffusion_. This “vital truth” is
_Unity_ as the _source_ of the phænomenon.
Let me now repeat the definition of gravity:—_Every atom, of every body,
attracts every other atom, both of its own and of every other body_,
with a force which varies inversely as the squares of the distances of
the attracting and attracted atom.
Here let the reader pause with me, for a moment, in contemplation of the
miraculous—of the ineffable—of the altogether unimaginable complexity of
relation involved in the fact that _each atom attracts every other
atom_—involved merely in this fact of the attraction, without reference
to the law or mode in which the attraction is manifested—involved
_merely_ in the fact that each atom attracts every other atom _at all_,