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THE SYSTEM OF NATURE, VOLUME I (of II)


By Paul Henri Thiery (Baron d'Holbach)


Introduction by Robert D. Richardson, Jr.




PRODUCTION NOTES: First published in French in 1770 under the pseudonym
of Mirabaud. This e-book based on a facsimile reprint of an English
translation originally published 1820-21. This e-text covers the first
of the original two volumes.





INTRODUCTION


Paul Henri Thiery, Baron d'Holbach (1723-1789), was the center of the
radical wing of the _philosophes_. He was friend, host, and patron to
a wide circle that included Diderot, D'Alembert, Helvetius, and Hume.
Holbach wrote, translated, edited, and issued a stream of books and
pamphlets, often under other names, that has made him the despair of
bibliographers but has connected his name, by innuendo, gossip, and
association, with most of what was written in defense of atheistic
materialism in late eighteenth-century France.

Holbach is best known for _The System of Nature_ (1770) and deservedly,
since it is a clear and reasonably systematic exposition of his main
ideas. His initial position determines all the rest of his argument.
"There is not, there can be nothing out of that Nature which includes
all beings." Conceiving of nature as strictly limited to matter and
motion, both of which have always existed, he flatly denies that there
is any such thing as spirit or a supernatural. Mythology began, Holbach
claims, when men were still in a state of nature and at the point when
wise, strong, and for the most part benign men were arising as leaders
and lawgivers. These leaders "formed discourses by which they spoke to
the imaginations of their willing auditors," using the medium of poetry,
because it "seem{ed} best adapted to strike the mind." Through poetry,
then, and by means of "its images, its fictions, its numbers, its rhyme,
its harmony... the entire of nature, as well as all its parts, was
personified, by its beautiful allegories." Thus mythology is given
an essentially political origin. These early poets are literally
legislators of mankind. "The first institutors of nations, and their
immediate successors in authority, only spoke to the people by fables,
allegories, enigmas, of which they reserved to themselves the right
of giving an explanation." Holbach is rather condescending about the
process, but since mythology is a representation of nature itself, he
is far more tolerant of mythology than he is of the next step. "Natural
philosophers and poets were transformed by leisure into metaphysicians
and theologians," and at this point a fatal error was introduced: the
theologians made a distinction between the power of nature and nature
itself, separated the two, made the power of nature prior to nature, and
called it God. Thus man was left with an abstract and chimerical being
on one side and a despoiled inert nature, destitute of power, on the
other. In Holbach's critique the point at which theology split off from
mythology marks the moment of nature's alienation from itself and paves
the way for man's alienation from nature.

Holbach is thus significant for Romantic interest in myth in two ways.
First, he provides a clear statement of what can be loosely called the
antimythic position, that rationalist condescension and derogation of
all myth and all religion that was never far from the surface during
the Romantic era. Holbach was and is a reminder that the Romantic
affirmation of myth was never easy, uncritical, or unopposed. Any new
endorsement of myth had to be made in the teeth of Holbach and the other
skeptics. The very vigor of the Holbachian critique of myth impelled the
Romantics to think more deeply and defend more carefully any new claim
for myth. Secondly, although Holbach's argument generally drove against
myth and religion both, he did make an important, indeed a saving
distinction between mythology and theology. Mythology is the more or
less harmless personification of the power in and of nature; theology
concerns itself with what for Holbach was the nonexistent power beyond
or behind nature. By exploiting this distinction it would
become possible for a Shelley, for example, to take a strong
antitheological--even an anti-Christian--position without having to
abandon myth.

Holbach was one of William Godwin's major sources for his ideas about
political justice, and Shelley, who discussed Holbach with Godwin,
quotes extensively from _The System of Nature_ in _Queen Mab_.
Furthermore, Volney's _Ruins_, another important book for Shelley,
is directly descended from _The System of Nature_. On the other side,
Holbach was a standing challenge to such writers as Coleridge and Goethe
and was reprinted and retranslated extensively in America, where his
work was well known to the rationalist circle around Jefferson and
Barlow.

Issued in 1770 as though by Jean Baptiste de Mirabaud (a former
perpetual secretary to the Academie francaise who had died ten years
before), _La Systeme de la nature_ was translated and reprinted
frequently. The Samuel Wilkinson translation we have chosen to reprint
was the most often reprinted or pirated version in English. A useful
starting point for Holbach's work is Jerome Vercruysse, _Bibliographie
descriptive des ecrits du baron d'Holbach_ (Paris, 1971). The difficult
subject of the essentially clandestine evolution of biblical criticism
as an anti-Christian and antimyth critique in the early part of the
eighteenth century, before the well-documented era of the biblical
critic Eichhorn in Germany, is illuminated in Ira Wade, _The Clandestine
Organization and Diffusion of Philosophic Ideas in France from
1700-1750_ (Princeton Univ. Press, 1938).


Robert D. Richardson, Jr.

University of Denver


* * * * *



{Illustration: Parke sculp't M. DE MIRABAUD}




THE SYSTEM OF NATURE; OR, _THE LAWS_ OF THE MORAL AND PHYSICAL WORLD.



TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH OF M. DE MIRABAUD



VOL. I.




CONTENTS

Preface


     PART I--Laws of Nature.--Of man.--The faculties of the soul.
     --Doctrine of immortality.--On happiness.


CHAP. I. Nature and her laws.

CHAP. II. Of motion and its origin.

CHAP. III. Of matter--of its various combinations--of its diversified
motion--or of the course of Nature.

CHAP. IV. Laws of motion common to every being of Nature--attraction and
repulsion--inert force-necessity.

CHAP. V. Order and confusion--intelligence--chance.

CHAP. VI. Moral and physical distinctions of man--his origin.

CHAP. VII. The soul and the spiritual system.

CHAP. VII. The soul and the spiritual system.

CHAP. VIII. The intellectual faculties derived from the faculty of
feeling.

CHAP. IX. The diversity of the intellectual faculties; they depend on
physical causes, as do their moral qualities.--The natural principles of
society--morals--politics.

CHAP. X. The soul does not derive its ideas from itself--it has no
innate ideas.

CHAP. XI. Of the system of man's free-agency.

CHAP. XII. An examination of the opinion which pretends that the system
of fatalism is dangerous.

CHAP. XIII. Of the immortality of the soul--of the doctrine of a future
state--of the fear of death.

CHAP. XIV. Education, morals, and the laws suffice to restrain man--of
the desire of immortality--of suicide.

CHAP. XV. Of man's true interest, or of the ideas he forms to himself of
happiness.--Man cannot be happy without virtue.

CHAP. XVI. The errors of man.--Upon what constitutes happiness.--The
true source of his evils.--Remedies that may be applied.

CHAP. XVII. Those ideas which are true, or founded upon Nature, are the
only remedies for the evil of man.--Recapitulation.--Conclusions of the
First Part.




PREFACE

_The source of man's unhappiness is his ignorance of Nature. The
pertinacity with which he clings to blind opinions imbibed in his
infancy, which interweave themselves with his existence, the consequent
prejudice that warps his mind, that prevents its expansion, that renders
him the slave of fiction, appears to doom him to continual error. He
resembles a child destitute of experience, full of ideal notions: a
dangerous leaven mixes itself with all his knowledge: it is of necessity
obscure, it is vacillating and false:--He takes the tone of his ideas
on the authority of others, who are themselves in error, or else have
an interest in deceiving him. To remove this Cimmerian darkness, these
barriers to the improvement of his condition; to disentangle him from
the clouds of error that envelope him; to guide him out of this Cretan
labyrinth, requires the clue of Ariadne, with all the love she could
bestow on Theseus. It exacts more than common exertion; it needs a most
determined, a most undaunted courage--it is never effected but by a
persevering resolution to act, to think for himself; to examine with
rigour and impartiality the opinions he has adopted. He will find that
the most noxious weeds have sprung up beside beautiful flowers; entwined
themselves around their stems, overshadowed them with an exuberance of
foliage, choaked the ground, enfeebled their growth, diminished their
petals; dimmed the brilliancy of their colours; that deceived by
their apparent freshness of their verdure, by the rapidity of their
exfoliation, he has given them cultivation, watered them, nurtured them,
when he ought to have plucked out their very roots.

Man seeks to range out of his sphere: notwithstanding the reiterated
checks his ambitious folly experiences, he still attempts the
impossible; strives to carry his researches beyond the visible world;
and hunts out misery in imaginary regions. He would be a metaphysician
before he has become a practical philosopher. He quits the contemplation
of realities to meditate on chimeras. He neglects experience to feed on
conjecture, to indulge in hypothesis. He dares not cultivate his
reason, because from his earliest days he has been taught to consider
it criminal. He pretends to know his date in the indistinct abodes of
another life, before he has considered of the means by which he is to
render himself happy in the world he inhabits: in short, man disdains
the study of Nature, except it be partially: he pursues phantoms
that resemble an _ignis-fatuus_, which at once dazzle, bewilders, and
affright: like the benighted traveller led astray by these deceptive
exhalations of a swampy soil, he frequently quits the plain, the simple
road of truth, by pursuing of which, he can alone ever reasonably hope
to reach the goal of happiness.

The most important of our duties, then, is to seek means by which we may
destroy delusions that can never do more than mislead us. The remedies
for these evils must be sought for in Nature herself; it is only in
the abundance of her resources, that we can rationally expect to find
antidotes to the mischiefs brought upon us by an ill directed, by an
overpowering enthusiasm. It is time these remedies were sought; it is
time to look the evil boldly in the face, to examine its foundations,
to scrutinize its superstructure: reason, with its faithful guide
experience, must attack in their entrenchments those prejudices, to
which the human race has but too long been the victim. For this purpose
reason must be restored to its proper rank,--it must be rescued from
the evil company with which it is associated. It has been too long
degraded--too long neglected--cowardice has rendered it subservient to
delirium, the slave to falsehood. It must no longer be held down by the
massive claims of ignorant prejudice.

Truth is invariable--it is requisite to man--it can never harm him--his
very necessities, sooner or later, make him sensible of this; oblige him
to acknowledge it. Let us then discover it to mortals--let us exhibit
its charms--let us shed it effulgence over the darkened road; it is
the only mode by which man can become disgusted with that disgraceful
superstition which leads him into error, and which but too often usurps
his homage by treacherously covering itself with the mask of truth--its
lustre can wound none but those enemies to the human race whose power is
bottomed solely on the ignorance, on the darkness in which they have in
almost every claimed contrived to involve the mind of man.

Truth speaks not to those perverse beings:--her voice can only be heard
by generous souls accustomed to reflection, whose sensibilities make
them lament the numberless calamities showered on the earth by political
and religious tyranny--whose enlightened minds contemplate with horror
the immensity, the ponderosity of that series of misfortunes which error
has in all ages overwhelmed mankind.

To error must be attributed those insupportable chains which tyrants,
which priests have forged for most nations. To error must be equally
attributed that abject slavery into which the people of almost every
country have fallen. Nature designed they should pursue their happiness
by the most perfect freedom.--To error must be attributed those
religious terrors which, in almost every climate, have either petrified
man with fear, or caused him to destroy himself for coarse or fanciful
beings. To error must be attributed those inveterate hatreds, those
barbarous persecutions, those numerous massacres, those dreadful
tragedies, of which, under pretext of serving the interests of heaven,
the earth has been but too frequently made the theatre. It is error
consecrated by religious enthusiasm, which produces that ignorance,
that uncertainty in which man ever finds himself with regard to his most
evident duties, his clearest rights, the most demonstrable truths.
In short, man is almost everywhere a poor degraded captive, devoid of
greatness of soul, of reason, or of virtue, whom his inhuman gaolers
have never permitted to see the light of day.

Let us then endeavour to disperse those clouds of ignorance, those
mists of darkness, which impede man on his journey, which obscure his
progress, which prevent his marching through life with a firm, with a
steady grip. Let us try to inspire him with courage--with respect for
his reason--with an inextinguishable love for truth--with a remembrance
of Gallileo--to the end that he may learn to know himself--to know his
legitimate rights--that he may learn to consult his experience, and no
longer be the dupe of an imagination led astray by authority--that he
may renounce the prejudices of his childhood--that he may learn to
found his morals on his nature, on his wants, on the real advantage of
society--that he may dare to love himself--that he may learn to pursue
his true happiness by promoting that of others--in short, that he may no
longer occupy himself with reveries either useless or dangerous--that he
may become a virtuous, a rational being, in which case he cannot fail to
become happy.

If he must have his chimeras, let him at least learn to permit others
to form theirs after their own fashion; since nothing can be more
immaterial than the manner of men's thinking on subjects not accessible
to reason, provided those thoughts be not suffered to embody themselves
into actions injurious to others: above all, let him be fully persuaded
that it is of the utmost importance to the inhabitants of this world to
be JUST, KIND, and PEACEABLE.

Far from injuring the cause of virtue, an impartial examination of the
principles of this work will shew that its object is to restore truth
to its proper temple, to build up an altar whose foundations shall be
consolidated by morality, reason, and justice: from this sacred pane,
virtue guarded by truth, clothed with experience, shall shed forth her
radiance on delighted mortals; whose homage flowing consecutively shall
open to the world a new aera, by rendering general the belief that
happiness, the true end of man's existence, can never be attained but BY
PROMOTING THAT OF HIS FELLOW CREATURE.

In short, man should learn to know, that happiness is simply an
emanative quality formed by reflection; that each individual ought to
be the sun of his own system, continually shedding around him his genial
rays; that these, re-acting, will keep his own existence constantly
supplied with the requisite heat to enable him to put forth kindly
fruit._




MIRABAUD'S SYSTEM OF NATURE


Translated from the Original, By Samuel Wilkinson.




PART I.

LAWS OF NATURE--OF MAN--THE FACULTIES OF THE SOUL--DOCTRINE OF
IMMORTALITY--ON HAPPINESS.




CHAP. I.

_Nature and her Laws_.


Man has always deceived himself when he abandoned experience to follow
imaginary systems.--He is the work of nature.--He exists in Nature.--He
is submitted to the laws of Nature.--He cannot deliver himself from
them:--cannot step beyond them even in thought. It is in vain his mind
would spring forward beyond the visible world: direful and imperious
necessity ever compels his return--being formed by Nature, he is
circumscribed by her laws; there exists nothing beyond the great whole
of which he forms a part, of which he experiences the influence. The
beings his fancy pictures as above nature, or distinguished from her,
are always chimeras formed after that which he has already seen, but of
which it is utterly impossible he should ever form any finished idea,
either as to the place they occupy, or their manner of acting--for him
there is not, there can be nothing out of that Nature which includes all
beings.

Therefore, instead of seeking out of the world he inhabits for beings
who can procure him a happiness denied to him by Nature, let him study
this Nature, learn her laws, contemplate her energies, observe the
immutable rules by which she acts.--Let him apply these discoveries to
his own felicity, and submit in silence to her precepts, which nothing
can alter.--Let him cheerfully consent to be ignorant of causes hid from
him under the most impenetrable veil.--Let him yield to the decrees of
a universal power, which can never be brought within his comprehension,
nor ever emancipate him from those laws imposed on him by his essence.

The distinction which has been so often made between the _physical_ and
the _moral_ being, is evidently an abuse of terms. Man is a being
purely physical: the moral man is nothing more than this physical being
considered under a certain point of view; that is to say, with
relation to some of his modes of action, arising out of his individual
organization. But is not this organization itself the work of Nature?
The motion or impulse to action, of which he is susceptible, is that
not physical? His visible actions, as well as the invisible motion
interiorly excited by his will or his thoughts, are equally the natural
effects, the necessary consequences, of his peculiar construction,
and the impulse he receives from those beings by whom he is always
surrounded. All that the human mind has successively invented, with a
view to change or perfect his being, to render himself happy, was never
more than the necessary consequence of man's peculiar essence, and that
of the beings who act upon him. The object of all his institutions, all
his reflections, all his knowledge, is only to procure that happiness
toward which he is continually impelled by the peculiarity of his
nature. All that he does, all that he thinks, all that he is, all that
he will be, is nothing more than what Universal Nature has made him.
His ideas, his actions, his will, are the necessary effects of those
properties infused into him by Nature, and of those circumstances in
which she has placed him. In short, art is nothing but Nature acting
with the tools she has furnished.

Nature sends man naked and destitute into this world which is to be his
abode: he quickly learns to cover his nakedness--to shelter himself from
the inclemencies of the weather, first with artlessly constructed huts,
and the skins of the beasts of the forest; by degrees he mends their
appearance, renders them more convenient: he establishes manufactories
to supply his immediate wants; he digs clay, gold, and other fossils
from the bowels of the earth; converts them into bricks for his house,
into vessels for his use, gradually improves their shape, and augments
their beauty. To a being exalted above our terrestrial globe, man would
not appear less subjected to the laws of Nature when naked in the forest
painfully seeking his sustenance, than when living in civilized society
surrounded with ease, or enriched with greater experience, plunged in
luxury, where he every day invents a thousand new wants and discovers
a thousand new modes of supplying them. All the steps taken by man to
regulate his existence, ought only to be considered as a long succession
of causes and effects, which are nothing more than the development of
the first impulse given him by nature.

The same animal, by virtue of his organization, passes successively from
the most simple to the most complicated wants; it is nevertheless the
consequence of his nature. The butterfly whose beauty we admire, whose
colours are so rich, whose appearance is so brilliant, commences as
an inanimate unattractive egg; from this, heat produces a worm, this
becomes a chrysalis, then changes into that beautiful insect adorned
with the most vivid tints: arrived at this stage he reproduces,
he generates; at last despoiled of his ornaments, he is obliged to
disappear, having fulfilled the task imposed on him by Nature, having
performed the circle of transformation marked out for beings of his
order.

The same course, the same change takes place in the vegetable world. It
is by a series of combinations originally interwoven with the energies
of the aloe, that this plant is insensibly regulated, gradually
expanded, and at the end of a number of years produces those flowers
which announce its dissolution.

It is equally so with man, who in all his motion, all the changes
he undergoes, never acts but according to the laws peculiar to his
organization, and to the matter of which he is composed.

The _physical man_, is he who acts by the causes our faculties make us
understand.

The _moral man_, is he who acts by physical causes, with which our
prejudices preclude us from becoming perfectly acquainted.

The _wild man_ is a child destitute of experience, incapable of
proceeding in his happiness, because he has not learnt how to oppose
resistance to the impulses he receives from those beings by whom he is
surrounded.

The _civilized man_, is he whom experience and sociality have enabled to
draw from nature the means of his own happiness, because he has learned
to oppose resistance to those impulses he receives from exterior beings,
when experience has taught him they would be destructive to his welfare.

The _enlightened man_ is man in his maturity, in his perfection; who
is capable of advancing his own felicity, because he has learned to
examine, to think for himself, and not to take that for truth upon
the authority of others, which experience has taught him a critical
disquisition will frequently prove erroneous.

The _happy man_ is he who knows how to enjoy the benefits bestowed
upon him by nature: in other words, he who thinks for himself; who is
thankful for the good he possesses; who does not envy the welfare of
others, nor sigh after imaginary benefits always beyond his grasp.

The _unhappy man_ is he who is incapacitated to enjoy the benefits of
nature; that is, he who suffers others to think for him; who neglects
the absolute good he possesses, in a fruitless search after ideal
benefits; who vainly sighs after that which ever eludes his pursuit.

It necessarily results, that man in his enquiry ought always to
contemplate experience, and natural philosophy: These are what he should
consult in his religion,--in his morals,--in his legislation,--in
his political government,--in the arts,--in the sciences,--in his
pleasures,--above all, in his misfortunes. Experience teaches that
Nature acts by simple, regular, and invariable laws. It is by his
senses, man is bound to this universal Nature; it is by his perception
he must penetrate her secrets; it is from his senses he must draw
experience of her laws. Therefore, whenever he neglects to acquire
experience or quits its path, he stumbles into an abyss; his imagination
leads him astray.

All the errors of man are physical: he never deceives himself but when
he neglects to return back to nature, to consult her laws, to call
practical knowledge to his aid. It is for want of practical knowledge
he forms such imperfect ideas of matter, of its properties, of its
combinations, of its power, of its mode of action, and of the energies
which spring from its essence. Wanting this experience, the whole
universe, to him, is but one vast scene of error. The most ordinary
results appear to him the most astonishing phenomena; he wonders at
every thing, understands nothing, and yields the guidance of his actions
to those interested in betraying his interests. He is ignorant of
Nature, and he has mistaken her laws; he has not contemplated the
necessary routine which she has marked out for every thing she holds.
Mistaken the laws of Nature, did I say? He has mistaken himself: the
consequence is, that all his systems, all his conjectures, all his
reasonings, from which he has banished experience, are nothing more than
a tissue of errors, a long chain of inconsistencies.

Error is always prejudicial to man: it is by deceiving himself, the
human race is plunged into misery. He neglected Nature; he did not
comprehend her laws; he formed gods of the most preposterous and
ridiculous kinds: these became the sole objects of his hope, and the
creatures of his fear: he was unhappy, he trembled under these visionary
deities; under the supposed influence of visionary beings created by
himself; under the terror inspired by blocks of stone; by logs of
wood; by flying fish; or the frowns of men, mortal as himself, whom
his disturbed fancy had elevated above that Nature of which alone he
is capable of forming any idea. His very posterity laughs at his folly,
because experience has convinced them of the absurdity of his groundless
fears--of his misplaced worship. Thus has passed away the ancient
mythology, with all the trifling and nonsensical attributes attached to
it by ignorance.

Not understanding that Nature, equal in her distributions, entirely
destitute of malice, follows only necessary and immutable laws, when
she either produces beings or destroys them, when she causes those to
suffer, whose construction creates sensibility; when she scatters among
them good and evil; when she subjects them to incessant change--he did
not perceive it was in the breast of Nature herself, that it was in her
exuberance he ought to seek to satisfy his deficiencies; for remedies
against his pains; for the means of rendering himself happy: he expected
to derive these benefits from fantastic beings, whom he supposed to
be above Nature; whom he mistakingly imagined to be the authors of his
pleasures, and the cause of his misfortunes. From hence it appears that
to his ignorance of Nature, man owes the creation of those illusive
powers; under which he has so long trembled with fear; that
superstitious worship, which has been the source of all his misery, and
the evils entailed upon posterity.

For want of clearly comprehending his own peculiar nature, his proper
course, his wants, and his rights, man has fallen in society, from
FREEDOM into SLAVERY. He had forgotten the purpose of his existence, or
else he believed himself obliged to suppress the natural desires of his
heart, to sacrifice his welfare to the caprice of chiefs, either elected
by himself, or submitted to without examination. He was ignorant of the
true policy of association--of the object of government; he disdained to
listen to the voice of Nature, which loudly proclaimed the price of all
submission to be protection and happiness: the end of all government
is the benefit of the governed, not the exclusive advantage of the
governors. He gave himself up without enquiry to men like himself, whom
his prejudices induced him to contemplate as beings of a superior order,
as Gods upon earth, they profited by his ignorance, took advantage of
his prejudices, corrupted him, rendered him vicious, enslaved him, and
made him miserable. Thus man, intended by Nature for the full enjoyment
of liberty, to patiently search out her laws, to investigate her
secrets, to cling to his experience; has, from a neglect of her salutary
admonitions, from an inexcusable ignorance of his own peculiar essence,
fallen into servility: has been wickedly governed.

Having mistaken himself, he has remained ignorant of the indispensable
affinity that subsists between him, and the beings of his own species:
having mistaken his duty to himself, it consequently follows, he has
mistaken his duty to others. He made a calculation in error of what his
happiness required; he did not perceive, what he owed to himself, the
excesses he ought to avoid, the desires he ought to resist, the impulses
he ought to follow, in order to consolidate his felicity, to promote his
comfort, and to further his advantage. In short, he was ignorant of his
true interests; hence his irregularities, his excesses, his shameful
extravagance, with that long train of vices, to which he has abandoned
himself, at the expense of his preservation, at the hazard of his
permanent prosperity.

It is, therefore, ignorance of himself that has hindered man from
enlightening his morals. The corrupt authorities to which he had
submitted, felt an interest in obstructing the practice of his duties,
even when he knew them. Time, with the influence of ignorance, aided by
his corruption, gave them a strength not to be resisted by his enfeebled
voice. His duties continued unperformed, and he fell into contempt both
with himself and with others.

The ignorance of Man has endured so long, he has taken such slow,
such irresolute steps to ameliorate his condition, only because he has
neglected to study Nature, to scrutinize her laws, to search out her
expedients, to discover her properties, that his sluggishness finds its
account, in permitting himself to be guided by example, rather than to
follow experience, which demands activity; to be led by routine, rather
than by his reason, which enjoins reflection; to take that for truth
upon the authority of others, which would require a diligent and patient
investigation. From hence may be traced the hatred man betrays for every
thing that deviates from those rules to which he has been accustomed;
hence his stupid, his scrupulous respect for antiquity, for the most
silly, the most absurd and ridiculous institutions of his fathers:
hence those fears that seize him, when the most beneficial changes are
proposed to him, or the most likely attempts are made to better his
condition. He dreads to examine, because he has been taught to hold
it irreverent of something immediately connected with his welfare; his
credulity suffers him to believe the interested advice, and spurns at
those who wish to show him the danger of the road he is travelling.

This is the reason why nations linger on in the most shameful lethargy,
suffering under abuses handed down from century to century, trembling at
the very idea of that which alone can repair their calamities.

It is for want of energy, for want of consulting experience, that
medicine, natural philosophy, agriculture, painting, in fact, all the
useful sciences, have so long remained under the fetters of authority,
have progressed so little: those who profess these sciences, prefer
treading the beaten paths, however imperfect, rather than strike out
new ones,--they prefer the phrensy of their imagination, their voluntary
conjectures, to that laboured experience which alone can extract her
secrets from Nature.

Man, in short, whether from sloth or from terror, having abnegated the
evidence of his senses, has been guided in all his actions, in all his
enterprizes, by imagination, by enthusiasm, by habit, by preconceived
opinions, but above all, by the influence of authority, which knew
well how to deceive him, to turn his ignorance to esteem, his sloth
to advantage. Thus imaginary, unsubstantial systems, have supplied the
place of experience--of mature reflection--of reason. Man, petrified
with his fears, intoxicated with the marvellous, stupified with sloth,
surrendered his experience: guided by his credulity, he was unable to
fall back upon it; he became consequently inexperienced; from thence he
gave birth to the most ridiculous opinions, or else adopted all those
vague chimeras, all those idle notions offered to him by men whose
interest it was to continue him in that lamentable state of ignorance.

Thus the human race has continued so long in a state of infancy, because
man has been inattentive to Nature; has neglected her ways,
because he has disdained experience--because he has thrown by his
reason--because he has been enraptured with the marvellous and the
supernatural,--because he has unnecessarily TREMBLED. These are the
reasons there is so much trouble in conducting him from this state of
childhood to that of manhood. He has had nothing but the most trifling
hypotheses, of which he has never dared to examine either the principles
or the proofs, because he has been accustomed to hold them sacred, to
consider them as the most perfect truths, and which he is not permitted
to doubt, even for an instant. His ignorance made him credulous; his
curiosity made him swallow the wonderful: time confirmed him in his
opinions, and he passed his conjectures from race to race for realities;
a tyrannical power maintained him in his notions, because by those alone
could society be enslaved. It was in vain that some faint glimmerings
of Nature occasionally attempted the recall of his reason--that slight
corruscations of experience sometimes threw his darkness into light, the
interest of the few was founded on his enthusiasm; their pre-eminence
depended on his love of the marvellous; their very existence rested on
the firmness of his ignorance; they consequently suffered no opportunity
to escape, of smothering even the transient flame of intelligence.
The many were thus first deceived into credulity, then forced into
submission. At length the whole science of man became a confused mass
of darkness, falsehood, and contradictions, with here and there a feeble
ray of truth, furnished by that Nature, of which he can never entirely
divest himself; because, without his perception, his necessities are
continually bringing him back to her resources.

Let us then, if possible, raise ourselves above these clouds of
prepossession! Let us quit the heavy atmosphere in which we are
enucleated; let us in a more unsullied medium--in a more elastic
current, contemplate the opinions of men, and observe their various
systems. Let us learn to distrust a disordered conception; let us take
that faithful monitor, experience, for our guide; let us consult Nature,
examine her laws, dive into her stores; let us draw from herself, our
ideas of the beings she contains; let us recover our senses, which
interested error has taught us to suspect; let us consult that reason,
which, for the vilest purposes has been so infamously calumniated, so
cruelly dishonoured; let us examine with attention the visible world;
let us try, if it will not enable us to form a supportable judgment of
the invisible territory of the intellectual world: perhaps it may be
found there has been no sufficient reason for distinguishing them--that
it is not without motives, well worthy our enquiry, that two empires
have been separated, which are equally the inheritance of nature.

The universe, that vast assemblage of every thing that exists, presents
only matter and motion: the whole offers to our contemplation, nothing
but an immense, an uninterrupted succession of causes and effects; some
of these causes are known to us, because they either strike immediately
on our senses, or have been brought under their cognizance, by the
examination of long experience; others are unknown to us, because they
act upon us by effects, frequently very remote from their primary cause.
An immense variety of matter, combined under an infinity of forms,
incessantly communicates, unceasingly receives a diversity of impulses.
The different qualities of this matter, its innumerable combinations,
its various methods of action, which are the necessary consequence of
these associations, constitute for man what he calls the ESSENCE of
beings: it is from these varied essences that spring the orders, the
classes, or the systems, which these beings respectively possess, of
which the sum total makes up that which is known by the term _nature_.

Nature, therefore, in its most significant meaning, is the great
whole that results from the collection of matter, under its various
combinations, with that contrariety of motion, which the universe
presents to our view. Nature, in a less extended sense, or considered in
each individual, is the whole that results from its essence; that is
to say, the peculiar qualities, the combination, the impulse, and the
various modes of action, by which it is discriminated from other beings.
It is thus that MAN is, as a whole, or in his nature, the result of
a certain combination of matter, endowed with peculiar properties,
competent to give, capable of receiving, certain impulses, the
arrangement of which is called _organization_; of which the essence is,
to feel, to think, to act, to move, after a manner distinguished from
other beings, with which he can be compared. Man, therefore, ranks in
an order, in a system, in a class by himself, which differs from that of
other animals, in whom we do not perceive those properties of which he
is possessed. The different systems of beings, or if they will, their
_particular natures_, depend on the general system of the great whole,
or that Universal Nature, of which they form a part; to which every
thing that exists is necessarily submitted and attached.

Having described the proper definition that should be applied to the
word NATURE, I must advise the reader, once for all, that whenever in
the course of this work the expression occurs, that "Nature produces
such or such an effect," there is no intention of personifying that
nature which is purely an abstract being; it merely indicates that the
effect spoken of necessarily springs from the peculiar properties of
those beings which compose the mighty macrocosm. When, therefore, it is
said, _Nature demands that man should pursue his own happiness_, it is
to prevent circumlocution--to avoid tautology; it is to be understood,
that it is the property of a being that feels, that thinks, that acts,
to labour to its own happiness; in short, that is called _natural_,
which is conformable to the essence of things, or to the laws, which
Nature prescribes to the beings she contains, in the different orders
they occupy, under the various circumstances through which they are
obliged to pass. Thus health is _natural_ to man in a certain state;
disease is _natural_ to him under other circumstances; dissolution, or
if they will, death, is a _natural_ state for a body, deprived of some
of those things, necessary to maintain the existence of the animal, &c.
By ESSENCE is to be understood, that which constitutes a being, such as
it is; the whole of the properties or qualities by which it acts as it
does. Thus, when it is said, it is the _essence_ of a stone to fall, it
is the same as saying that its descent is the necessary effect of its
gravity--of its density--of the cohesion of its parts--of the elements
of which it is composed. In short, the _essence_ of a being is its
particular, its individual nature.





CHAP. II.

_Of Motion, and its Origin._


Motion is an effect by which a body either changes, or has a tendency
to change, its position: that is to say, by which it successively
corresponds with different parts of space, or changes its relative
distance to other bodies. It is motion alone that establishes the
relation between our senses and exterior or interior beings: it is only
by motion that these beings are impressed upon us--that we know their
existence--that we judge of their properties--that we distinguish the
one from the other--that we distribute them into classes.

The beings, the substances, or the various bodies of which Nature is
the assemblage, are themselves effects of certain combinations or causes
which become causes in their turn. A CAUSE is a being which puts another
in motion, or which produces some change in it. The EFFECT is the change
produced in one body, by the motion or presence of another.

Each being, by its essence, by its peculiar nature, has the faculty of
producing, is capable of receiving, has the power of communicating, a
variety of motion. Thus some beings are proper to strike our organs;
these organs are competent to receiving the impression, are adequate to
undergoing changes by their presence. Those which cannot act on any of
our organs, either immediately and by themselves, or immediately by the
intervention of other bodies, exist not for us; since they can neither
move us, nor consequently furnish us with ideas: they can neither be
known to us, nor of course be judged of by us. To know an object, is to
have felt it; to feel it, it is requisite to have been moved by it. To
see, is to have been moved, by something acting on the visual organs;
to hear, is to have been struck, by something on our auditory nerves. In
short, in whatever mode a body may act upon us, whatever impulse we may
receive from it, we can have no other knowledge of it than by the change
it produces in us.

Nature, as we have already said, is the assemblage of all the beings,
consequently of all the motion of which we have a knowledge, as well
as of many others of which we know nothing, because they have not yet
become accessible to our senses. From the continual action and re-action
of these beings, result a series of causes and effects; or a chain
of motion guided by the constant and invariable laws peculiar to each
being; which are necessary or inherent to its particular nature--which
make it always act or move after a determinate manner. The different
principles of this motion are unknown to us, because we are in many
instances, if not in all, ignorant of what constitutes the essence of
beings. The elements of bodies escape our senses; we know them only in
the mass: we are neither acquainted with their intimate combination,
nor the proportion of these combinations; from whence must necessarily
result their mode of action, their impulse, or their different effects.

Our senses bring us generally acquainted with two sorts of motion in the
beings that surround us: the one is the motion of the mass, by which an
entire body is transferred from one place to another. Of the motion of
this genus we are perfectly sensible.--Thus, we see a stone fall, a ball
roll, an arm move, or change its position. The other is an internal or
concealed motion, which always depends on the peculiar energies of a
body: that is to say, on its _essence_, or the combination, the action,
and re-action of the minute--of the insensible particles of matter, of
which that body is composed. This motion we do not see; we know it only
by the alteration or change, which after some time we discover in
these bodies or mixtures. Of this genus is that concealed motion which
fermentation produces in the particles that compose flour, which,
however scattered, however separated, unite, and form that mass which
we call BREAD. Such also is the imperceptible motion by which we see a
plant or animal enlarge, strengthen, undergo changes, and acquire new
qualities, without our eyes being competent to follow its progression,
or to perceive the causes which have produced these effects. Such also
is the internal motion that takes place in man, which is called his
INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES, his THOUGHTS, his PASSIONS, his will. Of these
we have no other mode of judging, than by their action; that is, by
those sensible effects which either accompany or follow them. Thus, when
we see a man run away, we judge him to be interiorly actuated by the
passion of fear.

Motion, whether visible or concealed, is styled ACQUIRED, when it is
impressed on one body by another; either by a cause to which we are
a stranger, or by an exterior agent which our senses enable us to
discover. Thus we call that _acquired motion_, which the wind gives
to the sails of a ship. That motion which is excited in a body, that
contains within itself the causes of those changes we see it undergo, is
called SPONTANEOUS. Then it is said, this body acts or moves by its own
peculiar energies. Of this kind is the motion of the man who walks,
who talks, who thinks. Nevertheless, if we examine the matter a little
closer, we shall be convinced, that, strictly speaking, there is no
such thing as spontaneous motion in any of the various bodies of Nature;
seeing they are perpetually acting one upon the other; that all their
changes are to be attributed to the causes, either visible or concealed,
by which they are moved. The will of man is secretly moved or determined
by some exterior cause that produces a change in him: we believe he
moves of himself, because we neither see the cause that determined him,
the mode in which it acted, nor the organ that it put in motion.

That is called SIMPLE MOTION, which is excited in a body by a single
cause. COMPOUND MOTION, that which is produced by two or more
different causes; whether these causes are equal or unequal, conspiring
differently, acting together or in succession, known or unknown.

Let the motion of beings be of whatsoever nature it may, it is always
the necessary consequence of their essence, or of the properties which
compose them, and of those causes of which they experience the action.
Each being can only move and act after a particular manner; that is to
say, conformably to those laws which result from its peculiar essence,
its particular combination, its individual nature: in short, from its
specific energies, and those of the bodies from which it receives an
impulse. It is this that constitutes the invariable laws of motion:
I say _invariable_, because they can never change, without producing
confusion in the essence of things. It is thus that a heavy body must
necessarily fall, if it meets with no obstacle sufficient to arrest its
descent; that a sensible body must naturally seek pleasure, and avoid
pain; that fire must necessarily burn, and diffuse light.

Each being, then, has laws of motion, that are adapted to itself, and
constantly acts or moves according to these laws; at least when
no superior cause interrupts its action. Thus, fire ceases to burn
combustible matter, as soon as sufficient water is thrown into it, to
arrest its progress. Thus, a sensible being ceases to seek pleasure, as
soon as he fears that pain will be the result.

The communication of motion, or the medium of action, from one body to
another, also follows certain and necessary laws; one being can only
communicate motion to another, by the affinity, by the resemblance, by
the conformity, by the analogy, or by the point of contact, which it
has with that other being. Fire can only propagate when it finds matter
analogous to itself: it extinguishes when it encounters bodies which it
cannot embrace; that is to say, that do not bear towards it a certain
degree of relation or affinity.

Every thing in the universe is in motion: the essence of matter is to
act: if we consider its parts, attentively, we shall discover there is
not a particle that enjoys absolute repose. Those which appear to us to
be without motion, are, in fact, only in relative or apparent rest;
they experience such an imperceptible motion, and expose it so little
on their surfaces, that we cannot perceive the changes they undergo. All
that appears to us to be at rest, does not, however, remain one instant
in the same state. All beings are continually breeding, increasing,
decreasing, or dispersing, with more or less dullness or rapidity. The
insect called EPHEMERON, is produced and perishes in the same day;
of consequence, it experiences the greatest changes of its being very
rapidly, in our eyes. Those combinations which form the most solid
bodies, which appear to enjoy the most perfect repose, are nevertheless
decomposed, and dissolved in the course of time. The hardest stones, by
degrees, give way to the contact of air. A mass of iron, which time, and
the action of the atmosphere, has gnawed into rust, must have been in
motion, from the moment of its formation, in the bowels of the earth,
until the instant we behold it in this state of dissolution.

Natural philosophers, for the most part, seem not to have sufficiently
reflected on what they call the _nisus_; that is to say, the incessant
efforts one body is making on another, but which, notwithstanding
appear, to our superficial observation, to enjoy the most perfect
repose. A stone of five hundred weight seems to rest quiet on the earth,
nevertheless, it never ceases for an instant, to press with force upon
the earth, which resists or repulses it in its turn. Will the assertion
be ventured, that the stone and earth do not act? Do they wish to be
undeceived? They have nothing to do but interpose their hand betwixt the
earth and the stone; it will then be discovered, that notwithstanding
its seeming repose, the stone has power adequate to bruise it;
because the hand has not energies sufficient, within itself, to resist
effectually both the stone and earth.--Action cannot exist in bodies
without re-action. A body that experiences an impulse, an attraction,
or a pressure of any kind, if it resists, clearly demonstrates by such
resistance that it re-acts; from whence it follows, there is a concealed
force, called by these philosophers _vis inertia_, that displays itself
against another force; and this clearly demonstrates, that this inert
force is capable of both acting and re-acting. In short, it will be
found, on close investigation, that those powers which are called
_dead_, and those which are termed _live_ or _moving_, are powers of
the same kind; which only display themselves after a different manner.
Permit us to go a greater distance yet. May we not say, that in those
bodies, or masses, of which their whole become evident from appearances
to us to be at rest, there is notwithstanding, a continual action, and
counter-action, constant efforts, uninterrupted or communicated force,
and continued opposition? In short, a _nisus_, by which the constituting
portions of these bodies press one upon another, mutually resisting
each other, acting and re-acting incessantly? that this reciprocity of
action, this simultaneous re-action, keeps them united, causes their
particles to form a mass, a body, and a combination, which, viewed in
its whole, has the appearance of complete rest, notwithstanding no one
of its particles really ceases to be in motion for a single instant?
These collective masses appear to be at rest, simply by the equality of
the motion--by the responsory impulse of the powers acting in them.

Thus it appears that bodies enjoying perfect repose, really receive,
whether upon their surface, or in their interior, a continual
communicated force, from those bodies by which they are either
surrounded or penetrated, dilated or contracted, rarified or condensed:
in fact, from those which compose them; whereby their particles are
incessantly acting and re-acting, or in continual motion, the effects
of which are displayed by extraordinary changes. Thus heat rarifies and
dilates metals, which is evidence deducible that a bar of iron, from the
change of the atmosphere alone, must be in continual motion; that there
is not a single particle in it that can be said to enjoy rest even for a
single moment. In those hard bodies, indeed, the particles of which are
in actual contact, and which are closely united, how is it possible to
conceive, that air, cold, or heat, can act upon one of these particles,
even exteriorly, without the motion being communicated to those which
are most intimate and minute in their union? Without motion, how should
we be able to comprehend the manner in which our sense of smelling is
affected, by emanations escaping from the most solid bodies, of which
all the particles appear to be at perfect rest? How could we, even by
the assistance of a telescope, see the most distant stars, if there was
not a progressive motion of light from these stars to the retina of our
eye?

Observation and reflection ought to convince us, that every thing in
Nature is in continual motion--that there is not a single part, however
small, that enjoys repose--that Nature acts in all--that she would cease
to be Nature if she did not act. Practical knowledge teaches us, that
without unceasing motion, nothing could be preserved--nothing could
be produced--nothing could act in this Nature. Thus the idea of Nature
necessarily includes that of motion. But it will be asked, and not a
little triumphantly, from whence did she derive her motion? Our reply
is, we know not, neither do they--that _we_ never shall, that _they_
never will. It is a secret hidden from us, concealed from them, by the
most impenetrable veil. We also reply, that it is fair to infer, unless
they can logically prove to the contrary, that it is in herself, since
she is the great whole, out of which nothing can exist. We say this
motion is a manner of existence, that flows, necessarily, out of the
nature of matter; that matter moves by its own peculiar energies; that
its motion is to be attributed to the force which is inherent in itself;
that the variety of motion, and the phenomena which result, proceed from
the diversity of the properties--of the qualities--of the combinations,
which are originally found in the primitive matter, of which Nature is
the assemblage.

Natural philosophers, for the most part, have regarded as inanimate, or
as deprived of the faculty of motion, those bodies which are only
moved by the intervention of some agent or exterior cause; they have
considered themselves justified in concluding, that the matter which
forms these bodies is perfectly inert in its nature. They have not
forsaken this error, although they must have observed, that whenever
a body is left to itself, or disengaged from those obstructions which
oppose themselves to its descent, it has a tendency to fall or to
approach the centre of the earth, by a motion uniformly accelerated;
they have rather chosen to suppose a visionary exterior cause, of which
they themselves had but an imperfect idea, than admit that these bodies
held their motion from their own peculiar nature.

These philosophers, also, notwithstanding they saw above them an
infinite number of globes that moved with great rapidity round a common
centre, still adhered to their favourite opinions; and never ceased to
suppose some whimsical causes for these movements, until the immortal
NEWTON clearly demonstrated that it was the effect of the gravitation
of these celestial bodies towards each other. Experimental philosophers,
however, and amongst them the great Newton himself, have held the cause
of gravitation as inexplicable. Notwithstanding the great weight of this
authority, it appears manifest that it may be deduced from the motion of
matter, by which bodies are diversely determined. Gravitation is nothing
more than a mode of moving--a tendency towards a centre: to speak
strictly, all motion is relative gravitation; since that which falls
relatively to us, rises, with relation to other bodies. From this
it follows, that every motion in our microcosm is the effect of
gravitation; seeing that there is not in the universe either top or
bottom, nor any absolute centre. It should appear, that the weight of
bodies depends on their configuration, as well external as internal,
which gives them that form of action which is called gravitation. Thus,
for instance, a piece of lead, spherically formed, falls quickly and
direct: reduce this ball into very thin plates, it will be sustained
in the air for a much longer time: apply to it the action of fire, this
lead will rise in the atmosphere: here, then, the same metal, variously
modified, has very different modes of action.

A very simple observation would have sufficed to make the philosophers,
antecedent to Newton, feel the inadequateness of the causes they
admitted to operate with such powerful effect. They had a sufficiency
to convince themselves, in the collision of two bodies, which they could
contemplate, and in the known laws of that motion, which these always
communicate by reason of their greater or less compactness; from whence
they ought to have inferred, that the density of _subtle_ or _ethereal_
matter, being considerably less than that of the planets, it could only
communicate to them a very feeble motion, quite insufficient to produce
that velocity of action, of which they could not possibly avoid being
the witnesses.

If Nature had been viewed uninfluenced by prejudice, they must have been
long since convinced that matter acts by its own peculiar activity; that
it needs no exterior communicative force to set it in motion. They might
have perceived that whenever mixed bodies were placed in a situation to
act on each other, motion was instantly excited; and that these mixtures
acted with a force capable of producing the most surprising results.

If particles of iron, sulphur, and water be mixed together, these
bodies thus capacitated to act on each other, are heated by degrees, and
ultimately produce a violent combustion. If flour be wetted with water,
and the mixture closed up, it will be found, after some lapse of time,
(by the aid of a microscope) to have produced organized beings that
enjoy life, of which the water and the flour were believed incapable:
it is thus that inanimate matter can pass into life, or animate matter,
which is in itself only an assemblage of motion.

Reasoning from analogy, which the philosophers of the present day do not
hold incompatible, the production of a man, independent of the ordinary
means, would not be more astonishing than that of an insect with flour
and water. Fermentation and putrid substances, evidently produce living
animals. We have here the principle; with proper materials, principles
can always be brought into action. That generation which is styled
_uncertain_ is only so for those who do not reflect, or who do not
permit themselves, attentively, to observe the operations of Nature.

The generative of motion, and its developement, as well as the energy of
matter, may be seen everywhere; more particularly in those unitions in
which fire, air, and water, find themselves combined. These elements, or
rather these mixed bodies, are the most volatile, the most fugitive
of beings; nevertheless in the hands of Nature, they are the essential
agents employed to produce the most striking phenomena. To these we must
ascribe the effects of thunder, the eruption of volcanoes, earthquakes,
&c. Science offers to our consideration an agent of astonishing force,
in gunpowder, the instant it comes in contact with fire. In short, the
most terrible effects result from the combination of matter, which is
generally believed to be dead and inert.

These facts prove, beyond a doubt, that motion is produced, is
augmented, is accelerated in matter, without the help of any exterior
agent: therefore it is reasonable to conclude that motion is the
necessary consequence of immutable laws, resulting from the essence,
from the properties existing in the different elements, and the
various combinations of these elements. Are we not justified, then,
in concluding, from these precedents, that there may be an infinity of
other combinations, with which we are unacquainted, competent to produce
a great variety of motion in matter, without being under the necessity
of having recourse, for the explanation, to agents who are more
difficult to comprehend than even the effects which are attributed to
them?

Had man but paid proper attention to what passed under his review, he
would not have sought out of Nature, a power distinguished from herself,
to set her in action, and without which he believes she cannot move. If,
indeed, by Nature is meant a heap of dead matter, destitute of peculiar
qualities purely passive, we must unquestionably seek out of this Nature
the principle of her motion. But if by Nature be understood, what it
really is, a whole, of which the numerous parts are endowed with various
properties, which oblige them to act according to these properties;
which are in a perpetual ternateness of action and reaction; which
press, which gravitate towards a common center, whilst others depart
from and fly off towards the periphery, or circumference; which attract
and repel; which by continual approximation and constant collision,
produce and decompose all the bodies we behold; then, I say, there is
no necessity to have recourse to supernatural powers, to account for the
formation of things, and those extraordinary appearances which are the
result of motion.

Those who admit a cause exterior to matter, are obliged to believe that
this cause produced all the motion by which matter is agitated in giving
it existence. This belief rests on another, namely, that matter could
begin to exist; an hypothesis that, until this moment, has never been
satisfactorily demonstrated. To produce from nothing, or the CREATION,
is a term that cannot give us the least idea of the formation of the
universe; it presents no sense, upon which the mind can rely. In fact,
the human mind is not adequate to conceive a moment of non-existence, or
when all shall have passed away; even admitting this to be a truth, it
is no truth for us, because by the very nature of our organization, we
cannot admit positions as facts, of which no evidence can be adduced
that has relation to our senses; we may, indeed, consent to believe it,
because others say it; but will any rational being be satisfied with
such an admission? Can any moral good spring from such blind assurance?
Is it consistent with sound doctrine, with philosophy, or with reason?
Do we, in fact, pay any respect to the intellectual powers of another,
when we say to him, "I will believe this, because in all the attempts
you have ventured, for the purpose of proving what you say, you have
entirely failed; and have been at last obliged to acknowledge you know
nothing about the matter?" What moral reliance ought we to have on such
people? Hypothesis may succeed hypothesis; system may destroy system: a
new set of ideas may overturn the ideas of a former day. Other
Gallileos may be condemned to death--other Newtons may arise--we may
reason--argue--dispute--quarrel--punish and destroy: nay, we may even
exterminate those who differ from us in opinion; but when we have
done all this, we shall be obliged to fall back upon our original
darkness--to confess, that that which has no relation with our senses,
that which cannot manifest itself to us by some of the ordinary modes
by which other things are manifested, has no existence for us--is not
comprehensible by us--can never entirely remove our doubt--can never
seize on our stedfast belief; seeing it is that of which we cannot form
even a notion; in short, that it is that, which as long as we remain
what we are, must be hidden from us by a veil, which no power, no
faculty, no energy we possess, is able to remove. All who are not
enslaved by prejudice agree to the truth of the position, that _nothing
can be made of nothing_. Many theologians have acknowledged Nature to
be an active whole. Almost all the ancient philosophers were agreed to
regard the world as eternal. OCELLUS LUCANUS, speaking of the universe,
says, "_it has always been, and it always will be_." VATABLE and GROTIUS
assure us, that to render the Hebrew phrase in the first chapter of
GENESIS correctly, we must say, "_when God made heaven and earth, matter
was without form._" If this be true, and every Hebraist can judge for
himself, then the word which has been rendered _created_, means only
to fashion, form, arrange. We know that the Greek words _create_ and
_form_, have always indicated the same thing. According to ST. JEROME,
_creare_ has the same meaning as _condere_, to found, to build. The
Bible does not anywhere say in a clear manner, that the world was made
of nothing. TERTULLIAN and the father PETAU both admit, that "_this is
a truth established more by reason than by authority._" ST. JUSTIN seems
to have contemplated matter as eternal, since he commends PLATO for
having said, that "_God, in the creation of the world, only gave impulse
to matter, and fashioned it._" BURNET and PYTHAGORAS were entirely of
this opinion, and even our Church Service may be adduced in support; for
although it admits by implication a beginning, it expressly denies an
end: "_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world
without end._" It is easy to perceive that that which cannot cease to
exist, must have always been.

Motion becomes still more obscure, when creation, or the formation of
matter, is attributed to a SPIRITUAL being; that is to say, to a being
which has no analogy, no point of contact, with it--to a being which
has neither extent or parts, and cannot, therefore, be susceptible of
motion, as we understand the term; this being only the change of one
body, relatively to another body, in which the body moved presents
successively different parts to different points of space. Moreover,
as all the world are nearly agreed that matter can never be totally
annihilated, or cease to exist; by what reasoning, I would ask, do they
comprehend--how understand--that that which cannot cease to be, could
ever have had a beginning?

If, therefore, it be asked, whence came matter? it is very reasonable to
say it has always existed. If it be inquired, whence proceeds the motion
that agitates matter? the same reasoning furnishes the answer; namely,
that as motion is coeval with matter, it must have existed from all
eternity, seeing that motion is the necessary consequence of its
existence--of its essence--of its primitive properties, such as its
extent, its gravity, its impenetrability, its figure, &c. By virtue
of these essential constituent properties, inherent in all matter, and
without which it is impossible to form an idea of it, the various matter
of which the universe is composed must from all eternity have
pressed against, each other--have gravitated towards a center--have
clashed--have come in contact--have been attracted--have been
repelled--have been combined--have been separated: in short, must have
acted and moved according to the essence and energy peculiar to each
genus, and to each of its combinations.

Existence supposes properties in the thing that exists: whenever it
has properties, its mode of action must necessarily flow from those
properties which constitute, its mode of being. Thus, when a body is
ponderous, it must fall; when it falls, it must come in collision with
the bodies it meets in its descent; when it is dense, when it is solid,
it must, by reason of this density, communicate motion to the bodies
with which it clashes; when it has analogy, when it has affinity with
these bodies, it must be attracted, must be united with them; when it
has no point of analogy with them, it must be repulsed.

From which it may be fairly inferred, that in supposing, as we are under
the necessity of doing, the existence of matter, we must suppose it to
have some kind of properties; from which its motion, or modes of action,
must necessarily flow. To form the universe, DESCARTES asked but matter
and motion: a diversity of matter sufficed for him; variety of motion
was the consequence of its existence, of its essence, of its properties:
its different modes of action would be the necessary consequence of
its different modes of being. Matter without properties would be a mere
nothing; therefore, as soon as matter exists, it must act; as soon as
it is various, it must act variously; if it cannot commence to exist,
it must have existed from all eternity; if it has always existed, it can
never cease to be: if it can never cease to be, it can never cease to
act by its own energy. Motion is a manner of being, which matter derives
from its peculiar existence.

The existence, then, of matter is a fact: the existence of motion is
another fact. Our visual organs point out to us matter with different
essences, forming a variety of combinations, endowed with various
properties that discriminate them. Indeed, it is a palpable error to
believe that matter is a homogeneous body, of which the parts differ
from each other only by their various modifications. Among the
individuals of the same species that come under our notice, no two
resemble exactly; and it is therefore evident that the difference
of situation alone will, necessarily, carry a diversity more or less
sensible, not only in the modifications, but also in the essence, in
the properties, in the entire system of beings. This truth was well
understood by the profound and subtle LEIBNITZ.

If this principle be properly digested, and experience seems always to
produce evidence of its truth, we must be convinced that the matter or
primitive elements which enter into the composition of bodies, are
not of the same nature, and consequently, can neither have the same
properties, nor the same modifications; and if so, they cannot have
the same mode of moving and acting. Their activity or motion, already
different, can be diversified to infinity, augmented or diminished,
accelerated or retarded, according to the combinations, the proportions,
the pressure, the density, the volume of the matter, that enters their
composition. The endless variety to be produced, will need no further
illustration than the commonest book of arithmetic furnishes us, where
it will be found, that to ring all the changes that can be produced on
twelve bells only, would occupy a space of more than ninety-one years.
The element of fire is visibly more active and more inconstant than that
of earth. This is more solid and ponderous than fire, air, or water.
According to the quantity of these elements, which enter the composition
of bodies, these must act diversely, and their motion must in some
measure partake the motion peculiar to each of their constituent parts.
Elementary fire appears to be in Nature the principle of activity;
it may be compared to a fruitful leaven, that puts the mass into
fermentation and gives it life. Earth appears to be the principle of
solidity in bodies, from its impenetrability, and by the firm coherence
of its parts. Water is a medium, to facilitate the combination of
bodies, into which it enters itself, as a constituent part. Air is a
fluid whose business it seems to be, to furnish the other elements with
the space requisite to expand, to exercise their motion, and which is,
moreover, found proper to combine with them. These elements, which
our senses never discover in a pure state--which are continually and
reciprocally set in motion by each other--which are always acting and
re-acting, combining and separating, attracting and repelling--are
sufficient to explain to us the formation of all the beings we behold.
Their motion is uninterruptedly and reciprocally produced from each
other; they are alternately causes and effects. Thus, they form a vast
circle of generation and destruction--of combination and decomposition,
which, it is quite reasonable to suppose, could never have had a
beginning, and which, consequently can never have an end. In short,
Nature is but an immense chain of causes and effects, which unceasingly
flow from each other. The motion of particular beings depends on the
general motion, which is itself maintained by individual motion. This
is strengthened or weakened, accelerated or retarded, simplified or
complicated, procreated or destroyed, by a variety of combinations and
circumstances, which every moment change the directions, the tendency,
the modes of existing, and of acting, of the different beings that
receive its impulse.

If it were true, as has been asserted by some philosophers, that every
thing has a tendency to form one unique or single mass, and in that
unique mass the instant should arrive when all was in _nisus_, all would
eternally remain in this state; to all eternity there would be no more
than one Being and one effort: this would be eternal and universal
death.

If we desire to go beyond this, to find the principle of action in
matter, to trace the origin of things, it is for ever to fall back upon
difficulties; it is absolutely to abridge the evidence of our senses; by
which only we can understand, by which alone we can judge of the causes
acting upon them, or the impulse by which they are set in action.

Let us, therefore, content ourselves with saying WHAT is supported by
our experience, and by all the evidence we are capable of understanding;
against the truth of which not a shadow of proof, such as our reason can
admit, has ever been adduced--which has been maintained by philosophers
in every age--which theologians themselves have not denied, but which
many of them have upheld; namely, that _matter always existed; that
it moves by virtue of its essence; that all the phenomena of Nature
is ascribable to the diversified motion of the variety of matter she
contains; and which, like the phoenix, is continually regenerating out
of its own ashes._





CHAP. III.

_Of Matter.--Of its various Combinations.--Of its diversified Motion, or
of the Course of Nature._


We know nothing of the elements of bodies, but we know some of their
properties or qualities; and we distinguish their various matter by the
effect or change produced on our senses; that is to say, by the variety
of motion their presence excites in us. In consequence, we discover
in them, extent, mobility, divisibility, solidity, gravity, and inert
force. From these general and primitive properties flow a number
of others, such as density, figure, colour, ponderosity, &c. Thus,
relatively to us, matter is all that affects our senses in any manner
whatever; the various properties we attribute to matter, by which we
discriminate its diversity, are founded on the different impressions we
receive on the changes they produce in us.

A satisfactory definition of matter has not yet been given. Man,
deceived and led astray by his prejudices, formed but vague,
superficial, and imperfect notions concerning it. He looked upon it
as an unique being, gross and passive, incapable of either moving by
itself, of forming combinations, or of producing any thing by its
own energies. Instead of this unintelligible jargon, he ought to have
contemplated it as a _genus_ of beings, of which the individuals,
although they might possess some common properties, such as extent,
divisibility, figure, &c. should not, however, be all ranked in the same
class, nor comprised under the same general denomination.

An example will serve more fully to explain what we have asserted,
throw its correctness into light, and facilitate the application.
The properties common to all matter, are extent, divisibility,
impenetrability, figure, mobility, or the property of being moved in
mass. FIRE, beside these general properties, common to all matter,
enjoys also the peculiar property of being put into activity by a motion
that produces on our organs of feeling the sensation of heat; and by
another, that communicates to our visual organs the sensation of light.
Iron, in common with matter in general, has extent and figure; is
divisible, and moveable in mass: if fire be combined with it in a
certain proportion, the iron acquires two new properties; namely, those
of exciting in us similar sensations of heat and light, which were
excited by the element of fire, but which the iron had not, before its
combination with the igneous matter. These distinguishing properties
are inseparable from matter, and the phenomena that result, may, in the
strictest sense of the word, be said to result necessarily.

If we contemplate a little the paths of Nature--if, for a time, we trace
the beings in this Nature, under the different states through which,
by reason of their properties, they are compelled to pass; we shall
discover, that it is to motion, and motion only, that is to be ascribed
all the changes, all the combinations, all the forms, in short, all the
various modifications of matter. That it is by motion every thing that
exists is produced, experiences change, expands, and is destroyed. It
is motion that alters the aspect of beings; that adds to, or takes away
from their properties; which obliges each of them, by a consequence of
its nature, after having occupied a certain rank or order, to quit it,
to occupy another, and to contribute to the generation, maintenance, and
decomposition of other beings, totally different in their bulk, rank,
and essence.

In what experimental philosophers have styled the THREE ORDERS OF
NATURE, that is to say, the _mineral_, the _vegetable_, and _animal_
worlds, they have established, by the aid of motion, a transmigration,
an exchange, a continual circulation in the particles of matter. Nature
has occasion in one place, for those particles which, for a time, she
has placed in another. These particles, after having, by particular
combinations, constituted beings endued with peculiar essences, with
specific properties, with determinate modes of action, dissolve and
separate with more or less facility; and combining in a new manner, they
form new beings. The attentive observer sees this law execute itself, in
a manner more or less prominent, through all the beings by which he is
surrounded. He sees nature full of _erratic germe_, some of which expand
themselves, whilst others wait until motion has placed them in their
proper situation, in suitable wombs or matrices, in the necessary
circumstances, to unfold, to increase, to render them more perceptible
by the addition of other substances of matter analogous to their
primitive being. In all this we see nothing but the effect of motion,
necessarily guided, modified, accelerated or slackened, strengthened or
weakened, by reason of the various properties that beings successively
acquire and lose; which, every moment, infallibly produces alterations
in bodies more or less marked. Indeed, these bodies cannot be, strictly
speaking, the same in any two successive moments of their existence;
they must, every instant, either acquire or lose: in short, they are
obliged to undergo continual variations in their essences, in their
properties, in their energies, in their masses, in their qualities, in
their mode of existence.

Animals, after they have been expanded in, and brought out of, the wombs
that are suitable to the elements of their machine, enlarge, strengthen,
acquire new properties, new energies, new faculties; either by deriving
nourishment from plants analogous to their being, or by devouring other
animals whose substance is suitable to their preservation; that is to
say, to repair the continual deperdition or loss of some portion of
their own substance, that is disengaging itself every instant. These
same animals are nourished, preserved, strengthened, and enlarged, by
the aid of air, water, earth, and fire. Deprived of air, or of the fluid
that surrounds them, that presses on them, that penetrates them, that
gives them their elasticity, they presently cease to live. Water,
combined with this air, enters into their whole mechanism of which
it facilitates the motion. Earth serves them for a basis, by giving
solidity to their texture: it is conveyed by air and water, which carry
it to those parts of the body with which it can combine. Fire itself,
disguised and enveloped under an infinity of forms, continually received
into the animal, procures him heat, continues him in life, renders him
capable of exercising his functions. The aliments, charged with these
various principles, entering into the stomach, re-establish the nervous
system, and restore, by their activity, and the elements which compose
them, the machine which begins to languish, to be depressed, by the loss
it has sustained. Forthwith the animal experiences a change in his
whole system; he has more energy, more activity; he feels more courage;
displays more gaiety; he acts, he moves, he thinks, after a different
manner; all his faculties are exercised with more ease. This igneous
matter, so congenial to generation--so restorative in its effect--so
necessary to life, was the JUPITER of the ancients: from all that has
preceded, it is clear, that what are called the elements, or primitive
parts of matter, variously combined, are, by the agency of motion,
continually united to, and assimilated with, the substance of
animals--that they visibly modify their being--have an evident influence
over their actions, that is to say, upon the motion they undergo,
whether visible or concealed.

The same elements, which under certain circumstances serve to nourish,
to strengthen, to maintain the animal, become, under others, the
principles of his weakness, the instruments of his dissolution--of his
death: they work his destruction, whenever they are not in that just
proportion which renders them proper to maintain his existence: thus,
when water becomes too abundant in the body of the animal, it enervates
him, it relaxes the fibres, and impedes the necessary action of the
other elements: thus, fire admitted in excess, excites in him disorderly
motion destructive of his machine: thus, air, charged with principles
not analogous to his mechanism, brings upon him dangerous diseases and
contagion. In fine, the aliments modified after certain modes, in the
room of nourishing, destroy the animal, and conduce to his ruin: the
animal is preserved no longer than these substances are analogous to his
system. They ruin him when they want that just equilibrium that renders
them suitable to maintain his existence.

Plants that serve to nourish and restore animals are themselves
nourished by earth; they expand on its bosom, enlarge and strengthen at
its expense, continually receiving into their texture, by their
roots and their pores, water, air, and igneous matter: water visibly
reanimates them whenever their vegetation or genus of life languishes;
it conveys to them those analogous principles by which they are enabled
to reach perfection: air is requisite to their expansion, and furnishes
them with water, earth, and the igneous matter with which it is charged.
By these means they receive more or less of the inflammable matter; the
different proportions of these principles, their numerous combinations,
from whence result an infinity of properties, a variety of forms,
constitute the various families and classes into which botanists have
distributed plants: it is thus we see the cedar and the hyssop develop
their growth; the one rises to the clouds, the other creep humbly on
the earth. Thus, by degrees, from an acorn springs the majestic oak,
accumulating, with time, its numerous branches, and overshadowing us
with its foliage. Thus, a grain of corn, after having drawn its own
nourishment from the juices of the earth, serves, in its turn, for
the nourishment of man, into whose system it conveys the elements or
principles by which it has been itself expanded, combined, and modified
in such a manner, as to render this vegetable proper to assimilate and
unite with the human frame; that is to say, with the fluids and solids
of which it is composed.

The same elements, the same principles, are found in the formation
of minerals, as well as in their decomposition, whether natural or
artificial. We find that earth, diversely modified, wrought, and
combined, serves to increase their bulk, and give them more or less
density and gravity. Air and water contribute to make their particles
cohere; the igneous matter, or inflammable principle, tinges them with
colour, and sometimes plainly indicates its presence, by the brilliant
scintillation which motion elicits from them. These stones and metals,
these bodies, so compact and solid, are disunited, are destroyed, by
the agency of air, water, and fire; which the most ordinary analysis is
sufficient to prove, as well as a multitude of experience, to which our
eyes are the daily evidence.

Animals, plants, and minerals, after a lapse of time, give back to
Nature; that is to say, to the general mass of things, to the universal
magazine, the elements, or principles, which they have borrowed: The
earth retakes that portion of the body of which it formed the basis
and the solidity; the air charges itself with these parts, that are,
analogous to it, and with those particles which are light and subtle;
water carries off that which is suitable to liquescency; fire, bursting
its chains, disengages itself, and rushes into new combinations with
other bodies.

The elementary particles of the animal, being thus dissolved, disunited,
and dispersed; assume new activity, and form new combinations: thus,
they serve to nourish, to preserve, or destroy new beings; among others,
plants, which arrived at their maturity, nourish and preserve new
animals; these in their turn yielding to the same fate as the first.

Such is the constant, the invariable course, of Nature; such is
the eternal circle of mutation, which all that exists is obliged
to describe. It is thus motion generates, preserves for a time, and
successively, destroys, one part of the universe by the other; whilst
the sum of existence remains eternally the same. Nature, by its
combinations, produces suns, which place themselves in the centre of
so many systems: she forms planets, which, by their peculiar essence,
gravitate and describe their revolutions round these suns: by degrees
the motion is changed altogether, and becomes eccentric: perhaps the day
may arrive when these wondrous masses will disperse, of which man, in
the short space of his existence, can only have a faint and transient
glimpse.

It is clear, then, that the continual motion inherent in matter, changes
and destroys all beings; every instant depriving them of some of their
properties, to substitute others: it is motion, which, in thus changing
their actual essence, changes also their order, their direction, their
tendency, and the laws which regulate their mode of acting and being:
from the stone formed in the bowels of the earth, by the intimate
combination and close coherence of similar and analogous particles, to
the sun, that vast reservoir of igneous particles, which sheds torrents
of light over the firmament; from the benumbed oyster, to the thoughtful
and active man; we see an uninterrupted progression, a perpetual chain
of motion and combination; from which is produced, beings that only
differ from each other by the variety of their elementary matter--by the
numerous combinations of these elements, from whence springs modes
of action and existence, diversified to infinity. In generation, in
nutrition, in preservation, we see nothing more than matter, variously
combined, of which each has its peculiar motion, regulated by fixed and
determinate laws, which oblige them to submit to necessary changes. We
shall find, in the formation, in the growth, in the instantaneous
life, of animals, vegetables, and minerals, nothing but matter; which
combining, accumulating, aggregating, and expanding by degrees, forms
beings, who are either feeling, living, vegetating, or else destitute
of these faculties; which, having existed some time under one particular
form, are obliged to contribute by their ruin to the production of other
forms.

Thus, to speak strictly, nothing in Nature is either born, or dies,
according to the common acceptation of those terms. This truth was
felt by many of the ancient philosophers. PLATO says, that according to
tradition, "the living were born of the dead, the same as the dead did
come of the living; and that this is the constant routine of Nature." He
adds from himself, "who knows, if to live, be not to die; and if to die,
be not to live?" This was the doctrine of PYTHAGORAS, a man of great
talent and no less note. EMPEDOCLES asserts, "there is neither birth nor
death, for any mortal; but only a combination, and a separation of that
which was combined, and that this is what amongst men they call birth,
and death." Again he remarks, "those are infants, or short-sighted
persons, with very contracted understandings, who imagine any thing is
born, which did not exist before, or that any thing can die or perish
totally."





CHAP. IV.

_Laws of Motion, common to every Being of Nature.--Attraction and
Repulsion.--Inert Force.--Necessity._


Man is never surprised at those effects, of which he thinks he knows the
cause; he believes he does know the cause, as soon as he sees them act
in an uniform and determinate manner, or when the motion excited is
simple: the descent of a stone, that falls by its own peculiar weight,
is an object of contemplation to the philosopher only; to whom the mode
by which the most immediate causes act, and the most simple motion, are
no less impenetrable mysteries than the most complex motion, and the
manner by which the most complicated causes give impulse. The uninformed
are seldom tempted either to examine the effects which are familiar to
them, or to recur to first principles. They think they see nothing in
the descent of a stone, which ought to elicit their surprise, or become
the object of their research: it requires a NEWTON to feel that the
descent of heavy bodies is a phenomenon, worthy his whole, his most
serious attention; it requires the sagacity of a profound experimental
philosopher, to discover the laws by which heavy bodies fall, by which
they communicate to others their peculiar motion. In short, the mind
that is most practised in philosophical observation, has frequently the
chagrin to find, that the most simple and most common effects escape all
his researches, and remain inexplicable to him.

When any extraordinary, any unusual, effect is produced, to which our
eyes have not been accustomed; or when we are ignorant of the energies
of the cause, the action of which so forcibly strikes our senses, we
are tempted to meditate upon it, and take it into our consideration.
The European, accustomed to the use of GUNPOWDER, passes it by, without
thinking much of its extraordinary energies; the workman, who labours to
manufacture it, finds nothing marvellous in its properties, because he
daily handles the matter that forms its composition. The American, to
whom this powder was a stranger, who had never beheld its operation,
looked upon it as a divine power, and its energies as supernatural. The
uninformed, who are ignorant of the true cause of THUNDER, contemplate
it as the instrument of divine vengeance. The experimental philosopher
considers it as the effect of the electric matter, which, nevertheless,
is itself a cause which he is very far from perfectly understanding.--It
required the keen, the penetrating mind of a FRANKLIN, to throw light
on the nature of this subtle fluid--to develop the means by which
its effects might be rendered harmless--to turn to useful purposes, a
phenomenon that made the ignorant tremble--that filled their minds with
terror, their hearts with dismay, as indicating the anger of the gods:
impressed with this idea, they prostrated themselves, they sacrificed to
JUPITER, to deprecate his wrath.

Be this as it may, whenever we see a cause act, we look upon its effect
as natural: when this cause becomes familiar to the sight, when we are
accustomed to it, we think we understand it, and its effects surprise
us no longer. Whenever any unusual effect is perceived, without our
discovering the cause, the mind sets to work, becomes uneasy; this
uneasiness increases in proportion to its extent: as soon as it is
believed to threaten our preservation, we become completely agitated; we
seek after the cause with an earnestness proportioned to our alarm;
our perplexity augments in a ratio equivalent to the persuasion we are
under: how essentially requisite it is, we should become acquainted with
the cause that has affected us in so lively a manner. As it frequently
happens that our senses can teach us nothing respecting this cause
which so deeply interests us--which we seek with so much ardour, we have
recourse to our imagination; this, disturbed with alarm, enervated by
fear, becomes a suspicious, a fallacious guide: we create chimeras,
fictitious causes, to whom we give the credit, to whom we ascribe the
honour of those phenomena by which we have been so much alarmed. It is
to this disposition of the human mind that must be attributed, as will
be seen in the sequel, the religious errors of man, who, despairing of
the capacity to trace the natural causes of those perplexing phenomena
to which he was the witness, and sometimes the victim, created in his
brain (heated with terror) imaginary causes, which have become to him a
source of the most extravagant folly.

In Nature, however, there can be only natural causes and effects; all
motion excited in this Nature, follows constant and necessary laws: the
natural operations, to the knowledge of which we are competent, of which
we are in a capacity to judge, are of themselves sufficient to enable us
to discover those which elude our sight; we can at least judge of them
by analogy. If we study Nature with attention, the modes of action which
she displays to our senses will teach us not to be disconcerted by those
which she refuses to discover. Those causes which are the most remote
from their effects, unquestionably act by intermediate causes; by the
aid of these, we can frequently trace out the first. If in the chain of
these causes we sometimes meet with obstacles that oppose themselves
to our research, we ought to endeavour by patience and diligence to
overcome them; when it so happens we cannot surmount the difficulties
that occur, we still are never justified in concluding the chain to be
broken, or that the cause which acts is SUPER-NATURAL. Let us, then, be
content with an honest avowal, that Nature contains resources of which
we are ignorant; but never let us substitute phantoms, fictions, or
imaginary causes, senseless terms, for those causes which escape our
research; because, by such means we only confirm ourselves in ignorance,
impede our enquiries, and obstinately remain in error.

In spite of our ignorance with respect to the meanderings of Nature,
(for of the essence of being, of their properties, their elements, their
combinations, their proportions, we yet know the simple and general
laws, according to which bodies move;) we see clearly, that some of
these laws, common to all beings, never contradict themselves; although,
on some occasions, they appear to vary, we are frequently competent to
discover that the cause becoming complex, from combination with other
causes, either impedes or prevents its mode of action being such as
in its primitive state we had a right to expect. We know that active,
igneous matter, applied to gunpowder, must necessarily cause it to
explode: whenever this effect does not follow the combination of the
igneous matter with the gunpowder--whenever our senses do not give us
evidence of the fact, we are justified in concluding, either that the
powder is damp, or that it is united with some other substance that
counteracts its explosion. We know that all the actions of man have a
tendency to render him happy: whenever, therefore, we see him labouring
to injure or destroy himself, it is just to infer that he is moved by
some cause opposed to his natural tendency; that he is deceived by some
prejudice; that, for want of experience, he is blind to consequences:
that he does not see whither his actions will lead him.

If the motion excited in beings was always simple; if their actions did
not blend and combine with each other, it would be easy to know, and we
should be assured, in the first instance, of the effect a cause would
produce. I know that a stone, when descending, ought to describe a
perpendicular: I also know, that if it encounters any other body which
changes its course, it is obliged to take an oblique direction, but if
its fall be interrupted by several contrary powers, which act upon it
alternately, I am no longer competent to determine what line it will
describe. It may be a parabola, an ellipsis, spiral, circular, &c. this
will depend on the impulse, it receives, and the powers by which it is
impelled.

The most complex motion, however, is never more than the result of
simple motion combined: therefore as soon as we know the general laws of
beings and their action, we have only to decompose, to analyse them, in
order to discover those of which they are combined; experience teaches
us the effects we are to expect. Thus it is clear, the simplest motion
causes that necessary junction of different matter, of which all bodies
are composed: that matter, varied in its essence, in its properties,
in its combinations, has each its several modes of action or motion,
peculiar to itself; the whole motion of a body is consequently the sum
total of each particular motion that is combined.

Amongst the matter we behold, some is constantly disposed to unite,
whilst other is incapable of union; that which is suitable to unite,
forms combinations, more or less intimate, possessing more or less
durability: that is to say, with more or less capacity to preserve their
union, to resist dissolution. Those bodies which are called SOLIDS,
receive into their composition a great number of homogeneous, similar,
and analogous particles, disposed to unite themselves with energies
conspiring or tending to the same point. The primitive beings, or
elements of bodies, have need of supports, of props; that is to say, of
the presence of each other, for the purpose of preserving themselves;
of acquiring consistence or solidity: a truth, which applies with equal
uniformity to what is called _physical_, as to what is termed _moral_.

It is upon this disposition in matter and bodies, with relation to each
other, that is founded those modes of action which natural philosophers
designate by the terms _attraction, repulsion, sympathy, antipathy,
affinities, relations_; that moralists describe under the names of
_love, hatred, friendship, aversion_. Man, like all the beings in
nature, experiences the impulse of attraction and repulsion; the motion
excited in him differing from that of other beings, only, because it is
more concealed, and frequently so hidden, that neither the causes which
excite it, nor their mode of action are known. This system of attraction
and repulsion is very ancient, although it required a NEWTON to develop
it. That love, to which the ancients attributed the unfolding, or
disentanglement of chaos, appears to have been nothing more than a
personification of the principle of attraction. All their allegories and
fables upon chaos, evidently indicate nothing more than the accord or
union that exists between analogous and homogeneous substances; from
whence resulted the existence of the universe: whilst discord or
repulsion, which they called SOIS, was the cause of dissolution,
confusion, and disorder; there can scarcely remain a doubt, but this was
the origin of the doctrines of the TWO PRINCIPLES. According to DIOGENES
LAERTIUS, the philosopher, EMPEDOCLES, asserted, that "_there is a
kind of affection by which the elements unite themselves; and a sort of
discord, by which they separate or remove themselves._"

However it may be, it is sufficient for us to know that by an invariable
law, certain bodies are disposed to unite with more or less facility;
whilst others cannot combine or unite themselves: water combines itself
readily with salt, but will not blend with oil. Some combinations are
very strong, cohering with great force, as metals; others are extremely
feeble, their cohesion slight and easily decomposed, as in fugitive
colours. Some bodies, incapable of uniting by themselves, become
susceptible of union by the agency of other bodies, which serve for
common bonds or MEDIUMS. Thus, oil and water, naturally heterogeneous,
combine and make soap, by the intervention of alkaline salt. From matter
diversely combined, in proportions varied almost to infinity, result
all physical and moral bodies; the properties and qualities of which are
essentially different, with modes of action more or less complex: which
are either understood with facility, or difficult of comprehension,
according to the elements or matter that has entered into their
composition, and the various modifications this matter has undergone.

It is thus, from the reciprocity of their attraction, the primitive
imperceptible particles of matter, which constitute bodies, become
perceptible, form compound substances, aggregate masses; by the union
of similar and analogous matter, whose essences fit them to cohere. The
same bodies are dissolved, their union broken, whenever they undergo the
action of matter inimical to their junction. Thus by degrees are formed,
plants, metals, animals, men; each grows, expands, and increases in its
own system or order; sustaining itself in its respective existence,
by the continual attraction of analogous matter; to which it becomes
united, and by which it is preserved and strengthened. Thus, certain
aliments become fit for the sustenance of man, whilst others destroy his
existence: some are pleasant to him, strengthen his habit; others
are repugnant to him, weaken his system: in short, never to separate
physical from moral laws, it is thus that men, mutually attracted
to each other by their reciprocal wants, form those unions which we
designate by the terms, MARRIAGE, FAMILIES, SOCIETIES, FRIENDSHIPS,
CONNEXIONS: it is thus that virtue strengthens and consolidates them;
that vice relaxes or totally dissolves them.

Of whatever nature may be the combination of beings, their motion has
always one direction or tendency: without direction we could not have
any idea of motion: this direction is regulated by the properties of
each being; as soon as they have any given properties, they necessarily
act in obedience to them: that is to say, they follow the law invariably
determined by these same properties; which, of themselves, constitute
the being such as he is found, and settle his mode of action, which
is always the consequence of his manner of existence. But what is the
general direction, or common tendency, we see in all beings? What is
the visible and known end of all their motion? It is to conserve their
actual existence--to preserve themselves--to strengthen their several
bodies--to attract that which is favorable to them--to repel that
which is injurious them--to avoid that which can harm them--to resist
impulsions contrary to their manner of existence, and to their natural
tendency.

To exist, is to experience the motion peculiar to a determinate essence:
to conserve this existence, is to give and receive that motion from
which results its maintenance:--it is to attract matter suitable
to corroborate its being--to avoid that by which it may be either
endangered or enfeebled. Thus, all beings of which we have any
knowledge, have a tendency to conserve themselves, each after its
peculiar manner: the stone, by the firm adhesion of its particles,
opposes resistance to its destruction. Organized beings conserve
themselves by more complicated means, but which are, nevertheless,
calculated to maintain their existence against that by which it may
be injured. Man, both in his physical and in his moral capacity, is
a living, feeling, thinking, active being; who, every instant of his
duration, strives equally to avoid that which may be injurious, and to
procure that which is pleasing to him, or that which is suitable to his
mode of existence; all his actions tending solely to conserve himself.
ST. AUGUSTINE admits this tendency in all whether organized or not.

Conservation, then, is the common point to which all the energies, all
the powers, all the faculties of beings, seem continually directed.
Natural philosophers call this direction or tendency, SELF-GRAVITATION:
NEWTON calls it INERT FORCE: moralists denominate it in man, SELF-LOVE
which is nothing more than the tendency he has to preserve himself--a
desire of happiness--a love of his own welfare--a wish for pleasure--a
promptitude in seizing on every thing that appears favourable to
his conservation--a marked aversion to all that either disturbs his
happiness, or menaces his existence--primitive sentiments, that are
common to all beings of the human species; which all their faculties are
continually striving to satisfy; which all their passions, their wills,
their actions, have eternally for their object and their end. This
self-gravitation, then, is clearly a necessary disposition in man,
and in all other beings; which, by a variety means, contribute to the
preservation of the existence they have received, as long as nothing
deranges the order of their machine, or its primitive tendency.

Cause always produces effect; there can be no effect without cause.
Impulse is always followed by some motion, more or less sensible; by
some change, more or less remarkable in the body which receives it.
But motion, and its various modes of displaying itself, is, as has been
already shewn, determined by the nature, the essence, the properties,
the combinations of the beings acting. It must, then, be concluded that
motion, or the modes by which beings act, arises from some cause; that
as this cause is not able to move or act, but in conformity with the
manner of its being or its essential properties, it must equally be
concluded, that all the phenomena we perceive are necessary; that every
being in Nature, under the circumstances in which it is placed, and with
the given properties it possesses, cannot act otherwise than it does.

Necessity is the constant and infallible relation of causes with their
effects. Fire consumes, of necessity, combustible matter plated within
its circuit of action: man, by fatality, desires either that which
really is, or appears to be serviceable to his welfare. Nature, in all
the extraordinary appearances she exhibits, necessarily acts after her
own peculiar essence: all the beings she contains, necessarily act each
after its own a individual nature: it is by motion that the whole has
relation with its parts; and these parts with the whole: it is thus
that in the general system every thing is connected: it is itself but
an immense chain of causes and effects, which flow without ceasing, one
from the other. If we reflect, we shall be obliged to acknowledge that
every thing we see is necessary; that it cannot be otherwise than it is;
that all the beings we behold, as well as those which escape our
sight, act by invariable laws. According to these laws, heavy
bodies fall--light bodies ascend--analogous substances attract each
other--beings tend to preserve themselves--man cherishes himself; loves
that which he thinks advantageous--detests that which he has an idea may
prove unfavourable to him.--In fine, we are obliged to admit, there
can be no perfectly independent energy--no separated cause--no detached
action, in a nature where all the beings are in a reciprocity of
action--who, without interruption, mutually impel and resist each
other--who is herself nothing more than an eternal circle of motion,
given and received according to necessary laws; which under the same
given incidents, invariably produce the same effect.

Two examples will serve to throw the principle here laid down, into
light--one shall be taken from physics, the other from morals.

In a whirlwind of dust, raised by elemental force, confused as it
appears to our eyes, in the most frightful tempest excited by contrary
winds, when the waves roll high as mountains, there is not a single
particle of dust, or drop of water, that has been placed by CHANCE, that
has not a cause for occupying the place where it is found; that does
not, in the most rigorous sense of the word, act after the manner in
which it ought to act; that is, according to its own peculiar essence,
and that of the beings from whom it receives this communicated force.
A geometrician exactly knew the different energies acting in each case,
with the properties of the particles moved, could demonstrate that after
the causes given, each particle acted precisely as it ought to act, and
that it could not have acted otherwise than it did.

In those terrible convulsions that sometimes agitate political
societies, shake their foundations, and frequently produce the overthrow
of an empire; there is not a single action, a single word, a single
thought, a single will, a single passion in the agents, whether they act
as destroyers, or as victims, that is not the necessary result of the
causes operating; that does not act, as, of necessity, it must act, from
the peculiar essence of the beings who give the impulse, and that of the
agents who receive it, according to the situation these agents fill in
the moral whirlwind. This could be evidently proved by an understanding
capacitated to rate all the action and re-action, of the minds and
bodies of those who contributed to the revolution.

In fact, if all be connected in Nature, if all motion be produced,
the one from the other, notwithstanding their secret communications
frequently elude our sight; we ought to feel convinced of this truth,
that there is no cause, however minute, however remote, that does not
sometimes produce the greatest and most immediate effects on man. It
may, perhaps, be in the parched plains of Lybia, that are amassed
the first elements of a storm or tempest, which, borne by the winds,
approach our climate, render our atmosphere dense, and thus operating
on the temperament, may influence the passions of a man, whose
circumstances shall have capacitated him to influence many others, who
shall decide after his will the fate of many nations.

Man, in fact, finds himself in Nature, and makes a part of it: he acts
according to laws, which are appropriate to him; he receives in a manner
more or less distinct, the action and impulse of the beings who surround
him; who themselves act after laws that are peculiar to their essence.
Thus he is variously modified; but his actions are always the result of
his own energy, and that of the beings who act upon him, and by whom he
is modified. This is what gives such variety to his determinations--what
generally produces such contradiction in his thoughts, his opinions,
his will, his actions; in short, in that motion, whether concealed or
visible, by which he is agitated. We shall have occasion, in the sequel,
to place this truth, at present so much contested, in a clearer light:
it will be sufficient for our purpose at present to prove, generally,
that every thing in Nature is necessary--that nothing to be found in it
can act otherwise than it does.

Motion, alternately communicated and received, establishes the
connection or relation between the different orders of beings: when they
are in the sphere of reciprocal action, attraction approximates
them; repulsion dissolves and separates them; the one strengthens and
preserves them; the other enfeebles and destroys them. Once combined,
they have a tendency to conserve themselves in that mode of existence,
by virtue of their _inert force_; in this they cannot succeed, because
they are exposed to the continual influence of all other beings, who
perpetually and successively act upon them; their change of form, their
dissolution, is requisite to the preservation of Nature herself: this is
the sole end we are able to assign her--to which we see her tend without
intermission--which she follows without interruption, by the destruction
and reproduction of all subordinate beings, who are obliged to submit to
her laws--to concur, by their mode of action, to the maintenance of her
active existence, so essentially requisite to the GREAT WHOLE.

It is thus each being is an individual, who, in the great family,
performs his necessary portion of the general labour--who executes the
unavoidable task assigned to him. All bodies act according to laws,
inherent in their peculiar essence, without the capability to swerve,
even for a single instant, from those according to which Nature herself
acts. This is the central power, to which all other powers, essences,
and energies, are submitted: she regulates the motions of beings, by the
necessity of her own peculiar essence: she makes them concur by various
modes to the general plan: this appears to be nothing more than the
life, action, and maintenance of the whole, by the continual change of
its parts. This object she obtains, in removing them, one by the other;
by that which establishes, and by that which destroys, the relation
subsisting between them; by that which gives them, and that which
deprives them of, their forms, combinations, proportions, and qualities,
according to which they act for a time, after a given mode; these are
afterwards taken from them, to make them act after a different manner.
It is thus that Nature makes them expand and change, grow and decline,
augment and diminish, approximate and remove, forms and destroys them,
according as she finds it requisite to maintain the whole; towards the
conservation which this Nature is herself essentially necessitated to
have a tendency.

This irresistible power, this universal necessity, this general energy,
then, is only a consequence of the nature of things; by virtue of which
every thing acts, without intermission, after constant and immutable
laws: these laws not varying more for the whole than for the beings of
which it is composed. Nature is an active living whole, to which all its
parts necessarily concur; of which, without their own knowledge, they
maintain the activity, the life, and the existence. Nature acts and
exists necessarily: all that she contains, necessarily conspires to
perpetuate her active existence. This is the decided opinion of PLATO,
when he says, "_matter and necessity are the same thing; this necessity
is the mother of the world._" In point of fact, we cannot go beyond this
aphorism, MATTER ACTS, BECAUSE IT EXISTS; AND EXISTS, TO ACT. If it be
enquired how, or for why, matter exists? We answer, we know not: but
reasoning by analogy, of what we do not know by that which we do, we
should be of opinion it exists necessarily, or because it contains
within itself a sufficient reason for its existence. In supposing it to
be created or produced by a being distinguished from it, or less known
than itself, (which it may be, for any thing we know to the contrary,)
we must still admit, that this being is necessary, and includes a
sufficient reason for his own existence. We have not then removed any of
the difficulty, we have not thrown a clearer light upon the subject, we
have not advanced a single step; we have simply laid aside a being,
of which we know some few of the properties, but of which we are still
extremely ignorant, to have recourse to a power, of which it is utterly
impossible we can, as long as we are men, form any distinct idea; of
which, notwithstanding it may be a truth, we cannot, by any means we
possess, demonstrate the existence. As, therefore, these must be at best
but speculative points of belief, which each individual, by reason of
its obscurity, may contemplate with different optics, under various
aspects, they surely ought to be left free for each to judge after his
own fashion: the Hindoo can have no just cause of enmity against
the Christian for his faith: this has no moral right to question
the Mussulman upon his; the numerous sects of each of the various
persuasions spread over the face of the earth, ought to make it a creed
to look with an eye of complacency on the deviation of the others;
and rest upon that great moral axiom, which is strictly conformable
to Nature, which contains the whole of man's happiness--"_Do not unto
another, that which do you not wish another should do unto you_;" for it
is evident, according to their own doctrines, out of all the variety of
systems, one only can be right.

We shall see in the sequel, how much man's imagination labours to
form an idea, of the energies of that Nature he has personified, and
distinguished from herself: in short, we shall examine some of the
ridiculous and pernicious inventions, which, for want of understanding
Nature, have been imagined to impede her course, to suspend her eternal
laws, to place obstacles to the necessity of things.





CHAP. V.

_Order and Confusion.--Intelligence.--Chance._


The observation of the necessary, regular, and periodical motion in the
universe, generated in the mind of man the idea of ORDER; this term,
in its original signification, represents nothing more than a mode of
considering, a facility of perceiving, together and separately, the
different relations of a whole; in which is discovered, by its manner of
existing and acting, a certain affinity or conformity with his own. Man,
in extending this idea to the universe, carried with him those methods
of considering things which are peculiar to himself: he has consequently
supposed there really existed in Nature affinities and relations, which
he classed under the name of ORDER; and others which appeared to him not
to conform to those, which he has ranked under the term of CONFUSION.

It is easy to comprehend, that this idea of order and confusion can have
no absolute existence in Nature, where every thing is necessary; where
the whole follows constant and invariable laws, which oblige each being,
in every moment of its duration, to submit to other laws, which
flow from its own peculiar mode of existence. Therefore it is in his
imagination, only, man finds a model of that which he terms order or
confusion; which, like all his abstract, metaphysical ideas, supposes
nothing beyond his reach. Order, however, is never more than the faculty
of conforming himself with the beings by whom he is environed, or with
the whole of which he forms a part.

Nevertheless, if the idea of order be applied to Nature, it will be
found to be nothing but a series of action or motion, which he judges
to conspire to one common end. Thus, in a body that moves, order is the
chain of action, the series of motion, proper to constitute it what it
is, and to maintain it in its actual state. Order, relatively to the
whole of Nature, is the concatenation of causes and effects, necessary
to her _active_ existence--to maintaining her constantly together; but,
as it has been proved in the chapter preceding, every individual being
is obliged to concur to this end, in the different ranks they occupy;
from whence it is a necessary deduction, that what is called the ORDER
OF NATURE, can never be more than a certain manner of considering the
necessity of things, to which all, of which man has any knowledge, is
submitted. That which is styled CONFUSION, is only a relative term, used
to designate that series of necessary action, that chain of requisite
motion, by which an individual being is necessarily changed or disturbed
in its mode of existence--by which it is instantaneously obliged to
alter its manner of action; but no one of these actions, no part of
this motion is capable, even for a single instant, of contradicting
or deranging the general order of Nature; from which all beings derive
their existence, their properties, the motion appropriate to each.

What is termed confusion in a being, is nothing more than its passage
into a new class, a new mode of existence; which necessarily carries
with it a new series of action, a new chain of motion, different from
that of which this being found itself susceptible in the preceding
rank it occupied. That which is called order, in Nature, is a mode of
existence, or a disposition of its particles, strictly _necessary_. In
every other assemblage of causes and effects, of worlds, as well as
in that which we inhabit, some sort of arrangement, some kind of order
would necessarily be established. Suppose the most incongruous, the
most heterogeneous substances were put into activity, and assembled by
a concatenation of extraordinary circumstances; they would form amongst
themselves, a complete order, a perfect arrangement. This is the true
notion of a property, which may be defined, an aptitude to constitute a
being, such as it is actually found, such as it is with respect to the
whole of which it makes a part.

Order, then, is nothing but necessity, considered relatively to the
series of actions, or the connected chain of causes and effects, that
it produces in the universe. What is the motion in our planetary system;
but a series of phenomena, operated upon according to necessary laws,
that regulate the bodies of which it is composed? In conformity to these
laws, the sun occupies the centre; the planets gravitate towards it, and
revolve round it, in regulated periods: the satellites of these planets
gravitate towards those which are in the centre of their sphere of
action, and describe round them their periodical route. One of these
planets, the earth which man inhabits, turns on its own axis; and by the
various aspects which its revolution obliges it to present to the sun,
experiences those regular variations which are called SEASONS. By a
sequence of the sun's action upon different parts of this globe, all its
productions undergo vicissitudes: plants, animals, men, are in a sort of
morbid drowsiness during _Winter_: in _Spring_, these beings re-animate,
to come as it were out of a long lethargy. In short, the mode in
which the earth receives the sun's beams, has an influence on all its
productions; these rays, when darted obliquely, do not act in the same
manner as when they fall perpendicularly; their periodical absence,
caused by the revolution of this sphere on itself, produces _night_ and
_day_. However, in all this, man never witnesses more than necessary
effects, flowing from the nature of things, which, whilst that remains
the same, can never be opposed with propriety. These effects are owing
to gravitation, attraction, centrifugal power, &c.

On the other hand, this _order_, which man admires as a supernatural
effect, is sometimes disturbed, or changed into what he calls
_confusion_: this confusion is, however, always a necessary consequence
of the laws of Nature; in which it is requisite to the support of the
whole that some of her parts should be deranged and thrown out of the
ordinary course. It is thus, COMETS present themselves so unexpectedly
to man's wondering eyes; their eccentric motion disturbs the
tranquillity of his planetary system; they excite the terror of the
misinstructed to whom every thing unusual is marvellous. The natural
philosopher, himself, conjectures that in former ages, these comets
have overthrown the surface of this mundane ball, and caused great
revolutions on the earth. Independent of this extraordinary _confusion_,
he is exposed to others more familiar to him: sometimes, the seasons
appear to have usurped each other's place; to have quitted their regular
order: sometimes the opposing elements seem to dispute among themselves
the dominion of the world; the sea bursts its limits; the solid earth
is shaken and rent asunder; mountains are in a state of conflagration;
pestilential diseases destroy both men and animals; sterility desolates
a country: then affrighted man utters piercing cries, offers up his
prayers to recall order; tremblingly raises his hands towards the Being
he supposes to be the author of all these calamities; nevertheless, the
whole of this afflicting confusion are necessary effects, produced by
natural causes; which act according to fixed laws, determined by their
own peculiar essence, and the universal essence of Nature: in which
every thing must necessarily be changed, moved, and dissolved; where
that which is called ORDER, must sometimes be disturbed and altered into
a new mode of existence; which to his deluded mind, to his imagination,
led astray by ignorance and want of reflection, appears CONFUSION.

There cannot possibly exist what is generally termed _a confusion of
Nature_: man finds order in every thing that is conformable to his
own mode of being; confusion in every thing by which it is opposed:
nevertheless, in Nature, all is in order; because none of her parts are
ever able to emancipate themselves from those invariable rules which
flow from their respective essences: there _is_ not, there _cannot_
be confusion in a whole, to the maintenance of which what is _called_
confusion is absolutely requisite; of which the general course can never
be discomposed, although individuals may be, and necessarily are; where
all the effects produced are the consequence of natural causes, that
under the circumstances in which they are placed, act only as they
infallibly are obliged to act.

It therefore follows, there can be neither monsters nor prodigies;
wonders nor miracles in Nature: those which are designated MONSTERS, are
certain combinations, with which the eyes of man are not familiarized;
but which, therefore, are not less the necessary effects of natural
causes. Those which he terms PRODIGIES, WONDERS, or SUPERNATURAL
effects, are phenomena of Nature, with whose mode of action he is
unacquainted; of which his ignorance does not permit him to ascertain
the principles; whose causes he cannot trace; but which his impatience,
his heated imagination, aided by a desire to explain, makes him
foolishly attribute to imaginary causes; which, like the idea of order,
have no existence but in himself; and which, that he may conceal his
own ignorance, that he may obtain more respect with the uninformed,
he places beyond Nature, out of which his experience is every instant
demonstrably proving that none of these things can have existence.

As for those effects which are called MIRACLES, that is to say, contrary
to the unalterable laws of Nature, it must be felt such things are
impossible; because, nothing can, for an instant, suspend the necessary
course of beings, without the whole of Nature was arrested; without
she was disturbed in her tendency. There have neither been wonders nor
miracles in Nature; except for those, who have not sufficiently studied
the laws, who consequently do not feel, that those laws can never be
contradicted, even in the most minute parts, without the whole being
destroyed, or at least without changing her essence, her mode of action;
that it is the height of folly to recur to supernatural causes to
explain the phenomena man beholds, before he becomes fully acquainted
with natural causes--with the powers and capabilities which Nature
herself contains.

_Order_ and _Confusion_, then, are only relative terms, by which man
designates the state in which particular beings find themselves. He
says, a being is in order, when all the motion it undergoes conspires to
favor its tendency to its own preservation; when it is conducive to the
maintenance of its actual existence: that it is in confusion when the
causes which move it disturb the harmony of its existence, or have a
tendency to destroy the equilibrium necessary to the conservation of its
actual state. Nevertheless, confusion, as we have shown, is nothing but
the passage of a being into a new order; the more rapid the progress,
the greater the confusion for the being that is submitted to it: that
which conducts man to what is called death, is, for him, the greatest
of all possible confusion. Yet this death is nothing more than a passage
into a new mode of existence: it is the eternal, the invariable, the
unconquerable law of Nature, to which the individuals of his order, each
in his turn, is obliged to submit.

The human body is said to be in order, when its various component parts
act in that mode, from which results the conservation of the whole; from
which emanates that which is the tendency of his actual existence;
in other words, when all the impulse he receives, all the motion he
communicates, tends to preserve his health, to render him happy, by
promoting the happiness of his fellow men. He is said to be in health
when the fluids and solids of his body concur to render him robust, to
keep his mind in vigour; when each lends mutual aid towards this end. He
is said to be in _confusion_, or in ill health, whenever this tendency
is disturbed; when any of the essential parts of his body cease to
concur to his preservation, or to fulfil its peculiar functions. This
it is that happens in a state of sickness, in which, however, the motion
excited in the human machine is as necessary, is regulated by laws as
certain, as natural, as invariable, as that which concurs to produce
health. Sickness merely produces in him a new order of motion, a new
series of action, a new chain of things. Man dies: to him, this appears
the greatest confusion he can experience; his body is no longer what it
was--its parts no longer concur to the same end--his blood has lost
its circulation--he is deprived of feeling--his ideas have vanished--he
thinks no more--his desires have fled--death is the epoch, the cessation
of his human existence.--His frame becomes an inanimate mass, by the
subtraction of those principles by which it was animated; that is, which
made it act after a determinate manner: its tendency has received a
new direction; its action is changed; the motion excited in its ruins
conspires to a new end. To that motion, the harmony of which he calls
order, which produced life, sentiment, thought, passions, health,
succeeds a series of motion of another species; that, nevertheless,
follows laws as necessary as the first; all the parts of the dead
man conspire to produce what is called dissolution, fermentation,
putrefaction: these new modes of being, of acting, are just as natural
to man, reduced to this state, as sensibility, thought, the periodical
motion of the blood, &c. were to the living man: his essence having
changed, his mode of action can no longer be the same. To that regulated
motion, to that necessary action, which conspired to the production
of life, succeeds that determinate motion, that series of action which
concurs to produce the dissolution of the dead carcass; the dispersion
of its parts; the formation of new combinations, from which result new
beings; and which, as we have before seen, is the immutable order of
active Nature.

How then can it be too often repeated, that relatively to the great
whole, all the motion of beings, all their modes of action, can never be
but in order, that is to say, are always conformable to Nature; that in
all the stages through which beings are obliged to pass, they invariably
act after a mode necessarily subordinate to the universal whole? To say
more, each individual being always acts in order; all its actions,
the whole system of its motion, are the necessary consequence of its
peculiar mode of existence; whether that be momentary or durable. Order,
in political society, is the effect of a necessary series of ideas,
of wills, of actions, in those who compose it; whose movements are
regulated in a manner, either calculated to maintain its indivisibility,
or to hasten its dissolution. Man constituted, or modified, in the
manner we term virtuous, acts necessarily in that mode, from whence
results the welfare of his associates: the man we stile wicked, acts
necessarily in that mode, from whence springs the misery of his fellows:
his Nature, being essentially different, he must necessarily act after
a different mode: his individual order is at variance, but his relative
order is complete: it is equally the essence of the one, to promote
happiness, as it is of the other to induce misery.

Thus, order and confusion in individual beings, is nothing more than
the manner of man's considering the natural and necessary effects, which
they produce relatively to himself. He fears the wicked man; he says
that he will carry confusion into society, because he disturbs its
tendency and places obstacles to its happiness. He avoids a falling
stone, because it will derange in him the order necessary to his
conservation. Nevertheless, order and confusion, are always, as we
have shewn, consequences, equally necessary to either the transient or
durable state of beings. It is in order that fire burns, because it
is of its essence to burn; on the other hand, it is in order, that an
intelligent being should remove himself from whatever can disturb his
mode of existence. A being, whose organization renders him sensible,
must in virtue of his essence, fly from every thing that can injure his
organs, or that can place his existence in danger.

Man calls those beings _intelligent_, who are organized after his
own manner; in whom he sees faculties proper for their preservation;
suitable to maintain their existence in the order that is convenient to
them; that can enable them to take the necessary measures towards this
end, with a consciousness of the motion they undergo. From hence, it
will be perceived, that the faculty called intelligence, consists in a
possessing capacity to act comformably to a known end, in the being
to which it is attributed. He looks upon these beings as deprived of
intelligence, in which he finds no conformity with himself; in whom
he discovers neither the same construction, nor the same faculties:
of which he knows neither the essence, the end to which they tend, the
energies by which they act, nor the order that is necessary to them. The
whole cannot have a distinct name, or end, because there is nothing out
of itself, to which it can have a tendency. If it be in himself, that
he arranges the idea of _order_, it is also in himself, that he draws up
that of _intelligence_. He refuses to ascribe it to those beings, who
do not act after his own manner: he accords it to all those whom he
supposes to act like himself: the latter he calls intelligent agents:
the former blind causes; that is to say, intelligent agents who act
by _chance_: thus chance is an empty word without sense, but which
is always opposed to that of intelligence, without attaching any
determinate, or any certain idea.

Man, in fact, attributes to _chance_ all those effects, of which the
connection they have with their causes is not seen. Thus he uses the
word _chance_, to cover his ignorance of those natural causes, which
produce visible effects, by means which he cannot form an idea of; or
that act by a mode of which he does not perceive the order; or whose
system is not followed by actions conformable to his own. As soon as he
sees, or believes he sees, the order of action, or the manner of motion,
he attributes this order to an _intelligence_; which is nothing more
than a quality borrowed from himself--from his own peculiar mode of
action--from the manner in which he is himself affected.

Thus an _intelligent being_ is one who thinks, who wills, and who acts,
to compass an end. If so, he must have organs, an aim conformable to
those of man: therefore, to say Nature is governed by an intelligence,
is to affirm that she is governed by a being, furnished with organs;
seeing that without this organic construction, he can neither have
sensations, perceptions, ideas, thought, will, plan, nor action which he
understands.

Man always makes himself the center of the universe: it is to himself
that he relates all he beholds. As soon as he believes he discovers a
mode of action that has a conformity with his own, or some phenomenon
that interests his feelings, he attributes it to a cause that resembles
himself--that acts after his manner--that has faculties similar to those
he possesses--whose interests are like his own--whose projects are in
unison with and have the same tendency as those he himself indulges: in
short, it is from himself, or the properties which actuate him, that he
forms the model of this cause. It is thus that man beholds, out of his
own species, nothing but beings who act differently from himself;
yet believes that he remarks in Nature an order similar to his own
ideas--views conformable to those which he himself possesses. He
imagines that Nature is governed by a cause whose intelligence is
conformable to his own, to whom he ascribes the honor of the order which
he believes he witnesses--of those views that fall in with those that
are peculiar to himself--of an aim which quadrates with that which is
the great end of all his own actions. It is true that man, feeling his
incapability of producing the vast, the multiplied effects of which he
witnesses the operation, when contemplating the universe, was under the
necessity of making a distinction between himself and the cause which
he supposed to be the author of such stupendous effects; he believed
he removed every difficulty, by amplifying in this cause all those
faculties of which he was himself in possession; adding others of which
his own self-love made him desirous, or which he thought would render
his being more perfect: thus, he gave JUPITER wings, with the faculty of
assuming any form he might deem convenient: it was thus, by degrees,
he arrived at forming an idea of that intelligent cause, which he has
placed above Nature, to preside over action--to give her that motion
of which he has chosen to believe she was in herself incapable. He
obstinately persists in regarding this Nature as a heap of dead, inert
matter, without form, which has not within itself the power of producing
any of those great effects, those regular phenomena, from which emanates
what he styles _the order of the Universe_. ANAXAGORAS is said to have
been the first who supposed the universe created and governed by an
intelligence: ARISTOTLE reproaches him with having made an automaton
of this intelligence; or in other words, with ascribing to it the
production of things, only when he was at a loss to account for their
appearance. From whence it may be deduced, that it is for want of being
acquainted with the powers of Nature, or the properties of matter, that
man has multiplied beings without necessity--that he has supposed the
universe under the government of an intelligent cause, which he is, and
perhaps always will be, himself the model: in fine, this cause has been
personified under such a variety of shapes, sexes, and names, that
a list of the deities he has at various times supposed to guide this
Nature, or to whom he has submitted her, makes a large volume that
occupies some years of his youthful education to understand. He only
rendered this cause more inconceivable, when he extended in it his own
faculties too much. He either annihilates, or renders it altogether
impossible, when he would attach to it incompatible qualities, which
he is obliged to do, to enable him to account for the contradictory and
disorderly effects he beholds in the world. In fact, he sees confusion
in the world; yet, notwithstanding his confusion contradicts the
plan, the power, the wisdom, the bounty of this intelligence, and the
miraculous order which he ascribes to it; he says, the extreme beautiful
arrangement of the whole, obliges him to suppose it to be the work of
a sovereign intelligence: unable, however, to reconcile this seeming
confusion with the benevolence he attaches to this cause, he had
recourse to another effort of his imagination; he made a new cause,
to whom he ascribed all the evil, all the misery, resulting from this
confusion: still, his own person served for the model; to which he
added those deformities which he had learned to hold in disrespect: in
multiplying these counter or destroying causes, he peopled Pandemonium.

It will no doubt be argued, that as Nature contains and produces
intelligent beings, either she must be herself intelligent, or else she
must be governed by an intelligent cause. We reply, intelligence is
a faculty peculiar to organized beings, that it is to say, to beings
constituted and combined after a determinate manner; from whence results
certain modes of action, which are designated under various names;
according to the different effects which these beings produce: wine
has not the properties called _wit_ and _courage_; nevertheless, it
is sometimes seen that it communicates those qualities to men, who are
supposed to be in themselves entirely devoid of them. It cannot be
said Nature is intelligent after the manner of any of the beings she
contains; but she can produce intelligent beings by assembling matter
suitable to their particular organization, from whose peculiar modes of
action will result the faculty called intelligence; who shall be capable
of producing certain effects which are the necessary consequence of this
property. I therefore repeat, that to have intelligence, designs and
views, it is requisite to have ideas; to the production of ideas, organs
or senses are necessary: this is what is neither said of Nature nor
of the causes he has supposed to preside over her actions. In short
experience warrants the assertion, it does more, it proves beyond
a doubt, that matter, which is regarded as inert and dead, assumes
sensible action, intelligence, and life, when it is combined and
organized after particular modes.

From what has been said, it must rationally be concluded that _order_ is
never more than the necessary or uniform connection of causes with
their effects; or that series of action which flows from the peculiar
properties of beings, so long as they remain in a given state; that
_confusion_ is nothing more than the change of this state; that in the
universe, all is necessarily in order, because every thing acts and
moves according to the various properties of the different beings it
contains; that in Nature there cannot be either confusion or real evil,
since every thing follows the laws of its natural existence; that there
is neither _chance_ nor any thing fortuitous in this Nature, where no
effect is produced without a sufficient, without a substantial cause;
where all causes act necessarily according to fixed and certain laws,
which are themselves dependant on the essential properties of these
causes or beings, as well as on the combination, which constitutes
either their transitory or permanent state; that intelligence is a mode
of acting, a method of existence natural to some particular beings; that
if this intelligence should be attributed to Nature, it would then be
nothing more than the faculty of conserving herself in active existence
by necessary means. In refusing to Nature the intelligence he himself
enjoys--in rejecting the intelligent cause which is supposed to be the
contriver of this Nature, or the principle of that _order_ he discovers
in her course, nothing is given to _chance_, nothing to a blind cause,
nothing to a power which is indistinguishable; but every thing he
beholds is attributed to real, to known causes; or to those which by
analogy are easy of comprehension. All that exists is acknowledged to
be a consequence of the inherent properties of eternal matter, which by
contact, by blending, by combination, by change of form, produces order
and confusion; with all those varieties which assail his sight, it
is himself who is blind, when he imagines blind causes:--man only
manifested his ignorance of the powers of motion, of the laws of Nature,
when he attributed, any of its effects to _chance_. He did not shew a
more enlightened feeling when he ascribed them to an intelligence, the
idea of which he borrowed from himself, but which is never in conformity
with the effects which he attributes to its intervention--he only
imagined words to supply the place of things--he made JUPITER, SATURN,
JUNO, and a thousand others, operate that which he found himself
inadequate to perform; he distinguished them from Nature, gave them an
amplification of his own properties, and believed he understood them by
thus obscuring ideas, which he never dared either define or analyze.





CHAP. VI.

_Moral and Physical Distinctions of Man.--His Origin._


Let us now apply the general laws we have scrutinized, to those beings
of Nature who interest us the most. Let us see in what man differs from
the other beings by which he is surrounded. Let us examine if he has not
certain points in conformity with them, that oblige him, notwithstanding
the different properties they respectively possess, to act in certain
respects according to the universal laws to which every thing is
submitted. Finally, let us enquire if the ideas he has formed of himself
in meditating on his own peculiar mode of existence, be chimerical, or
founded in reason.

Man occupies a place amidst that crowd, that multitude of beings,
of which Nature is the assemblage. His essence, that is to say, the
peculiar manner of existence, by which he is distinguished from other
beings, renders him susceptible of various modes of action, of a variety
of motion, some of which are simple and visible, others concealed and
complicated. His life itself is nothing more than a long series, a
succession of necessary and connected motion; which operates perpetual
changes in his machine; which has for its principle either causes
contained within himself, such as blood, nerves, fibres, flesh, bones;
in short, the matter, as well solid as fluid, of which his body is
composed--or those exterior causes, which, by acting upon him, modify
him diversely; such as the air with which he is encompassed, the
aliments by which he is nourished, and all those objects from which
he receives any impulse whatever, by the impression they make on his
senses.

Man, like all other beings in Nature, tends to his own destruction--he
experiences inert force--he gravitates upon himself--he is attracted by
objects that are contrary or repugnant to his existence--he seeks after
some--he flies, or endeavours to remove himself from others. It is this
variety of action, this diversity of modification of which the human
being is susceptible, that has been designated under such different
names, by such varied nomenclature. It will be necessary, presently, to
examine these closely and go more into detail.

However marvellous, however hidden, however secret, however complicated
may be the modes of action, which the human frame undergoes, whether
interiorly or exteriorly; whatever may be, or appear to be the impulse
he either receives or communicates, examined closely, it will be found
that all his motion, all his operations, all his changes, all his
various states, all his revolutions, are constantly regulated by the
same laws, which Nature has prescribed to all the beings she brings
forth--which she developes--which she enriches with faculties--of which
she increases the bulk--which she conserves for a season--which she ends
by decomposing, by destroying: obliging them to change their form.

Man, in his origin, is an imperceptible point, a speck, of which the
parts are without form; of which the mobility, the life, escapes his
senses; in short, in which he does not perceive any sign of those
qualities, called SENTIMENT, FEELING, THOUGHT, INTELLIGENCE, FORCE,
REASON, &c. Placed in the womb suitable to his expansion, this point
unfolds, extends, increases, by the continual addition of matter he
attracts, that is analogous to his being, which consequently assimilates
itself with him. Having quitted this womb, so appropriate to conserve
his existence, to unfold his qualities, to strengthen his habits; so
competent to give, for a season, consistence to the weak rudiments of
his frame; he travels through the stage of infancy; he becomes adult:
his body has then acquired a considerable extension of bulk, his motion
is marked, his action is visible, he is sensible in all his parts; he is
a living, an active mass; that is to say, a combination that feels and
thinks; that fulfils the functions peculiar to beings of his species.
But how has he become sensible? Because he has been by degrees
nourished, enlarged, repaired by the continual attraction that takes
place within himself, of that kind of matter which is pronounced inert,
insensible, inanimate; which is, nevertheless, continually combining
itself with his machine; of which it forms an active whole, that is
living, that feels, judges, reasons, wills, deliberates, chooses,
elects; that has the capability of labouring, more or less
efficaciously, to his own individual preservation; that is to say, to
the maintenance of the harmony of his existence.

All the motion and changes that man experiences in the course of his
life, whether it be from exterior objects or from those substances
contained within himself, are either favorable or prejudicial to his
existence; either maintain its order, or throw it into confusion; are
either in conformity with, or repugnant to, the essential tendency of
his peculiar mode of being. He is compelled by Nature to approve of
some, to disapprove of others; some of necessity render him happy,
others contribute to his misery; some become the objects of his most
ardent desire, others of his determined aversion: some elicit his
confidence, others make him tremble with fear.

In all the phenomena man presents, from the moment he quits the womb
of his mother, to that wherein he becomes the inhabitant of the silent
tomb, he perceives nothing but a succession of necessary causes and
effects, which are strictly conformable to those laws that are common
to all the beings in Nature. All his modes of action--all his
sensations--all his ideas--all his passions--every act of his
will--every impulse which he either gives or receives, are the necessary
consequences of his own peculiar properties, and those which he finds in
the various beings by whom he is moved. Every thing he does--every thing
that passes within himself--his concealed motion--his visible action,
are the effects of inert force--of self-gravitation--the attractive or
repulsive powers contained in his machine--of the tendency he has, in
common with other beings, to his own individual preservation; in short,
of that energy which is the common property of every being he beholds.
Nature, in man, does nothing more than shew, in a decided manner, what
belongs to the peculiar nature by which he is distinguished from the
beings of a different system or order.

The source of those errors into which man has fallen, when he has
contemplated himself, has its rise, as will presently be shown, in the
opinion he has entertained, that he moved by himself--that he always
acts by his own natural energy--that in his actions, in the will that
gave him impulse, he was independent of the general laws of Nature; and
of those objects which, frequently, without his knowledge, always in
spite of him, in obedience to these laws, are continually acting upon
him. If he had examined himself attentively, he must have acknowledged,
that none of the motion he underwent was spontaneous--he must have
discovered, that even his birth depended on causes, wholly out of the
reach of his own powers--that, it was without his own consent he entered
into the system in which he occupies a place--that, from the moment
in which he is born, until that in which he dies, he is continually
impelled by causes, which, in spite of himself, influence his frame,
modify his existence, dispose of his conduct. Would not the slightest
reflection have sufficed to prove to him, that the fluids, the solids,
of which his body is composed, as well as that concealed mechanism,
which he believes to be independent of exterior causes, are, in fact,
perpetually under the influence of these causes; that without them he
finds himself in a total incapacity to act? Would he not have seen,
that his temperament, his constitution, did in no wise depend on
himself--that his passions are the necessary consequence of this
temperament--that his will is influenced, his actions determined by
these passions; consequently by opinions, which he has not given to
himself, of which he is not the master? His blood, more or less heated
or abundant; his nerves more or less braced, his fibres more or less
relaxed, give him dispositions either transitory or durable--are not
these, at every moment decisive of his ideas; of his thoughts: of his
desires: of his fears: of his motion, whether visible or concealed? The
state in which he finds himself, does it not necessarily depend on the
air which surrounds him diversely modified; on the various properties
of the aliments which nourish him; on the secret combinations that form
themselves in his machine, which either preserve its order, or throw it
into confusion? In short, had man fairly studied himself, every thing
must have convinced him, that in every moment of his duration, he was
nothing more than a passive instrument in the hands of necessity.

Thus it must appear, that where all is connected, where all the causes
are linked one to the other, where the whole forms but one immense
chain, there cannot be any independent, any isolated energy; any
detached power. It follows then, that Nature, always in action, marks
out to man each point of the line he is bound to describe; establishes
the route, by which he must travel. It is Nature that elaborates, that
combines the elements of which he must be composed;--It is Nature that
gives him his being, his tendency, his peculiar mode of action. It is
Nature that develops him, expands him, strengthens him, increases his
bulk--preserves him for a season, during which he is obliged to fulfil
the task imposed on him. It is Nature, that in his journey through life,
strews on the road those objects, those events; those adventures,
that modify him in a variety of ways, that give him impulses which
are sometimes agreeable and beneficial, at others prejudicial and
disagreeable. It is Nature, that in giving him feeling, in supplying him
with sentiment, has endowed him with capacity to choose, the means to
elect those objects, to take those methods that are most conducive, most
suitable, most natural, to his conservation. It is Nature, who when he
has run his race, when he has finished his career, when he has
described the circle marked out for him, conducts him in his turn to
his destruction; dissolves the union of his elementary particles,
and obliges him to undergo the constant, the universal law; from the
operation of which nothing is exempted. It is thus, motion places man in
the matrix of his mother; brings him forth out of her womb; sustains
him for a season; at length destroys him; obliges him to return into
the bosom of Nature; who speedily reproduces him, scattered under an
infinity of forms; in which each of his particles run over again, in the
same manner, the different stages, as necessary as the whole had before
run over those of his preceding existence.

The beings of the human species, as well as all other beings, are
susceptible of two sorts of motion: the one, that of the mass, by which
an entire body, or some of its parts, are visibly transferred from one
place to another; the other, internal and concealed, of some of which
man is sensible, while some takes place without his knowledge, and is
not even to be guessed at, but by the effect it outwardly produces. In a
machine so extremely complex as man, formed by the combination of such
a multiplicity of matter, so diversified in its properties, so different
in its proportions, so varied in its modes of action, the motion
necessarily becomes of the most complicated kind; its dullness, as well
as its rapidity, frequently escapes the observation of those themselves,
in whom it takes place.

Let us not, then, be surprised, if, when man would account to himself
for his existence, for his manner of acting, finding so many obstacles
to encounter, he invented such strange hypotheses to explain the
concealed spring of his machine--if then this motion appeared to him,
to be different from that of other bodies, he conceived an idea, that he
moved and acted in a manner altogether distinct from the other beings in
Nature. He clearly perceived that his body, as well as different parts
of it, did act; but, frequently, he was unable to discover what
brought them into action: from whence he received the impulse: he then
conjectured he contained within himself a moving principle distinguished
from his machine, which secretly gave an impulse to the springs which
set this machine in motion; that moved him by its own natural energy;
that consequently he acted according to laws totally distinct from those
which regulated the motion of other beings: he was conscious of certain
internal motion, which he could not help feeling; but how could he
conceive, that this invisible motion was so frequently competent to
produce such striking effects? How could he comprehend, that a fugitive
idea, an imperceptible act of thought, was so frequently capacitated
to bring his whole being into trouble and confusion? He fell into the
belief, that he perceived within himself a substance distinguished from
that self, endowed with a secret force; in which he supposed existed
qualities distinctly differing from those, of either the visible
causes that acted on his organs, or those organs themselves. He did not
sufficiently understand, that the primitive cause which makes a stone
fall, or his arm move, are perhaps as difficult of comprehension,
as arduous to be explained, as those internal impulses, of which his
thought or his will are the effects. Thus, for want of meditating
Nature--of considering her under her true point of view--of remarking
the conformity--of noticing the simultaneity, the unity of the motion
of this fancied motive-power with that of his body--of his material
organs--he conjectured he was not only a distinct being, but that he was
set apart, with different energies, from all the other beings in Nature;
that he was of a more simple essence having nothing in common with any
thing by which he was surrounded; nothing that connected him with all
that he beheld.

It is from thence has successively sprung his notions of SPIRITUALITY,
IMMATERIALITY, IMMORTALITY; in short, all those vague unmeaning words
he has invented by degrees, in order to subtilize and designate the
attributes of the unknown power, which he believes he contains within
himself; which he conjectures to be the concealed principle of all his
visible actions when man once imbibes an idea that he cannot comprehend,
he meditates upon it until he has given it a complete personification:
Thus he saw, or fancied he saw, the igneous matter pervade every thing;
he conjectured that it was the only principle of life and activity; he
proceeded to embody it; he gave it his own form; called it JUPITER, and
ended by worshipping this image of his own creation, as the power from
whom he derived every good he experienced, every evil he sustained.
To crown the bold conjectures he ventured to make on this internal
motive-power, he supposed, that different from all other beings, even
from the body that served to envelope it, it was not bound to undergo
dissolution; that such was its perfect simplicity, that it could not
be decomposed, nor even change its form; in short, that it was by
its essence exempted from those revolutions to which he saw the body
subjected, as well as all the compound beings with which Nature is
filled.

Thus man, in his own ideas, became double; he looked upon himself as a
whole, composed by the inconceivable assemblage of two different, two
distinct natures, which have no point of analogy between themselves: he
distinguished two substances in himself; one evidently submitted to
the influence of gross beings, composed of coarse inert matter: this
he called BODY;--the other, which he supposed to be simple, of a purer
essence, was contemplated as acting from itself: giving motion to the
body, with which it found itself so miraculously united: this he called
SOUL, or SPIRIT; the functions of the one, he denominated _physical,
corporeal, material_; the functions of the other he styled _spiritual,
intellectual._ Man, considered relatively to the first, was termed the
PHYSICAL MAN; viewed with relation to the last, he was designated the
MORAL MAN. These distinctions, although adopted by the greater number of
the philosophers of the present day, are, nevertheless, only founded
on gratuitous suppositions. Man has always believed he remedied his
ignorance of things, by inventing words to which he could never attach
any true sense or meaning. He imagined he understood matter, its
properties, its faculties, its resources, its different combinations,
because he had a superficial glimpse of some of its qualities: he has,
however, in reality, done nothing more than obscure the faint ideas he
has been capacitated to form of this matter, by associating it with a
substance much less intelligible than itself. It is thus, speculative
man, in forming words, in multiplying beings, has only plunged himself
into greater difficulties than those he endeavoured to avoid; and
thereby placed obstacles to the progress of his knowledge: whenever he
has been deficient of facts, he has had recourse to conjecture, which he
quickly changed into fancied realities. Thus, his imagination, no longer
guided by experience, hurried on by his new ideas, was lost, without
hope of return, in the labyrinth of an ideal, of an intellectual world,
to which he had himself given birth; it was next to impossible to
withdraw him from this delusion, to place him in the right road, of
which nothing but experience can furnish him the clue. Nature points out
to man, that in himself, as well as in all those objects which act upon
him, there is never more than matter endowed with various properties,
diversely modified, that acts by reason of these properties: that man is
an organized whole, composed of a variety of matter; that like all the
other productions of Nature, he follows general and known laws, as
well as those laws or modes of action which are peculiar to himself and
unknown.

Thus, when it shall be inquired, what is man?

We say, he is a material being, organized after a peculiar manner;
conformed to a certain mode of thinking--of feeling; capable
of modification in certain modes peculiar to himself--to his
organization--to that particular combination of matter which is found
assembled in him.

If, again, it be asked, what origin we give to beings of the human
species?

We reply, that, like all other beings, man is a production of Nature,
who resembles them in some respects, and finds himself submitted to
the same laws; who differs from them in other respects, and follows
particular laws, determined by the diversity of his conformation.

If, then, it be demanded, whence came man?

We answer, our experience on this head does not capacitate us to resolve
the question: but that it cannot interest us, as it suffices for us to
know that man exists; that he is so constituted, as to be competent to
the effects we witness.

But it will be urged, has man always existed? Has the human species
existed from all eternity; or is it only an instantaneous production of
Nature? Have there been always men like ourselves? Will there always
be such? Have there been, in all times, males and females? Was there a
first man, from whom all others are descended? Was the animal anterior
to the egg, or did the egg precede the animal? Is this species without
beginning? Will it also be without end? The species itself, is it
indestructible, or does it pass away like its individuals? Has man
always been what he now is; or has he, before he arrived at the state in
which we see him, been obliged to pass under an infinity of successive
developements? Can man at last flatter himself with having arrived at
a fixed being, or must the human species again change? If man is the
production of Nature, it will perhaps be asked, Is this Nature competent
to the production of new beings, to make the old species disappear?
Adopting this supposition, it may be inquired, why Nature does not
produce under our own eyes new beings--new species?

It would appear on reviewing these questions, to be perfectly
indifferent, as to the stability of the argument we have used, which
side was taken; that, for want of experience, hypothesis must settle a
curiosity that always endeavours to spring forward beyond the boundaries
prescribed to our mind. This granted, the contemplator of Nature will
say, that he sees no contradiction, in supposing the human species, such
as it is at the present day, was either produced in the course of time,
or from all eternity: he will not perceive any advantage that can arise
from supposing that it has arrived by different stages, or successive
developements, to that state in which it is actually found. Matter is
eternal, it is necessary, but its forms are evanescent and contingent.
It may be asked of man, is he any thing more than matter combined, of
which the former varies every instant?

Notwithstanding, some reflections seem to favor the supposition, to
render more probable the hypothesis, that man is a production formed in
the course of time; who is peculiar to the globe he inhabits, who is the
result of the peculiar laws by which it is directed; who, consequently,
can only date his formation as coeval with that of his planet. Existence
is essential to the universe, or the total assemblage of matter
essentially varied that presents itself to our contemplation; the
combinations, the forms, however, are not essential. This granted,
although the matter of which the earth is composed has always existed,
this earth may not always have had its present form--its actual
properties; perhaps it may be a mass detached in the course of time from
some other celestial body;--perhaps it is the result of the spots, or
those encrustations which astronomers discover in the sun's disk,
which have had the faculty to diffuse themselves over our planetary
system;--perhaps the sphere we inhabit may be an extinguished or a
displaced comet, which heretofore occupied some other place in the
regions of space;--which, consequently, was then competent to produce
beings very different from those we now behold spread over its surface;
seeing that its then position, its nature, must have rendered its
productions different from those which at this day it offers to our
view.

Whatever may be the supposition adopted, plants, animals, men, can only
be regarded as productions inherent in and natural to our globe, in the
position and in the circumstances in which it is actually found: these
productions it would be reasonable to infer would be changed, if this
globe by any revolution should happen to shift its situation. What
appears to strengthen this hypothesis, is, that on our ball itself, all
the productions vary, by reason of its different climates: men, animals,
vegetables, minerals, are not the same on every part of it: they vary
sometimes in a very sensible manner, at very inconsiderable distances.
The elephant is indigenous to, or native of the torrid zone: the rein
deer is peculiar to the frozen climates of the North; Indostan is the
womb that matures the diamond; we do not find it produced in our own
country: the pine-apple grows in the common atmosphere of America; in
our climate it is never produced in the open ground, never until art has
furnished a sun analogous to that which it requires--the European in his
own climate finds not this delicious fruit. Man in different climates
varies in his colour, in his size, in his conformation, in his powers,
in his industry, in his courage, and in the faculties of his mind. But,
what is it that constitutes climate? It is the different position of
parts of the same globe, relatively to the sun; positions that suffice
to make a sensible variety in its productions.

There is, then, sufficient foundation to conjecture that if by any
accident our globe should become displaced, all its productions would of
necessity be changed; seeing that causes being no longer the same, or
no longer acting after the same manner, the effects would necessarily no
longer be what they now are, all productions, that they may be able to
conserve themselves, or maintain their actual existence, have occasion
to co-order themselves with the whole from which they have emanated.
Without this they would no longer be in a capacity to subsist: it is
this faculty of co-ordering themselves,--this relative adaption, which
is called the ORDER OF THE UNIVERSE: the want of it is called CONFUSION.
Those productions which are treated as MONSTROUS, are such as are unable
to co-order themselves with the general or particular laws of the beings
who surround them, or with the whole in which they find themselves
placed: they have had the faculty in their formation to accommodate
themselves to these laws; but these very laws are opposed to their
perfection: for this reason they are unable to subsist. It is thus that
by a certain analogy of conformation, which exists between animals of
different species, mules are easily produced; but these mules, unable to
co-order themselves with the beings that surround them, are not able to
reach perfection, consequently cannot propagate their species. Man can
live only in air, fish only in water: put the man into the water, the
fish into the air, not being able to co-order themselves with the fluids
which surround them, these animals will quickly be destroyed. Transport
by imagination, a man from our planet into SATURN, his lungs will
presently be rent by an atmosphere too rarified for his mode of being,
his members will be frozen with the intensity of the cold; he will
perish for want of finding elements analogous to his actual existence:
transport another into MERCURY, the excess of heat, beyond what his mode
of existence can bear, will quickly destroy him.

Thus, every thing seems to authorise the conjecture, that the human
species is a production peculiar to our sphere, in the position in which
it is found: that when this position may happen to change, the human
species will, of consequence, either be changed or will be obliged to
disappear; seeing that there would not then be that with which man could
co-order himself with the whole, or connect himself with that which can
enable him to subsist. It is this aptitude in man to co-order himself
with the whole, that not only furnishes him with the idea of order, but
also makes him exclaim "_whatever is, is right_;" whilst every thing is
only that which it can be, as long as the whole is necessarily what it
is; whilst it is positively neither good nor bad, as we understand those
terms: it is only requisite to displace a man, to make him accuse the
universe of confusion.

These reflections would appear to contradict the ideas of those, who
are willing to conjecture that the other planets, like our own, are
inhabited by beings resembling ourselves. But if the LAPLANDER differs
in so marked a manner from the HOTTENTOT, what difference ought we not
rationally to suppose between an inhabitant of our planet and one of
SATURN or of VENUS?

However it may be, if we are obliged to recur by imagination to the
origin of things, to the infancy of the human species, we may say that
it is probable that man was a necessary consequence of the disentangling
of our globe; or one of the results of the qualities, of the
properties, of the energies, of which it is susceptible in its present
position--that he was born male and female--that his existence is
co-ordinate with that of the globe, under its present position--that as
long as this co-ordination shall subsist, the human specie will conserve
himself, will propagate himself, according to the impulse, after
the primitive laws, which he has originally received--that if this
co-ordination should happen to cease; if the earth, displaced, should
cease to receive the same impulse, the same influence, on the part of
those causes which actually act upon it, or which give it energy; that
then the human species would change, to make place for new beings,
suitable to co-order themselves with the state that should succeed to
that which we now see subsist.

In thus supposing the changes in the position of our globe, the
primitive man did, perhaps, differ more from the actual man, than the
quadruped differs from the insect. Thus man, the same as every thing
else that exists on our planet, as well as in all the others, may be
regarded as in a state of continual vicissitude: thus the last term of
the existence of man is to us as unknown and as indistinct as the first:
there is, therefore, no contradiction in the belief that the species
vary incessantly--that to us it is as impossible to know what he will
become, as to know what he has been.

With respect to those who may ask why Nature does not produce new
beings? we may enquire of them in turn, upon what foundation they
suppose this fact? What it is that authorizes them to believe this
sterility in Nature? Know they if, in the various combinations which
she is every instant forming, Nature be not occupied in producing new
beings, without the cognizance of these observers? Who has informed them
that this Nature is not actually assembling, in her immense elaboratory,
the elements suitable to bring to light, generations entirely new,
that will have nothing in common with those of the species at present
existing? What absurdity then, or what want of just inference would
there be, to imagine that the man, the horse, the fish, the bird, will
be no more? Are these animals so indispensably requisite to Nature, that
without them she cannot continue her eternal course? Does not all change
around us? Do we not ourselves change? Is it not evident that the whole
universe has not been, in its anterior eternal duration, rigorously the
same that it now is? that it is impossible, in its posterior eternal
duration, it can be rigidly in the same state that it now is for a
single instant? How, then, pretend to divine that, to which the
infinite succession of destruction, of reproduction, of combination, of
dissolution, of metamorphosis, of change, of transposition, may be able
eventually to conduct it by their consequence? Suns encrust themselves,
and are extinguished; planets perish and disperse themselves in the vast
plains of air; other suns are kindled, and illumine their systems; new
planets form themselves, either to make revolutions round these suns,
or to describe new routes; and man, an infinitely small portion of the
globe, which is itself but an imperceptible point in the immensity
of space, vainly believes it is for himself this universe is made;
foolishly imagines he ought to be the confident of Nature; confidently
flatters himself he is eternal: and calls himself KING OF THE
UNIVERSE!!!

O man! wilt thou never conceive, that thou art but an ephemeron? All
changes in the great macrocosm: nothing remains the same an instant, in
the planet thou inhabitest: Nature contains no one constant form, yet
thou pretendest thy species can never disappear; that thou shalt be
exempted from the universal law, that wills all shall experience
change! Alas! In thy actual being, art not thou submitted to continual
alterations? Thou, who in thy folly, arrogantly assumest to thyself the
title of KING OF NATURE! Thou, who measurest the earth and the heavens!
Thou, who in thy vanity imaginest, that the whole was made, because thou
art intelligent! There requires but a very slight accident, a single
atom to be displaced, to make thee perish; to degrade thee; to ravish
from thee this intelligence of which thou appearest so proud.

If all the preceding conjectures be refused by those opposed to us; if
it be pretended that Nature acts by a certain quantum of immutable and
general laws; if it be believed that men, quadrupeds, fish, insects,
plants, are from all eternity, and will remain eternally, what they now
are: if I say it be contended, that from all eternity the stars have
shone, in the immense regions of space, have illuminated the firmament;
if it be insisted, we must no more demand why man is such as he appears,
then ask why Nature is such as we behold her, or why the world exists?
We are no longer opposed to such arguments. Whatever may be the system
adopted, it will perhaps reply equally well to the difficulties with
which our opponents endeavour to embarrass the way: examined closely, it
will be perceived they make nothing against those truths, which we have
gathered from experience. It is not given to man to know every thing--it
is not given him to know his origin--it is not given him to penetrate
into the essence of things, nor to recur to first principles--but it is
given him, to have reason, to have honesty, to ingenuously allow he
is ignorant of that which he cannot know, and not to substitute
unintelligible words, absurd suppositions, for his uncertainty. Thus, we
say to those, who to solve difficulties far above their reach, pretend
that the human species descended from a first man and a first woman,
created diversely according to different creeds;--that we have some
ideas of Nature, but that we have none of creation;--that the human mind
is incapable of comprehending the period when all was nothing;--that to
use words we cannot understand, is only in other terms to acknowledge
our ignorance of the powers of Nature;--that we are unable to fathom
the means by which she has been capacitated to produce the phenomena we
behold.

Let us then conclude, that man has no just, no solid reason to believe
himself a privileged being in Nature; because he is subject to the same
vicissitudes, as all her other productions. His pretended prerogatives
have their foundation in error, arising from mistaken opinions
concerning his existence. Let him but elevate himself by his thoughts
above the globe he inhabits, he will look upon his own species with
the same eyes he does all other beings in Nature: He will then clearly
perceive that in the same manner that each tree produces its fruit, by
reason of its energies, in consequence of its species: so each man acts
by reason of his particular energy; that he produces fruit, actions,
works, equally necessary: he will feel that the illusion which he
anticipates in favour of himself, arises from his being, at one and the
same time, a spectator and a part of the universe. He will acknowledge,
that the idea of excellence which he attaches to his being, has no other
foundation than his own peculiar interest; than the predilection he
has in favour of himself--that the doctrine he has broached with such
seeming confidence, bottoms itself on a very suspicious foundation,
namely IGNORANCE and SELF-LOVE.





CHAP. VII.

_The Soul and the Spiritual System_.


Man, after having gratuitously supposed himself composed of two distinct
independent substances, that have no common properties, relatively with
each other; has pretended, as we have seen, that that which actuated him
interiorly, that motion which is invisible, that impulse which is
placed within himself, is essentially different from those which act
exteriorly. The first he designated, as we have already said, by the
name of a SPIRIT or a SOUL. If however it be asked, what is a spirit?
The moderns will reply, that the whole fruit of their metaphysical
researches is limited to learning that this motive-power, which they
state to be the spring of man's action, is a substance of an unknown
nature; so simple, so indivisible, so deprived of extent, so invisible,
so impossible to be discovered by the senses, that its parts cannot be
separated, even by abstraction or thought. The question then arises, how
can we conceive such a substance, which is only the negation of every
thing of which we have a knowledge? How form to ourselves an idea of a
substance, void of extent, yet acting on our senses; that is to say,
on those organs which are material, which have extent? How can a
being without extent be moveable; how put matter in action? How can a
substance devoid of parts, correspond successively with different parts
of space? But a very cogent question presents itself on this occasion:
if this distinct substance that is said to form one of the component
parts of man, be really what it is reported, and if it be not, it is
not what it is described; if it be unknown, if it be not pervious to
the senses; if it be invisible, by what means did the metaphysicians
themselves become acquainted with it? How did they form ideas of a
substance, that taking their own account of it, is not, under any of its
circumstances, either directly or by analogy, cognizable to the mind of
man? If they could positively achieve this, there would no longer be any
mystery in Nature: it would be as easy to conceive the time when all was
nothing, when all shall have passed away, to account for the
production of every thing we behold, as to dig in a garden or read a
lecture.--Doubt would vanish from the human species; there could no
longer be any difference of opinion, since all must necessarily be of
one mind on a subject so accessible to every enquirer.

But it will be replied, the materialist himself admits, the natural
philosophers of all ages have admitted, elements and atoms, beings
simple and indivisible, of which bodies are composed:--granted; they
have no more: they have also admitted that many of these atoms, many
of these elements, if not all, are unknown to them: nevertheless, these
simple beings, these atoms of the materialist, are not the same thing
with the spirit, or the soul of the metaphysician. When the natural
philosopher talks of atoms--when he describes them as simple beings,
he indicates nothing more than that they are homogeneous, pure, without
mixture: but then he allows that they have extent, consequently parts,
are separable by thought, although no other natural agent with which
he is acquainted is capable of dividing them: that the simple beings
of this genus are susceptible of motion--can impart action--receive
impulse--are material--are placed in Nature--are indestructible;--that
consequently, if he cannot know them from themselves, he can form some
idea of them by analogy: thus he has done that intelligibly, which the
metaphysician would do unintelligibly: the latter, with a view to render
man immortal, finding difficulties to his wish, from seeing that
the body decayed--that it has submitted to the great, the universal
law--has, to solve the difficulty, to remove the impediment, given him a
soul, distinct from the body, which he says is exempted from the action
of the general law: to account for this, he has called it a spiritual
being, whose properties are the negation of all known properties,
consequently inconceivable: had he, however, had recourse to the atoms
of the former--had he made this substance the last possible term of the
division of matter--it would at least have been intelligible; it would
also have been immortal, since, according to the reasonings of all men,
whether metaphysicians, theologians, or natural philosophers, an atom is
an indestructible element, that must exist to all eternity.

All men are agreed in this position, that motion is the successive
change of the relations of one body with other bodies, or with
the different parts of space. If that which is called _spirit_ be
susceptible of communicating or receiving motion--if it acts--if
it gives play to the organs of body--to produce these effects, it
necessarily follows that this being changes successively its relation,
its tendency, its correspondence, the position of its parts, either
relatively to the different points of space, or to the different organs
of the body which it puts in action: but to change its relation
with space, with the organs to which it gives impulse, it follows of
necessity that this spirit most have extent, solidity, consequently
distinct parts: whenever a substance possesses these qualities, it
is what we call MATTER, it can no longer be regarded as a simple pure
being, in the sense attached to it by the moderns, or by theologians.

Thus it will be seen, that those who, to conquer insurmountable
difficulties, have supposed in man an immaterial substance,
distinguished from his body, have not thoroughly understood themselves;
indeed they have done nothing more than imagined a negative quality,
of which they cannot have any correct idea: matter alone is capable of
acting on our senses; without this action nothing would be capable
of making itself known to us. They have not seen that a being without
extent is neither in a capacity to move itself, nor has the capability
of communicating motion to the body; since such a being, having no
parts, has not the faculty of changing its relation, or its distance,
relatively to other bodies, nor of exciting motion in the human body,
which is itself material. That which is called our soul moves itself
with us; now motion is a property of matter--this soul gives impulse to
the arm; the arm, moved by it, makes an impression, a blow, that follows
the general law of motion: in this case, the force remaining the same,
if the mass was two-fold, the blow should be double. This soul again
evinces its materiality in the invincible obstacles it encounters on
the part of the body. If the arm be moved by its impulse when nothing
opposes it, yet this arm can no longer move, when it is charged with
a weight beyond its strength. Here then is a mass of matter that
annihilates the impulse given by a spiritual cause, which spiritual
cause having no analogy with matter, ought not to find more difficulty
in moving the whole world, than in moving a single atom, nor an atom,
than the universe. From this, it is fair to conclude, such a substance
is a chimera--a being of the imagination. That it required a being
differently endowed, differently constituted, to set matter in
motion--to create all the phenomena we behold: nevertheless, it is a
being the metaphysicians have made the contriver, the Author of Nature.
As man, in all his speculations, takes himself for the model, he no
sooner imagined a spirit within himself, than giving it extent, he
made it universal; then ascribed to it all those causes with which his
ignorance prevents him from becoming acquainted, thus he identified
himself with the Author of Nature--then availed himself of the
supposition to explain the connection of the soul with the body: his
self-complacency prevented his perceiving that he was only enlarging the
circle of his errors, by pretending to understand that which it is
more than possible he will never be permitted to know; his self-love
prevented him from feeling, that whenever he punished another for not
thinking as he did, that he committed the greatest injustice, unless he
was satisfactorily able to prove that other wrong, and himself right:
that if he himself was obliged to have recourse to hypothesis--to
gratuitous suppositions, whereon to found his doctrine, that from the
very fallibility of his nature, these might be erroneous: thus GALLILEO
was persecuted, because the metaphysicians, the theologians of his day,
chose to make others believe what it was evident they did not themselves
understand.

As soon as I feel an impulse, or experience motion, I am under the
necessity to acknowledge extent, solidity, density, impenetrability in
the substance I see move, or from which I receive impulse: thus, when
action is attributed to any cause whatever, I am obliged to consider
it MATERIAL. I may be ignorant of its individual nature, of its mode
of action, or of its generic properties; but I cannot deceive myself in
general properties, which are common to all matter: this ignorance will
only be increased, when I shall take that for granted of a being, of
which from that moment I am precluded by what I admit from forming any
idea, which moreover deprives it completely either of the faculty of
moving itself, giving an impulse, or acting. Thus, according to the
received idea of the term, a spiritual substance that moves itself, that
gives motion to matter, and that acts, implies a contradiction, that
necessarily infers a total impossibility.

The partizans of spirituality believe they answer the difficulties they
have accumulated, by asserting that "_the soul is entire--is whole under
each point of its extent_." If an absurd answer will solve difficulties,
they certainly have done it. But let us examine this reply:--it will
be found that this indivisible part which is called soul, however
insensible or however minute, must yet remain something: then an
infinity of unextended substances, or the same substance having no
dimensions, repeated an infinity of times, would constitute a substance
that has extent: this cannot be what they mean, because according to
this principle, the human soul would then be as infinite as the Author
of Nature; seeing that they have stated this to be a being without
extent, who is an infinity of times whole in each part of the universe.
But when there shall appear as much solidity in the answer as there is
a want of it, it must be acknowledged that in whatever manner the spirit
or the soul finds itself in its extent, when the body moves forward the
soul does not remain behind; if so, it has a quality in common with
the body, peculiar to matter; since it is conveyed from place to place
jointly with the body. Thus, when even the soul should be admitted to
be immaterial, what conclusion must be drawn? Entirely submitted to the
motion of the body, without this body it would remain dead and inert.
This soul would only be part of a two-fold machine, necessarily impelled
forward by a concatenation, or connection with the whole. It would
resemble a bird, which a child conducts at its pleasure, by the string
with which it is bound.

Thus, it is for want of consulting experience, by not attending to
reason, that man has darkened his ideas upon the concealed principle of
his motion. If, disentangled from prejudice--if, destitute of gratuitous
suppositions--if, throwing aside error, he would contemplate his soul,
or the moving principle that acts within him, he would be convinced that
it forms a part of its body, that it cannot be distinguished from
it, but by abstraction; that it is only the body itself, considered
relatively with some of its functions, or with those faculties of which
its nature, or its peculiar organization, renders it susceptible:--he
will perceive that this soul is obliged to undergo the same changes as
the body; that it is born with it; that it expands itself with it;
that like the body, it passes through a state of infancy, a period of
weakness, a season of inexperience; that it enlarges itself, that it
strengthens itself, in the same progression; that like the body, it
arrives at an adult age or reaches maturity; that it is then, and not
till then, it obtains the faculty of fulfilling certain functions; that
it is in this stage, and in no other, that it enjoys reason; that it
displays more or less wit, judgment, and manly activity; that like the
body, it is subject to those vicissitudes which exterior causes obliges
it to undergo by their influence; that, conjointly with the body, it
suffers, enjoys, partakes of its pleasures, shares its pains, is sound
when the body is healthy, and diseased when the body is oppressed
with sickness; that like the body, it is continually modified by the
different degrees of density in the atmosphere; by the variety of the
seasons, and by the various properties of the aliments received into
the stomach: in short, he would be obliged to acknowledge that at some
periods it manifests visible signs of torpor, stupefaction, decrepitude,
and death.

In despite of this analogy, or rather this continual identity, of
the soul with the body, man has been desirous of distinguishing their
essence; he has therefore made the soul an inconceivable being: but
in order that he might form to himself some idea of it, he was,
notwithstanding, obliged to have recourse to material beings, and to
their manner of acting. The word _spirit_, therefore, presents to the
mind no other ideas than those of breathing, of respiration, of wind.
Thus, when it is said the _soul is a spirit_, it really means nothing
more than that its mode of action is like that of breathing: which
though invisible in itself, or acting without being seen, nevertheless
produces very visible effects. But breath, it is acknowledged, is a
material cause; it is allowed to be air modified; it is not, therefore,
a simple or pure substance, such as the moderns designate under the name
of SPIRIT.

It is rather singular that in the Hebrew, the Greek, and the Latin, the
synonymy, or corresponding term for spirit should signify _breath_.
The metaphysicians themselves can best say why they have adopted such
a word, to designate the substance they have distinguished from matter:
some of them, fearful they should not have distinct beings enough, have
gone farther, and compounded man of three substances, BODY, SOUL, and
INTELLECT.

Although the word _spirit_ is so very ancient among men, the sense
attached to it by the moderns is quite new: the idea of spirituality, as
admitted at this day, is a recent production of the imagination. Neither
PYTHAGORAS nor PLATO, however heated their brain, however decided
their taste for the marvellous, appear to have understood by spirit an
immaterial substance, or one without extent, devoid of parts; such as
that of which the moderns have formed the human soul, the concealed
author of motion. The ancients, by the word spirit, were desirous to
define matter of an extreme subtilty, of a purer quality than that which
acted grossly on our senses. In consequence, some have regarded the soul
as an ethereal substance; others as igneous matter; others again have
compared it to light. DEMOCRITUS made it consist in motion, consequently
gave it a manner of existence. ARISTOXENES, who was himself a musician,
made it harmony. ARISTOTLE regarded the soul as the moving faculty, upon
which depended the motion of living bodies.

The earliest doctors of Christianity had no other idea of the soul,
than that it was material. TERTULLIAN, ARNOBIUS, CLEMENT of ALEXANDRIA,
ORIGEN, SAINT JUSTIN, IRENAEUS, have all of them discoursed upon it; but
have never spoken of it other than as a corporeal substance--as matter.
It was reserved for their successors at a great distance of time, to
make the human soul and the soul of the world _pure spirits_; that is
to say, immaterial substances, of which it is impossible they could
form any accurate idea: by degrees this incomprehensible doctrine of
spirituality, conformable without doubt to the views of those who make
it a principle to annihilate reason, prevailed over the others: But
it might be fairly asked, if the pretended proofs of this doctrine owe
themselves to a man, who on a much more comprehensible point has been
proved in error; if, on that which time has shewn was accessible to
man's reason, the great champion in support of this dogma was deceived;
are we not bound to examine, with the most rigorous investigation, the
reasonings, the evidence, of one who was the decided, the proven child
of enthusiasm and error? Yet DESCARTES, to whose sublime errors the
world is indebted for the Newtonian system, although before him the
soul had been considered spiritual, was the first who established that,
"_that which thinks ought to be distinguished from matter_;" from whence
he concludes rather hastily, that the soul, or that which thinks in man,
is a spirit; or a simple indivisible substance. Perhaps it would have
been more logical, more consistent with reason, to have said, since
man, who is matter, who has no idea but of matter, enjoys the faculty of
thought, matter can think; that is, it is susceptible of that particular
modification called thought.

However this may be, this doctrine was believed divine, supernatural,
because it was inconceivable to man. Those who dared believe even that
which was believed before; namely, _that the soul was material_, were
held as rash inconsiderate madmen, or else treated as enemies to the
welfare and happiness of the human race. When man had once renounced
experience; when he had abjured his reason; when he had joined the
banner of this enthusiastic novelty; he did nothing more, day after day,
than subtilize the delirium, the ravings of his imagination: he pleased
himself by continually sinking deeper into the most unfathomable depths
of error: he felicitated himself on his discoveries; on his pretended
knowledge; in an exact ratio as his understanding became enveloped in
the mists of darkness, environed with the clouds of ignorance. Thus,
in consequence of man's reasoning upon false principles; of having
relinquished the evidence of his senses; the moving principle within
him, the concealed author of motion, has been made a mere chimera, a
mere being of the imagination, because he has divested it of all known
properties; because he has attached to it nothing but properties
which, from the very nature of his existence, he is incapacitated to
comprehend.

The doctrine of spirituality, such as it now exists, offers nothing but
vague ideas; or rather is the absense of all ideas. What does it present
to the mind, but a substance which possesses nothing of which our senses
enable us to have a knowledge? Can it be truth that a man is able to
figure to himself a being not material, having neither extent nor
parts, which, nevertheless, acts upon matter without having any point
of contact, any kind of analogy with it; and which itself receives the
impulse of matter by means of material organs, which announce to it the
presence of other beings? Is it possible to conceive the union of the
soul with the body; to comprehend how this material body can bind,
enclose, constrain, determine a fugitive being which escapes all our
senses? Is it honest, is it plain dealing, to solve these difficulties,
by saying there is a mystery in them; that they are the effects of a
power, more inconceivable than the human soul; than its mode of acting,
however concealed from our view? When to resolve these problems, man is
obliged to have recourse to miracles or to make the Divinity interfere,
does he not avow his own ignorance? When, notwithstanding the ignorance
he is thus obliged to avow by availing himself of the divine agency,
he tells us, this immaterial substance, this soul, shall experience the
action of the element of fire, which he allows to be material; when he
confidently says this soul shall be burnt; shall suffer in purgatory;
have we not a right to believe, that either he has a design to deceive
us, or else that he does not himself understand that which he is so
anxious we should take upon his word?

Let us not then be surprised at those subtile hypotheses, as ingenious
as they are unsatisfactory, to which theological prejudice has obliged
the most profound modern speculators to recur; when they have undertaken
to reconcile the spirituality of the soul, with the physical action of
material beings, on this incorporeal substance; its re-action upon these
beings; its union with the body. When the human mind permits itself to
be guided by authority without proof, to be led forward by enthusiasm;
when it renounces the evidence of its senses; what can it do more
than sink into error? Let those who doubt this, read the metaphysical
romances of LEIBNITZ, DESCARTES, MALEBRANCHE, CUDWORTH, and many others:
let them coolly examine the ingenious, but fanciful systems entitled
_the pre-established harmony of occasional causes; physical pre-motion,
&c._

If man wishes to form to himself clear, perspicuous ideas of his soul,
let him throw himself back on his experience--let him renounce his
prejudices--let him avoid theological conjecture--let him tear the
bandages which he has been taught to think necessary, but with which he
has been blind-folded, only to confound his reason. If it be wished to
draw man to virtue, let the natural philosopher, let the anatomist,
let the physician, unite their experience; let them compare their
observations, in order to show what ought to be thought of a substance,
so disguised, so hidden by absurdities, as not easily to be known. Their
discoveries may perhaps teach moralists the true motive-power that ought
to influence the actions of man--legislators, the true motives that
should actuate him, that should excite him to labour to the welfare of
society--sovereigns, the means of rendering their subjects truly happy;
of giving solidity to the power of the nations committed to their
charge. Physical souls have physical wants, and demand physical
happiness. These are real, are preferable objects, to that variety of
fanciful chimeras, each in its turn giving place to the other, with
which the mind of man has been fed during so many ages. Let us, then,
labour to perfect the morality of man; let us make it agreeable to him;
let us excite in him an ardent thirst for its purity: we shall presently
see his morals become better, himself become happier; his soul become
calm and serene; his will determined to virtue, by the natural, by the
palpable motives held out to him. By the diligence, by the care which
legislators shall bestow on natural philosophy, they will form citizens
of sound understandings; robust and well constituted; who, finding
themselves happy, will be themselves accessary to that useful impulse so
necessary for their soul. When the body is suffering, when nations are
unhappy, the soul cannot be in a proper state. _Mens sana in corpore
sano_, a sound mind in a sound body, will be always able to make a good
citizen.

The more man reflects, the more he will be convinced that the soul, very
far from being distinguished from the body, is only the body itself,
considered relatively to some of its functions, or to some of the modes
of existing or acting, of which it is susceptible whilst it enjoys life.
Thus, the soul is man, considered relatively to the faculty he has of
feeling, of thinking, of acting in a mode resulting from his peculiar
nature; that is to say, from his properties, from his particular
organization: from the modifications, whether durable or transitory,
which the beings who act upon him cause his machine to undergo.

Those who have distinguished the soul from the body, appear only to
have distinguished their brain from themselves. Indeed, the brain is the
common center, where all the nerves, distributed through every part of
the body, meet and blend themselves: it is by the aid of this interior
organ that all those operations are performed which are attributed to
the soul: it is the impulse, or the motion, communicated to the nerve,
which modifies the brain: in consequence, it re-acts, or gives play to
the bodily organs; or rather it acts upon itself, and becomes capable
of producing within itself a great variety of motion, which has been
designated _intellectual faculties_.

From this it may be seen that some philosophers have been desirous to
make a spiritual substance of the brain. It is evidently nothing but
ignorance that has given birth to and accredited this system, which
embraces so little, either of the natural or the rational. It is from
not having studied himself, that man has supposed he was compounded with
an agent, essentially different from his body: in examining this body,
he will find that it is quite useless to recur to hypothesis for the
explanation of the various phenomena it presents to his contemplation;
that hypothesis can do nothing more than lead him out of the right road
to the information after which he seeks. What obscures this question,
arises from this, that man cannot see himself: indeed, for this purpose,
that would be requisite which is impossible; namely, that he could he
at one and the same moment both within and without himself: he may be
compared to an Eolian harp, that issues sounds of itself, and should
demand what it is that causes it to give them forth? It does not
perceive that the sensitive quality of its chords causes the air to
brace them; that being so braced, it is rendered sonorous by every gust
of wind with which it happens to come in contact.

When a theologian, obstinately bent on admitting into man two substances
essentially different, is asked why he multiplies beings without
necessity? he will reply, because _"thought cannot be a property of
matter."_ If, then, it be enquired of him, _cannot God give to matter
the faculty of thought?_ he will answer, _"no! seeing that God cannot
do impossible things!"_ According to his principles, it is as impossible
that spirit or thought can produce matter, as it is impossible that
matter can produce spirit or thought: it might, therefore, be concluded
against him, that the world was not made by a spirit, any more than a
spirit was made by the world. But in this case, does not the theologian,
according to his own assertion, acknowledge himself to be the true
atheist? Does he not, in fact, circumscribe the attributes of the
Deity, and deny his power, to suit his own purpose? Yet these men demand
implicit belief in doctrines, which they are obliged to maintain by the
most contradictory assertions.

The more experience we collect, the more we shall be convinced that the
word _spirit_, in its present received usage, conveys no one sense
that is tangible, either to ourselves or to those that invented it;
consequently cannot be of the least use, either in physics or morals.
What modern metaphysicians believe and understand by the word, is
nothing more than an _occult_ power, imagined to explain _occult_
qualities and actions, but which, in fact, explains nothing. Savage
nations admit of spirits, to account to themselves for those effects,
which to them appear marvellous, as long as their ignorance knows
not the cause to which they ought to be attributed. In attributing to
spirits the phenomena of Nature, as well as those of the human body, do
we, in fact, do any thing more than reason like savages? Man has filled
Nature with spirits, because he has almost always been ignorant of
the true causes of those effects by which he was astonished. Not being
acquainted with the powers of Nature, he has supposed her to be animated
by a _great spirit_: not understanding the energy of the human frame,
he has in like manner conjectured it to be animated by a _minor spirit_:
from this it would appear, that whenever he wished to indicate the
unknown cause of a phenomena, he knew not how to explain in a natural
manner, he had recourse to the word _spirit_. In short, _spirit_ was a
term by which he solved all his doubts, and cleared up his ignorance to
himself. It was according to these principles that when the AMERICANS
first beheld the terrible effects of gunpowder, they ascribed the cause
to wrathful spirits, to their enraged divinities: it was by adopting
these principles, that our ancestors believed in a plurality of gods, in
ghosts, in genii, &c. Pursuing the same track, we ought to attribute
to spirits gravitation, electricity, magnetism, &c. &c. It is somewhat
singular, that priests have in all ages so strenuously upheld those
systems which time has exploded; that they have appeared to be either
the most crafty or the most ignorant of men. Where are now the priests
of Apollo, of Juno, of the Sun, and a thousand others? Yet these are the
men, who in all times have persecuted those who have been the first
to give natural explanations of the phenomena of Nature, as witness
ANAXAGORAS, ARISTOTLE, GALLILEO, DESCARTES, &c. &c.





CHAP. VIII.

_The Intellectual Faculties derived from the Faculty of Feeling_.


To convince ourselves that the faculties called _intellectual_, are
only certain modes of existence, or determinate manners of acting,
which result from the peculiar organization of the body, we have only
to analyze them; we shall then see that all the operations which are
attributed to the soul, are nothing more than certain modifications
of the body; of which a substance that is without extent, that has no
parts, that is immaterial, is not susceptible.

The first faculty we behold in the living man, and that from which all
his others flow, is _feeling_: however inexplicable this faculty may
appear, on a first view, if it be examined closely, it will be found
to be a consequence of the essence, or a result of the properties
of organized beings; the same as _gravity, magnetism, elasticity,
electricity_, &c. result from the essence or nature of some others. We
shall also find these last phenomena are not less inexplicable than that
of feeling. Nevertheless, if we wish to define to ourselves a clear and
precise idea of it, we shall find that feeling is a particular manner of
being moved--a mode of receiving an impulse peculiar to certain organs
of animated bodies, which is occasioned by the presence of a material
object that acts upon these organs, and transmit the impulse or shock to
the brain.

Man only feels by the aid of nerves dispersed through his body; which is
itself, to speak correctly, nothing more than a great nerve; or may
be said to resemble a large tree, of which the branches experience the
action of the root, communicated through the trunk. In man the nerves
unite and lose themselves in the brain; that intestine is the true seat
of feeling: like the spider in the centre of his web, it is quickly
warned of all the changes that happen to the body, even at the
extremities to which it sends its filaments and branches. Experience
enables us to ascertain, that man ceases to feel in those parts of his
body of which the communication with the brain is intercepted; he feels
very little, or not at all, whenever this organ is itself deranged or
affected in too lively a manner. A proof of this is afforded in the
transactions of the Royal Academy of Sciences at Paris: they inform us
of a man who had his scull taken off, in the room of which his brain was
recovered with skin; in proportion as a pressure was made by the hand on
his brain, the man fell into a kind of insensibility, which deprived
him of all feeling. BARTOLIN says, the brain of a man is twice as big as
that of an ox. This observation had been already made by ARISTOTLE.
In the dead body of an idiot dissected by WILLIS, the brain was found
smaller than ordinary: he says the greatest difference he found between
the parts of the body of this idiot, and those of wiser men, was, that
the plexus of the intercostal nerves, which is the mediator between the
brain and the heart, was extremely small, accompanied by a less number
of nerves than usual. According to WILLIS, the ape is, of all animals,
that which has the largest brain, relatively to his size: he is also,
after man, that which has the most intelligence: this is further
confirmed, by the name he bears in the soil, to which he is indigenous,
which is _ourang outang_, or the man beast. There is, therefore, every
reason to believe that it is entirely in the brain, that consists the
difference, that is found not only between man and beasts, but also
between the man of wit, and the fool: between the thinking man, and he
who is ignorant; between the man of sound understanding, and the madman:
a multitude of experience, serves to prove, that those persons who are
most accustomed to use their intellectual faculties, have their brain
more extended than others: the same has been remarked of watermen, that
they have arms much longer than other men.

However this may be, the sensibility of the brain, and all its parts, is
a fact: if it be asked, whence comes this property? We shall reply,
it is the result of an arrangement, of a combination, peculiar to the
animal: it is thus that milk, bread, wine, change themselves in the
substance of man, who is a sensible being: this insensible matter
becomes sensible, in combining itself with a sensible whole. Some
philosophers think that sensibility is a universal quality of matter:
in this case, it would be useless to seek from whence this property is
derived, as we know it by its effects. If this hypothesis be admitted,
in like manner as two kinds of motion are distinguished in Nature, the
one called _live_ force, the other _dead_, or _inert_ force, two sorts
of sensibility will be distinguished, the one active or alive, the other
inert or dead. Then to animalize a substance, is only to destroy
the obstacles that prevent its being active or sensible. In fact,
sensibility is either a quality which communicates itself like motion,
and which is acquired by combination; or this sensibility is a property
inherent in all matter: in both, or either case, an unextended being,
without parts, such as the human soul is said to be, can neither be the
cause of it nor submitted to its operation; but we may fairly conclude,
that all the parts of Nature enjoy the capability to arrive at
animation; the obstacle is only in the state, not in the quality. Life
is the perfection of Nature: she has no parts which do not tend to
it--which do not attain it by the same means. Life in an insect, a dog,
a man, has no other difference, than that this act is more perfect,
relatively to ourselves in proportion to the structure of the organs:
if, therefore, it be asked, what is requisite to animate a body? we
reply, it needs no foreign aid; it is sufficient that the power of
Nature be joined to its organization.

The conformation, the arrangement, the texture, the delicacy of the
organs, as well exterior as interior, which compose men and animals,
render their parts extremely mobile, or make their machine susceptible
of being moved with great facility. In a body, which is only a heap
of fibres, a mass of nerves, contiguous one to the other, united in a
common center, always ready to act; in a whole, composed of fluids and
solids, of which the parts are in equilibrium, the smallest touching
each other, are active in their motion, communicating reciprocally,
alternately and in succession, the impression, oscillations, and shocks
they receive; in such a composition, it is not surprising that the
slightest impulse propagates itself with celerity; that the shocks
excited in its remotest parts, make themselves quickly felt in the
brain, whose delicate texture renders it susceptible of being itself
very easily modified. Air, fire, water, agents the most inconstant,
possessing the most rapid motion, circulate continually in the fibres,
incessantly penetrate the nerves: without doubt these contribute to that
incredible celerity with which the brain is acquainted with what passes
at the extremities of the body.

Notwithstanding the great mobility with which man's organization renders
him susceptible, although exterior as well as interior causes are
continually acting upon him, he does not always feel in a distinct, in
a decided manner, the impulse given to his senses: indeed, he does not
feel it, until it has produced some change, or given some shock to his
brain. Thus, although completely environed by air, he does not feel its
action, until it is so modified, as to strike with a sufficient degree
of force on his organs; to penetrate his skin, through which his brain
is warned of its presence. Thus, during a profound and tranquil sleep,
undisturbed by any dream, man ceases to feel. In short, notwithstanding
the continued motion that agitates his frame, man does not appear to
feel, when this motion acts in a convenient order; he does not perceive
a state of health, but he discovers a state of grief or sickness;
because, in the first, his brain does not receive too lively an impulse,
whilst in the others, his nerves are contracted, shocked, and agitated,
with violent, with disorderly motion: these communicating with his
brain, give notice that some cause acts strongly upon them--impels
them in a manner that bears no analogy with their natural habit: this
constitutes, in him, that peculiar mode of existing which he calls
_grief_.

On the other hand, it sometimes happens that exterior objects produce
very considerable changes on his body, without his perceiving them at
the moment. Often, in the heat of battle, the soldier perceives not
that he is dangerously wounded, because, at the time, the rapidity, the
multiplicity of impetuous motion that assails his brain, does not
permit him to distinguish the particular change a part of his body has
undergone by the wound. In short, when a great number of causes are
simultaneously acting on him with too much vivacity, he sinks under
their accumulated pressure,--he swoons--he loses his senses--he is
deprived of feeling.

In general, feeling only obtains, when the brain can distinguish
distinctly, the impressions made on the organs with which it has
communication; it is the distinct shock, the decided modification man
undergoes, that constitutes _conscience_. Doctor Clarke, says to this
effect: "Conscience is the act of reflecting, by means of which I know
that I think, and that my thoughts, or my actions belong to me, and
not to another." From this it will appear, that _feeling_ is a mode of
being, a marked change, produced on our brain, occasioned by the impulse
communicated to our organs, whether by interior or exterior agents, by
which it is modified either in a durable or transient manner: it is
not always requisite that man's organs should be moved by an exterior
object, to enable him to feel that he should be conscious of the changes
effected in him: he can feel them within himself by means of an interior
impulse; his brain is then modified, or rather he renews within himself
the anterior modifications. We are not to be astonished that the brain
should be necessarily warned of the shocks, of the impediments, of the
changes that may happen to so complicated a machine as the human body,
in which, notwithstanding all the parts are contiguous to the brain,
and concentrate themselves in this brain, and are by their essence in a
continual state of action and re-action.

When a man experiences the pains of the gout, he is conscious of them;
in other words, he feels interiorly, that it has produced very marked,
very distinct changes in him, without his perceiving, that he has
received an impulse from any exterior cause; nevertheless, if he will
recur to the true source of these changes, he will find that they have
been wholly produced by exterior agents: they have been the consequence,
either of his temperament; of the organization received from his
parents; of the aliments with which his frame has been nourished;
besides a thousand trivial, inappreciable causes, which congregating
themselves by degrees produce in him the gouty humour; the effect of
which is to make him feel in an acute and very lively manner. The pain
of the gout engenders in his brain an idea, so modifies it that it
acquires the faculty of representing to itself, of reiterating as it
were, this pain when even he shall be no longer tormented with the gout:
his brain, by a series of motion interiorly excited, is again placed
in a state analogous to that in which it was when he really experienced
this pain: but if he had never felt it, he would never have been in a
capacity to form to himself any just idea of its excruciating torments.

The visible organs of man's body, by the intervention of which his brain
is modified, take the name of _senses_. The various modifications which
his brain receives by the aid of these senses, assumes a variety of
names. _Sensation_, _perception_, and _idea_, are terms that designate
nothing more than the changes produced in this interior organ, in
consequence of impressions made on the exterior organs by bodies
acting on them: these changes considered by themselves, are called
_sensations_; they adopt the term _perception_ when the brain is warned
of their presence; _ideas_ is that state of them in which the brain is
able to ascribe them to the objects by which they have been produced.

Every _sensation_, then, is nothing more than the shock given to the
organs, every _perception_ is this shock propagated to the brain;
every _idea_ is the image of the object to which the sensation and the
perception is to be ascribed. From whence it will be seen, that if the
senses be not moved, there can neither be sensations, perceptions, nor
ideas: this will be proved to those, who can yet permit themselves to
doubt so demonstrable and striking a truth.

It is the extreme mobility of which man is capable, owing to his
peculiar organization, that distinguishes him from other beings that are
called insensible or inanimate; the different degrees of this mobility,
of which the individuals of his species are susceptible, discriminate
them from each other; make that incredible variety, that infinity of
difference which is to be found, as well in their corporeal faculties,
as in those which are mental or intellectual. From this mobility,
more or less remarkable in each human being, results wit, sensibility,
imagination, taste, &c.: for the present, however, let us follow the
operation of the senses; let us examine in what manner they are
acted upon, and are modified by exterior objects:--we will afterwards
scrutinize the re-action of the interior organ or brain.

The eyes are very delicate, very movable organs, by means of which the
sensation of light or colour is experienced: these give to the brain
a distinct perception, in consequence of which, man forms an idea,
generated by the action of luminous or  bodies: as soon as the
eyelids are opened, the retina is affected in a peculiar manner; the
fluid, the fibres, the nerves, of which they are composed, are excited
by shocks which they communicate to the brain; to which they delineate
the images of the bodies from which they have received the impulse; by
this means, an idea is acquired of the colour, the size, the form, the
distance of these bodies: it is thus that may be explained the mechanism
of _sight_.

The mobility and the elasticity of which the skin is rendered
susceptible, by the fibres and nerves which form its texture, accounts
for the rapidity with which this envelope to the human body is affected
when applied to any other body; by their agency, the brain has notice of
its presence, of its extent, of its roughness, of its smoothness, of its
surface, of its pressure of its ponderosity, &c. Qualities from which
the brain derives distinct perceptions, which breed in it a diversity of
ideas; it is this that constitutes the _touch_ or _feeling_.

The delicacy of the membrane by which the interior of the nostrils is
covered, renders them easily susceptible of irritation, even by the
invisible and impalpable corpuscles that emanate from odorous bodies:
by these means sensations are excited, the brain has perceptions, and
generates ideas: it is this that forms the sense of _smelling_.

The mouth, filled with nervous, sensible, movable, irritable glands,
saturated with juices suitable to the dissolution of saline substances,
is affected in a very lively manner by the aliments which pass through
it for the nourishment of the body; these glands transmit to the brain
the impressions received: perceptions are of consequence; ideas follow:
it is from this mechanism that results _taste_.

The ear, whose conformation fits it to receive the various impulses
of air, diversely modified, communicates to the brain the shocks or
sensations; these breed the perception of sound, and generate the idea
of sonorous bodies: it is this that constitutes _hearing_.

Such are the only means by which man receives sensations, perceptions,
and ideas. These successive modifications of his brain are effects
produced by objects that give impulse to his senses; they become
themselves causes, producing in his soul new modifications, which are
denominated _thought, reflection, memory, imagination, judgment, will,
action_; the basis, however, of all these is _sensation_.

To form a precise notion of _thought_, it will be requisite to examine,
step by step, what passes in man during the presence of any object
whatever. Suppose for a moment this object to be a peach: this fruit
makes, at the first view, two different impressions on his eyes; that
is to say, it produces two modifications, which are transmitted to the
brain, which on this occasion experiences two new perceptions, or has
two new ideas or modes of existence, designated by the terms _colour_
and _rotundity_; in consequence, he has an idea of a body possessing
roundness and colour: if he places his hand on this fruit, the organ
of feeling having been set in action, his hand experiences three new
impressions, which are called _softness, coolness, weight_, from whence
result three new perceptions in the brain, he has consequently three
new ideas: if he approximates this peach to his nose, the organ of
_smelling_ receives an impulse, which, communicated to the brain, a new
perception arises, by which he acquires a new idea, called _odour_: if
he carries this fruit to his mouth, the organ of taste becomes affected
in a very lively manner: this impulse communicated to the brain, is
followed by a perception that generates in him the idea of _flavour_. In
re-uniting all these impressions, or these various modifications of his
organs, which it have been consequently transmitted to his brain; that
is to say, in combining the different sensations, perceptions, and
ideas, that result from the impulse he has received, he has an idea of
a whole, which he designates by the name of a peach, with which he can
then occupy his thoughts.

From this it is sufficiently proved that thought has a commencement, a
duration, an end; or rather a generation, a succession, a dissolution,
like all the other modifications of matter; like them, thought is
excited, is determined, is increased, is divided, is compounded, is
simplified, &c. If, therefore, the soul, or the principle that thinks,
be indivisible; how does it happen, that this soul has the faculty of
memory, or of forgetfulness; is capacitated to think successively, to
divide, to abstract, to combine, to extend its ideas, to retain them,
or to lose them? How can it cease to think? If forms appear divisible in
matter, it is only in considering them by abstraction, after the method,
of geometricians; but this divisibility of form exists not in Nature, in
which there is neither a point, an atom, nor form perfectly regular;
it must therefore be concluded, that the forms of matter are not less
indivisible than thought.

What has been said is sufficient to show the generation of sensations,
of perceptions, of ideas, with their association, or connection in the
brain: it will be seen that these various modifications are nothing more
than the consequence of successive impulses, which the exterior organs
transmit to the interior organ, which enjoys the faculty of thought,
that is to say, to feel in itself the different modifications it has
received, or to perceive the various ideas which it has generated; to
combine them, to separate them, to extend them, to abridge them, to
compare them, to renew them, &c. From whence it will be seen, that
thought is nothing more than the perception of certain modifications,
which the brain either gives to itself, or has received from exterior
objects.

Indeed, not only the interior organ perceives the modifications it
receives from without, but again it has the faculty of modifying itself;
of considering the changes which take place in it, the motion by which
it is agitated in its peculiar operations, from which it imbibes new
perceptions and new ideas. It is the exercise of this power to fall back
upon itself, that is called _reflection_.

From this it will appear, that for man to think and to reflect, is to
feel, or perceive within himself the impressions, the sensations, the
ideas, which have been furnished to his brain by those objects which
give impulse to his senses, with the various changes which his brain
produced on itself in consequence.

_Memory_ is the faculty which the brain has of renewing in itself the
modifications it has received, or rather, to restore itself to a state
similar to that in which it has been placed by the sensations, the
perceptions, the ideas, produced by exterior objects, in the exact order
it received them, without any new action on the part of these objects,
or even when these objects are absent; the brain perceives that these
modifications assimilate with those it formerly experienced in the
presence of the objects to which it relates, or attributes them. Memory
is faithful, when these modifications are precisely the same; it
is treacherous, when they differ from those which the organs have
exteriorly experienced.

_Imagination_ in man is only the faculty which the brain has of
modifying itself, or of forming to itself new perceptions, upon the
model of those which it has anteriorly received through the action of
exterior objects on the senses. The brain, then, does nothing more than
combine ideas which it has already formed, which it recalls to itself,
from which it forms a whole, or a collection of modifications, which
it has not received, which exists no-where but in itself, although the
individual ideas, or the parts of which this ideal whole is composed,
have been previously communicated to it, in consequence of the impulse
given to the senses by exterior objects: it is thus man forms to himself
the idea of _centaurs_, or a being composed of a man and a horse, of
_hyppogriffs_, or a being composed of a horse with wings and a griffin,
besides a thousand other objects, equally ridiculous. By memory, the
brain renews in itself the sensations, the perceptions, and the ideas
which it has received or generated; represents to itself the objects
which have actually moved its organs. By imagination it combines them
variously: forms objects in their place which have not moved its organs,
although it is perfectly acquainted with the elements or ideas of which
it composes them. It is thus that man, by combining a great number
of ideas borrowed from himself, such as justice, wisdom, goodness,
intelligence, &c. by the aid of imagination, has formed various ideal
beings, or imaginary wholes, which he has called JUPITER, JUNO, BRAMAH,
SATURN, &c.

_Judgment_ is the faculty which the brain possesses of comparing with
each other the modifications it receives, the ideas it engenders, or
which it has the power of awakening within itself, to the end that it
may discover their relations, or their effects.

_Will_ is a modification of the brain, by which it is disposed to
action, that is to say, to give such an impulse to the organs of the
body, as can induce to act in a manner, that will procure for itself
what is requisite to modify it in a mode analogous to its own existence,
or to enable it to avoid that by which it can be injured. To _will_ is
to be disposed to _action_. The exterior objects, or the interior ideas,
which give birth to this disposition are called _motives_, because they
are the springs or movements which determine it to act, that is to say,
which give play to the organs of the body. Thus, _voluntary actions_
are the motion of the body, determined by the modification of the
brain. Fruit hanging on a tree, through the agency of the visual organs,
modifies the brain in such a manner as to dispose the arm to stretch
itself forth to cull it; again, it modifies it in another manner, by
which it excites the hand to carry it to the mouth.

All the modifications which the interior organ or the brain receives,
all the sensations, all the perceptions, all the ideas that are
generated by the objects which give impulse to the senses, or which
it renews within itself by its own peculiar faculties, are either
favourable or prejudicial to man's mode of existence, whether that be
transitory or habitual: they dispose the interior organ to action, which
it exercises by reason of its own peculiar energy: this action is not,
however, the same in all the individuals of the human species, depending
much on their respective temperaments. From hence the PASSIONS have
their birth: these are more or less violent; they are, however, nothing
more than the motion of the will, determined by the objects which give
it activity; consequently composed of the analogy or of the discordance
which is found between these objects, man's peculiar mode of existence,
and the force of his temperament. From this it results, that the
passions are modes of existence or modifications of the brain; which
either attract or repel those objects by which man is surrounded; that
consequently they are submitted in their action to the physical laws of
attraction and repulsion.

The faculty of perceiving or of being modified, as well by itself as
exterior objects which the brain enjoys is sometimes designated by the
term _understanding_. To the assemblage of the various faculties
of which this interior organ is susceptible, is applied the name of
_intelligence_. To a determined mode in which the brain exercises the
faculties peculiar to itself, is given the appellation of _reason_. The
dispositions or the modifications of the brain, some of them constant,
others transitory, which give impulse to the beings of the human
species, causing them to act, are styled _wit, wisdom, goodness,
prudence, virtue, &c_.

In short, as there will be an opportunity presently to prove, all
the intellectual faculties--that is to say, all the modes of action
attributed to the soul, may be reduced to the modifications, to the
qualities, to the modes of existence, to the changes produced by the
motion of the brain; which is visibly in man the seat of feeling, the
principle of all his actions. These modifications are to be attributed
to the objects that strike on his senses; of which the impression is
transmitted to the brain, or rather to the ideas, which the perceptions
caused by the action of these objects on his senses have there
generated, and which it has the faculty to re-produce. This brain moves
itself in its turn, re-acts upon itself, gives play to the organs, which
concentrate themselves in it, or which are rather nothing more than an
extension of its own peculiar substance. It is thus the concealed motion
of the interior organ, renders itself sensible by outward and visible
signs. The brain, affected by a modification which is called FEAR,
diffuses a paleness over the countenance, excites a tremulous motion in
the limbs called trembling. The brain, affected by a sensation of GRIEF,
causes tears to flow from the eyes, even without being moved by any
exterior object; an idea which it retraces with great strength, suffices
to give it very little modifications, which visibly have an influence on
the whole frame.

In all this, nothing more is to be perceived than the same substance
which acts diversely on the various parts of the body. If it be objected
that this mechanism does not sufficiently explain the principles of the
motion or the faculties of the soul; we reply, that it is in the same
situation as all the other bodies of Nature, in which the most simple
motion, the most ordinary phenomena, the most common modes of action are
inexplicable mysteries, of which we shall never be able to fathom the
first principles. Indeed, how can we flatter ourselves we shall ever be
enabled to compass the true principle of that gravity by which a stone
falls? Are we acquainted with the mechanism which produces attraction in
some substances, repulsion in others? Are we in a condition to explain
the communication of motion from one body to another? But it may be
fairly asked,--Are the difficulties that occur, when attempting to
explain the manner in which the soul acts, removed by making it a
_spiritual being_, a substance of which we have not, nor cannot form one
idea, which consequently must bewilder all the notions we are capable
of forming to ourselves of this being? Let us then be contented to know
that the soul moves itself, modifies itself, in consequence of material
causes, which act upon it which give it activity: from whence the
conclusion may be said to flow consecutively, that all its operations,
all its faculties, prove that it is itself _material_.





CHAP. IX.

_The Diversity of the Intellectual Faculties: they depend on Physical
Causes, as do their Moral Qualities.--The Natural Principles of
Society.--Morals.--Politics_.


Nature is under the necessity of diversifying all her works. Elementary
matter, different in its essence, must necessarily form different
beings, various in their combinations, in their properties, in their
modes of action, in their manner of existence. There is not, neither
can there be, two beings, two combinations, which are mathematically
and rigorously the same; because the place, the circumstances, the
relations; the proportions, the modifications, never being exactly
alike, the beings that result can never bear a perfect resemblance to
each other: their modes of action must of necessity vary in something,
even when we believe we find between them the greatest conformity.

In consequence of this principle, which every thing we see conspires to
prove to be a truth, there are not two individuals of the human species
who have precisely the same traits--who think exactly in the same
manner--who view things under the same identical point of sight--who
have decidedly the same ideas; consequently no two of them have
uniformly the same system of conduct. The visible organs of man, as well
as his concealed organs, have indeed some analogy, some common points
of resemblance, some general conformity; which makes them appear,
when viewed in the gross, to be affected in the same manner by certain
causes: but the difference is infinite in the detail. The human soul
may be compared to those instruments, of which the chords, already
diversified in themselves, by the manner in which they have been spun,
are also strung upon different notes: struck by the same impulse, each
chord gives forth the sound that is peculiar to itself; that is to
say, that which depends on its texture, its tension, its volume, on the
momentary state in which it is placed by the circumambient air. It is
this that produces the diversified spectacle, the varied scene, which
the moral world offers to our view: it is from this that results the
striking contrariety that is to be found in the minds, in the faculties,
in the passions, in the energies, in the taste, in the imagination, in
the ideas, in the opinions of man. This diversity is as great as that of
his physical powers: like them it depends on his temperament, which
is as much varied as his physiognomy. This variety gives birth to that
continual series of action and reaction, which constitutes the life of
the moral world: from this discordance results the harmony which at once
maintains and preserves the human race.

The diversity found among the individuals of the human species, causes
inequalities between man and man: this inequality constitutes the
support of society. If all men were equal in their bodily powers, in
their mental talents, they would not have any occasion for each other:
it is the variation of his faculties, the inequality which this places
him in, with regard to his fellows, that renders morals necessary
to man: without these, he would live by himself, he would remain an
isolated being. From whence it may be perceived, that this inequality
of which man so often complains without cause--this impossibility which
each man finds when in an isolated state, when left to himself, when
unassociated with his fellow men, to labour efficaciously to his own
welfare, to make his own security, to ensure his own conservation;
places him in the happy situation of associating with his like, of
depending on his fellow associates, of meriting their succour, of
propitiating them to his views, of attracting their regard, of calling
in their aid to chase away, by common and united efforts, that which
would have the power to trouble or derange the order of his existence.
In consequence of man's diversity, of the inequality that results, the
weaker is obliged to seek the protection of the stronger; this, in his
turn, recurs to the understanding, to the talents, to the industry of
the weaker, whenever his judgment points out he can be useful to him:
this natural inequality furnishes the reason why nations distinguish
those citizens who have rendered their country eminent services. It is
in consequence of his exigencies that man honors and recompenses those
whose understanding, good deeds, assistance, or virtues, have procured
for him real or supposed advantages, pleasures, or agreeable sensations
of any sort: it is by this means that genius gains an ascendancy over
the mind of man, and obliges a whole people to acknowledge its powers.
Thus, the diversity and inequality of the faculties, as well corporeal
as mental or intellectual, renders man necessary to his fellow man,
makes him a social being, and incontestibly proves to him the necessity
of morals.

According to this diversity of faculties, the individuals of the human
species are divided into different classes, each in proportion to the
effects produced, or the different qualities that may be remarked: all
these varieties in man flow from the individual properties of his soul,
or from the particular modification of his brain. It is thus, that
wit, imagination, sensibility, talents, &c. diversify to infinity the
differences that are to be found in man. It is thus, that some are
called good, others wicked; some are denominated virtuous, others
vicious; some are ranked as learned, others as ignorant; some are
considered reasonable, others unreasonable, &c.

If all the various faculties attributed to the soul are examined, it
will be found that like those of the body they are to be ascribed to
physical causes, to which it will be very easy to recur. It will be
found that the powers of the soul are the same as those of the body;
that they always depend on the organization of this body, on its
peculiar properties, on the permanent or transitory modifications that
it undergoes; in a word, on its temperament.

_Temperament_ is, in each individual, the habitual state in which he
finds the fluids and the solids of which his body is composed. This
temperament varies, by reason of the elements or matter that predominate
in him, in consequence of the different combinations, of the various
modifications, which this matter, diversified in itself, undergoes in
his machine. Thus, in one, the blood is superabundant; in another, the
bile; in a third, phlegm, &c.

It is from Nature--from his parents--from causes, which from the first
moment of his existence have unceasingly modified him, that man derives
his temperament. It is in his mother's womb that he has attracted the
matter which, during his whole life, shall have an influence on his
intellectual faculties--on his energies--on his passions--on his
conduct. The very nourishment he takes, the quality of the air he
respires, the climate he inhabits, the education he receives, the
ideas that are presented to him, the opinions he imbibes, modify this
temperament. As these circumstances can never be rigorously the same in
every point for any two men, it is by no means surprising that such an
amazing variety, so great a contrariety, should be found in man; or
that there should exist as many different temperaments, as there are
individuals in the human species.

Thus, although man may bear a general resemblance, he differs
essentially, as well by the texture of his fibres and the disposition of
his nerves, as by the nature, the quality, the quantity of matter that
gives them play, that sets his organs in motion. Man, already different
from his fellow, by the elasticity of his fibres, the tension of
his nerves, becomes still more distinguished by a variety of other
circumstances: he is more active, more robust, when he receives
nourishing aliments, when he drinks wine, when he takes exercise: whilst
another, who drinks nothing but water, who takes less juicy nourishment,
who languishes in idleness, shall be sluggish and feeble.

All these causes have necessarily an influence on the mind, on the
passions, on the will; in a word, on what are called the intellectual
faculties. Thus, it may be observed, that a man of a sanguine
constitution, is commonly lively, ingenious, full of imagination,
passionate, voluptuous, enterprising; whilst the phlegmatic man is dull,
of a heavy understanding, slow of conception, inactive, difficult to be
moved, pusillanimous, without imagination, or possessing it in a less
lively degree, incapable of taking any strong measures, or of willing
resolutely.

If experience was consulted, in the room of prejudice, the physician
would collect from morals, the key to the human heart: in curing the
body, he would sometimes be assured of curing the mind. Man, in making
a spiritual substance of his soul, has contented himself with
administering to it spiritual remedies, which either have no influence
over his temperament, or do it an injury. The doctrine of the
spirituality of the soul has rendered morals a conjectural science, that
does not furnish a knowledge of the true motives which ought to be
put in activity, in order to influence man to his welfare. If, calling
experience to his assistance, man sought out the elements which form the
basis of his temperament, or of the greater number of the individuals
composing a nation, he would then discover what would be most proper
for him,--that which could be most convenient to his mode of
existence--which could most conduce to his true interest--what laws
would be necessary to his happiness--what institutions would be most
useful for him--what regulations would be most beneficial. In short,
morals and politics would be equally enabled to draw from _materialism_,
advantages which the dogma of spirituality can never supply, of which
it even precludes the idea. Man will ever remain a mystery, to those
who shall obstinately persist in viewing him with eyes prepossessed
by metaphysics; he will always be an enigma to those who shall
pertinaciously attribute his actions to a principle, of which it is
impossible to form to themselves any distinct idea. When man shall be
seriously inclined to understand himself, let him sedulously endeavour
to discover the matter that enters into his combination, which
constitutes his temperament; these discoveries will furnish him with the
clue to the nature of his desires, to the quality of his passions, to
the bent of his inclinations--will enable him to foresee his conduct
on given occasions--will indicate the remedies that may be successfully
employed to correct the defects of a vicious organization, of a
temperament, as injurious to himself as to the society of which he is a
member.

Indeed, it is not to be doubted that man's temperament is capable of
being corrected, of being modified, of being changed, by causes as
physical as the matter of which it is constituted. We are all in some
measure capable of forming our own temperament: a man of a sanguine
constitution, by taking less juicy nourishment, by abating its quantity,
by abstaining from strong liquor, &c. may achieve the correction of
the nature, the quality, the quantity, the tendency, the motion of the
fluids, which predominate in his machine. A bilious man, or one who is
melancholy, may, by the aid of certain remedies, diminish the mass of
this bilious fluid; he may correct the blemish of his humours, by the
assistance of exercise; he may dissipate his gloom, by the gaiety which
results from increased motion. An European transplanted into Hindostan,
will, by degrees, become quite a different man in his humours, in his
ideas, in his temperament, in his character.

Although but few experiments have been made with a view to learn what
constitutes the temperament of man, there are still enough if he would
but deign to make use of them--if he would vouchsafe to apply to useful
purposes the little experience he has gleaned. It would appear, speaking
generally, that the igneous principle which chemists designate under the
name of _phlogiston_, or inflammable matter, is that which in man
yields him the most active life, furnishes him with the greatest energy,
affords the greatest mobility to his frame, supplies the greatest spring
to his organs, gives the greatest elasticity to his fibres, the greatest
tension to his nerves, the greatest rapidity to his fluids. From these
causes, which are entirely material, commonly result the dispositions
or faculties called sensibility, wit, imagination, genius, vivacity, &c.
which give the tone to the passions, to the will, to the moral
actions of man. In this sense, it is with great justice we apply the
expressions, 'warmth of soul,' 'ardency of imagination,' 'fire of
genius,' &c.

It is this fiery element, diffused unequally, distributed in various
proportions through the beings of the human species, that sets man in
motion, gives him activity, supplies him with animal heat, and which, if
we may be allowed the expression, renders him more or less alive. This
igneous matter, so active, so subtle, dissipates itself with great
facility, then requires to be reinstated in his system by means of
aliments that contain it, which thereby become proper to restore
his machine, to lend new warmth to the brain, to furnish it with the
elasticity requisite to the performance of those functions which are
called intellectual. It is this ardent matter contained in wine, in
strong liquor, that gives to the most torpid, to the dullest, to
the most sluggish man, a vivacity of which, without it, he would be
incapable--which urges even the coward on to battle. When this fiery
element is too abundant in man, whilst he is labouring under certain
diseases, it plunges him into delirium; when it is in too weak or in too
small a quantity, he swoons, he sinks to the earth. This igneous matter
diminishes in his old age--it totally dissipates at his death. It would
not be unreasonable to suppose, that what physicians call the nervous
fluid, which so promptly gives notice to the brain of all that happens
to the body, is nothing more than electric matter; that the various
proportions of this matter diffused through his system, is the cause
of that great diversity to be discovered in the human being, and in the
faculties he possesses.

If the intellectual faculties of man, or his moral qualities, be
examined according to the principles here laid down, the conviction must
be complete that they are to be attributed to material causes, which
have an influence more or less marked, either transitory or durable,
over his peculiar organization. But where does he derive this
organization, except it be from the parents from whom he receives the
elements of a machine necessarily analogous to their own? From whence
does he derive the greater or less quantity of igneous matter, or
vivifying heat, that decides upon, that gives the tone to his mental
qualities? It is from the mother who bore him in her womb, who has
communicated to him a portion of that fire with which she was herself
animated, which circulated through her veins with her blood;--it is
from the aliments that have nourished him,--it is from the climate he
inhabits,--it is from the atmosphere that surrounds: all these causes
have an influence over his fluids, over his solids, and decide on his
natural dispositions. In examining these dispositions, from whence his
faculties depend, it will ever be found, that they are _corporeal_, that
they are _material_.

The most prominent of these dispositions in man, is that physical
sensibility from which flows all his intellectual or moral qualities. To
feel, according to what has been said, is to receive an impulse, to be
moved, to have a consciousness of the changes operated on his system.
To have sensibility is nothing more than to be so constituted as to feel
promptly, and in a very lively manner, the impressions of those objects
which act upon him. A sensible soul is only man's brain, disposed in a
mode to receive the motion communicated to it with facility, to re-act
with promptness, by giving an instantaneous impulse to the organs.
Thus the man is called sensible, whom the sight of the distressed, the
contemplation of the unhappy, the recital of a melancholy tale, the
witnessing of an afflicting catastrophe, or the idea of a dreadful
spectacle, touches in so lively a manner as to enable the brain to give
play to his lachrymal organs, which cause him to shed tears; a sign by
which we recognize the effect of great grief, of extreme anguish in the
human being. The man in whom musical sounds excite a degree of pleasure,
or produce very remarkable effects, is said to have a _sensible_ or a
fine ear. In short, when it is perceived that eloquence--the beauty of
the arts--the various objects that strike his senses, excite in him very
lively emotions, he is said to possess a soul full of sensibility.

_Wit_, is a consequence of this physical sensibility; indeed, wit is
nothing more than the facility which some beings, of the human species
possess, of seizing with promptitude, of developing with quickness, a
whole, with its different relations to other objects. _Genius_, is the
facility with which some men comprehend this whole, and its various
relations when they are difficult to be known, but useful to forward
great and mighty projects. Wit may be compared to a piercing eye which
perceives things quickly. Genius is an eye that comprehends at one view,
all the points of an extended horizon: or what the French term _coup
d'oeil_. True wit is that which perceives objects with their relations
such as they really are. False wit is that which catches at relations,
which do not apply to the object, or which arises from some blemish in
the organization. True wit resembles the direction on a hand-post.

_Imagination_ is the faculty of combining with promptitude ideas or
images; it consists in the power man possesses of re-producing with ease
the modifications of his brain: of connecting them, of attaching them to
the objects to which they are suitable. When imagination does this, it
gives pleasure; its fictions are approved, it embellishes Nature, it
is a proof of the soundness of the mind, it aids truth: when on the
contrary, it combines ideas, not formed to associate themselves with
each other--when it paints nothing but disagreeable phantoms, it
disgusts, its fictions are censured, it distorts Nature, it advocates
falsehood, it is the proof of a disordered, of a deranged mind: thus
poetry, calculated to render Nature more pathetic, more touching,
pleases when it creates ideal beings, but which move us agreeably: we,
therefore, forgive the illusions it has held forth, on account of the
pleasure we have reaped from them. The hideous chimeras of superstition
displease, because they are nothing more than the productions of a
distempered imagination, that can only awaken the most afflicting
sensations, fills us with the most disagreeable ideas.

Imagination, when it wanders, produces fanaticism, superstitious
terrors, inconsiderate zeal, phrenzy, and the most enormous crimes: when
it is well regulated, it gives birth to a strong predilection for useful
objects, an energetic passion for virtue, an enthusiastic love of our
country, and the most ardent friendship: the man who is divested
of imagination, is commonly one in whose torpid constitution phlegm
predominates over the igneous fluid, over that sacred fire, which is
the great principle of his mobility, of that warmth of sentiment, which
vivifies all his intellectual faculties. There must be enthusiasm for
transcendent virtues as well as for atrocious crimes; enthusiasm places
the soul in a state similar to that of drunkenness; both the one and the
other excite in man that rapidity of motion which is approved, when
good results, when its effects are beneficial; but which is censured,
is called folly, delirium, crime, fury; when it produces nothing but
disorder and confusion.

The mind is out of order, it is incapable of judging sanely--the
imagination is badly regulated, whenever man's organization is not so
modified, as to perform its functions with precision. At each moment of
his existence, man gathers experience; every sensation he has, furnishes
a fact that deposits in his brain an idea which his memory recalls with
more or less fidelity: these facts connect themselves, these ideas
are associated; their chain constitutes _experience_; this lays the
foundation of _science_. Knowledge is that consciousness which arises
from reiterated experience--from experiments made with precision of the
sensations, of the ideas, of the effects which an object is capable of
producing, either in ourselves or in others. All science, to be just,
must be founded on truth. Truth itself rests on the constant, the
faithful relation of our senses. Thus, _truth_ is that conformity, that
perpetual affinity, which man's senses, when well constituted, when
aided by experience, discover to him, between the objects of which he
has a knowledge, and the qualities with which he clothes them. In short,
truth is nothing more than the just, the precise association of his
ideas. But how can he, without experience, assure himself of the
accuracy, of the justness of this association? How, if he does not
reiterate this experience, can he compare it? how prove its truth? If
his senses are vitiated, how is it possible they can convey to him with
precision, the sensations, the facts, with which they store his brain?
It is only by multiplied, by diversified, by repeated experience, that
he is enabled to rectify the errors of his first conceptions.

Man is in error every time his organs, either originally defective in
their nature, or vitiated by the durable or transitory modifications
which they undergo, render him incapable of judging soundly of objects.
Error consists in the false association of ideas, by which qualities are
attributed to objects which they do not possess. Man is in error, when
he supposes those beings really to have existence, which have no
local habitation but in his own imagination: he is in error, when he
associates the idea of happiness with objects capable of injuring him,
whether immediately or by remote consequences which he cannot foresee.

But how can he foresee effects of which he has not yet any knowledge?
It is by the aid of experience: by the assistance which this experience
affords, it is known that analogous, that like causes, produce
analogous, produce like effects. Memory, by recalling these effects,
enables him to form a judgment of those he may expect, whether it be
from the same causes, or from causes that bear a relation to those of
which he has already experienced the action. From this it will appear,
that _prudence_, _foresight_, are faculties that are ascribable to, that
grow out of experience. If he has felt that fire excited in his organs
painful sensation, this experience suffices him to know, to foresee,
that fire so applied, will consequently excite the same sensations.
If he has discovered that certain actions, on his part, stirred up the
hatred, elicited the contempt of others, this experience sufficiently
enables him to foresee, that every time he shall act in a similar
manner, he will be either hated or despised.

The faculty man has of gathering experience, of recalling it to himself,
of foreseeing effects by which he is enabled to avoid whatever may have
the power to injure him, to procure that which may be useful to the
conservation of his existence, which may contribute to that which is
the sole end of all his actions, whether corporeal or mental,--his
felicity--constitutes that, which, in one word, is designated under the
name of _Reason_. Sentiment, imagination, temperament, may be capable
of leading him astray--may have the power to deceive him; but experience
and reflection will rectify his errors, point out his mistakes, place
him in the right road, teach him what can really conduce to, what can
truly conduct him to happiness. From this, it will appear, that _reason_
is man's nature, modified by experience, moulded by judgment, regulated
by reflection: it supposes a moderate, sober temperament; a just, a
sound mind; a well-regulated, orderly imagination; a knowledge of truth,
grounded upon tried, upon reiterated experience; in fact, prudence
and foresight: this will serve to prove, that although nothing is more
commonly asserted, although the phrase is repeated daily, nay, hourly,
that _man is a reasonable being_, yet there are but a very small number
of the individuals who compose the human species, of whom it can with
truth be said; who really enjoy the faculty of reason, or who combine
the dispositions, the experience, by which it is constituted. It ought
not, then to excite surprise, that the individuals of the human race,
who are in a capacity to make true experience, are so few in number.
Man, when he is born, brings with him into the world organs susceptible
of receiving impulse, amassing ideas, of collecting experience; but
whether it be from the vice of his system, the imperfection of his
organization, or from those causes by which it is modified, his
experience is false, his ideas are confused, his images are badly
associated, his judgment is erroneous, his brain is saturated with
vicious, with wicked systems, which necessarily have an influence over
his conduct, which are continually disturbing his mind, and confounding
his reason.

Man's senses, as it has been shewn, are the only means by which he is
enabled to ascertain whether his opinions are true or false, whether
his conduct is useful to himself and beneficial to others, whether it is
advantageous or disadvantageous. But that his senses may be competent to
make a faithful relation--that they may be in a capacity to impress true
ideas on his brain, it is requisite they should be sound; that is to
say, in the state necessary to maintain his existence; in that
order which is suitable to his preservation--that condition which is
calculated to ensure his permanent felicity. It is also indispensable
that his brain itself should be healthy, or in the proper circumstances
to enable it to fulfil its functions with precision, to exercise its
faculties with vigour. It is necessary that memory should faithfully
delineate its anterior sensations, should accurately retrace its former
ideas; to the end, that he may be competent to judge, to foresee the
effects he may have to hope, the consequences he may have to fear, from
those actions to which he may be determined by his will. If his organic
system be vicious, if his interior or exterior organs be defective,
whether by their natural conformation or from those causes by which they
are regulated, he feels but imperfectly--in a manner less distinct than
is requisite; his ideas are either false or suspicious, he judges badly,
he is in a delusion, in a state of ebriety, in a sort of intoxication
that prevents his grasping the true relation of things. In short, if
his memory is faulty, if it is treacherous, his reflection is void,
his imagination leads him astray, his mind deceives him, whilst the
sensibility of his organs, simultaneously assailed by a crowd of
impressions, shocked by a variety of impulsions, oppose him to prudence,
to foresight, to the exercise of his reason. On the other hand, if the
conformation of his organs, as it happens with those of a phlegmatic
temperament, of a dull habit, does not permit him to move, except with
feebleness, in a sluggish manner, his experience is slow, frequently
unprofitable. The tortoise and the butterfly are alike incapable of
preventing their destruction. The stupid man, equally with him who is
intoxicated, are in that state which renders it impossible for them to
arrive at or attain the end they have in view.

But what is the end? What is the aim of man in the sphere he occupies?
It is to preserve himself; to render his existence happy. It becomes
then of the utmost importance, that he should understand the true means
which reason points out, which prudence teaches him to use, in order
that he may with certainty, that he may constantly arrive at the
end which he proposes to himself. These he will find are his natural
faculties--his mind--his talents--his industry--his actions, determined
by those passions of which his nature renders him susceptible, which
give more or less activity to his will. Experience and reason again shew
him, that the men with whom he is associated are necessary to him,
are capable of contributing to his happiness, are in a capacity to
administer to his pleasures, are competent to assist him by those
faculties which are peculiar to them; experience teaches him the mode he
must adopt to induce them to concur in his designs, to determine them to
will and incline them to act in his favour. This points out to him the
actions they approve--those which displease them--the conduct which
attracts them--that which repels them--the judgment by which they are
swayed--the advantages that occur--the prejudicial effects that result
to him from their various modes of existence and from their diverse
manner of acting. This experience furnishes him with the ideas of virtue
and of vice, of justice and of injustice, of goodness and of wickedness,
of decency and of indecency, of probity and of knavery: In short,
he learns to form a judgment of men--to estimate their actions--to
distinguish the various sentiments excited in them, according to the
diversity of those effects which they make him experience. It is
upon the necessary diversity of these effects that is founded the
discrimination between good and evil--between virtue and vice;
distinctions which do not rest, as some thinkers have believed, on the
conventions made between men; still less, as some metaphysicians have
asserted, upon the chimerical will of supernatural beings: but upon the
solid, the invariable, the eternal relations that subsist between beings
of the human species congregated together, and living in society: which
relations will have existence as long as man shall remain, as long as
society shall continue to exist.

Thus _virtue_ is every thing that is truly beneficial, every thing
that is constantly useful to the individuals of the human race, living
together in society; _vice_ every thing that is really prejudicial,
every thing that is permanently injurious to them. The greatest virtues
are those which procure for man the most durable advantages, from which
he derives the most solid happiness, which preserves the greatest degree
of order in his association: the greatest vices, are those which most
disturb his tendency to happiness, which perpetuate error, which most
interrupt the necessary order of society.

The _virtuous man_, is he whose actions tend uniformly to the welfare,
constantly to the happiness, of his fellow creatures. The _vicious man_,
is he whose conduct tends to the misery, whose propensities form the
unhappiness of those with whom he lives; from whence his own peculiar
misery most commonly results.

Every thing that procures for a man true and permanent happiness is
reasonable; every thing that disturbs his individual felicity, or that
of the beings necessary to his happiness, is foolish and unreasonable.
The man who injures others, is wicked; the man who injures himself, is
an imprudent being, who neither has a knowledge of reason, of his own
peculiar interests, nor of truth.

Man's _duties_ are the means pointed out to him by experience, the
circle which reason describes for him, by which he is to arrive at that
goal he proposes to himself; these duties are the necessary consequence
of the relations subsisting between mortals, who equally desire
happiness, who are equally anxious to preserve their existence. When it
is said these duties _compel him_, it signifies nothing more than that,
without taking these means, he could not reach the end proposed to him
by his nature. Thus, _moral obligation_ is the necessity of employing
the natural means to render the beings with whom he lives happy; to
the end that he may determine them in turn to contribute to his own
individual happiness: his obligation toward himself, is the necessity
he is under to take those means, without which he would be incapable to
conserve himself, or render his existence solidly and permanently
happy. Morals, like the universe, is founded upon necessity, or upon the
eternal relation of things.

_Happiness_ is a mode of existence of which man naturally wishes the
duration, or in which he is willing to continue. It is measured by its
duration, by its vivacity. The greatest happiness is that which has the
longest continuance: transient happiness, or that which has only a
short duration, is called _Pleasure_; the more lively it is, the more
fugitive, because man's senses are only susceptible of a certain quantum
of motion. When pleasure exceeds this given quantity, it is changed into
_anguish_, or into that painful mode of existence, of which he ardently
desires the cessation: this is the reason why pleasure and pain
frequently so closely approximate each other as scarcely to be
discriminated. Immoderate pleasure is the forerunner of regret. It is
succeeded by ennui, it is followed by weariness, it ends in disgust:
transient happiness frequently converts itself into durable misfortune.
According to these principles it will be seen that man, who in each
moment of his duration seeks necessarily after happiness, ought, when
he is reasonable, to manage, to husband, to regulate his pleasures; to
refuse himself to all those of which the indulgence would be succeeded
by regret; to avoid those which can convert themselves into pain; in
order that he may procure for himself the most permanent felicity.

Happiness cannot be the same for all the beings of the human species;
the same pleasures cannot equally affect men whose conformation is
different, whose modification is diverse. This no doubt, is the true
reason why the greater number of moral philosophers are so little
in accord upon those objects in which they have made man's happiness
consist, as well as on the means by which it may be obtained.
Nevertheless, in general, happiness appears to be a state, whether
momentary or durable, in which man readily acquiesces, because he finds
it conformable to his being. This state results from the accord,
springs out of the conformity, which is found between himself and
those circumstances in which he has been placed by Nature; or, if it be
preferred, _happiness is the co-ordination of man, with the causes that
give him impulse_.

The ideas which man forms to himself of happiness depend not only on his
temperament, on his individual conformation, but also upon the habits he
has contracted. _Habit_ is, in man, a mode of existence--of thinking--of
acting, which his organs, as well interior as exterior, contract, by the
frequent reiteration of the same motion; from whence results the faculty
of performing these actions with promptitude, of executing them with
facility.

If things be attentively considered, it will be found that almost
the whole conduct of man--the entire system of his actions--his
occupations--his connexions--his studies--his amusements--his
manners--his customs--his very garments--even his aliments, are the
effect of habit. He owes equally to habit, the facility with which
he exercises his mental faculties of thought--of judgment--of wit--of
reason--of taste, &c. It is to habit he owes the greater part of his
inclinations--of his desires--of his opinions--of his prejudices--of the
ideas, true or false, he forms to himself of his welfare. In short, it
is to habit, consecrated by time, that he owes those errors into
which everything strives to precipitate him; from which every thing
is calculated to prevent him emancipating himself. It is habit that
attaches him either to virtue or to vice: experience proves this:
observation teaches incontrovertibly that the first crime is always
accompanied by more pangs of remorse than the second; this again, by
more than the third; so on to those that follow. A first action is the
commencement of a habit; those which succeed confirm it: by force
of combatting the obstacles that prevent the commission of criminal
actions, man arrives at the power of vanquishing them with ease; of
conquering them with facility. Thus he frequently becomes wicked from
habit.

Man is so much modified by habit, that it is frequently confounded
with his nature: from hence results, as will presently be seen, those
opinions or those ideas, which he has called _innate_: because he has
been unwilling to recur back to the source from whence they sprung:
which has, as it were, identified itself with his brain. However this
may be, he adheres with great strength of attachment to all those things
to which he is habituated; his mind experiences a sort of violence, an
incommodious revulsion, a troublesome distaste, when it is endeavoured
to make him change the course of his ideas: a fatal predilection
frequently conducts him back to the old track in despite of reason.

It is by a pure mechanism that may be explained the phenomena of habit,
as well physical as moral; the soul, notwithstanding its spirituality,
is modified exactly in the same manner as the body. Habit, in man,
causes the organs of voice to learn the mode of expressing quickly the
ideas consigned to his brain, by means of certain motion, which, during
his infancy, the tongue acquires the power of executing with facility:
his tongue, once habituated to move itself in a certain manner, finds
much trouble, has great pain, to move itself after another mode; the
throat yields with difficulty to those inflections which are exacted by
a language different from that to which he has, been accustomed. It is
the same with regard to his ideas; his brain, his interior organ, his
soul, inured to a given manner of modification, accustomed to attach
certain ideas to certain objects, long used to form to itself a system
connected with certain opinions, whether true or false, experiences a
painful sensation, whenever he undertakes to give it a new impulse, or
alter the direction of its habitual motion. It is nearly as difficult to
make him change his opinions as his language.

Here, then, without doubt, is the cause of that almost invincible
attachment which man displays to those customs--those prejudices--those
institutions of which it is in vain that reason, experience, good sense
prove to him the inutility, or even the danger. Habit opposes itself to
the clearest, the most evident demonstrations; these can avail
nothing against those passions, those vices, which time has rooted
in him--against the most ridiculous systems--against the most absurd
notions--against the most extravagant hypotheses--against the strangest
customs: above all, when he has learned to attach to them the ideas
of utility, of common interest, of the welfare of society. Such is the
source of that obstinacy, of that stubbornness, which man evinces for
his religion, for ancient usages, for unreasonable customs, for laws so
little accordant with justice, for abuses, which so frequently make him
suffer, for prejudices of which he sometimes acknowledges the absurdity,
yet is unwilling to divest himself of them. Here is the reason
why nations contemplate the most useful novelties as mischievous
innovations--why they believe they would be lost, if they were to
remedy those evils to which they have become habituated; which they have
learned to consider as necessary to their repose; which they have been
taught to consider dangerous to be cured.

_Education_ is only the art of making man contract, in early life,
that is to say, when his organs are extremely flexible, the habits, the
opinions, the modes of existence, adopted by the society in which he
is placed. The first moments of his infancy are employed in collecting
experience; those who are charged with the care of rearing him, or who
are entrusted to bring him up, teach him how to apply it: it is they who
develope reason in him: the first impulse they give him commonly decides
upon his condition, upon his passions, upon the ideas he forms to
himself of happiness, upon the means he shall employ to procure it,
upon his virtues, and upon his vices. Under the eyes of his masters,
the infant acquires ideas: under their tuition he learns to associate
them,--to think in a certain manner,--to judge well or ill. They point
out to him various objects, which they accustom him either to love or
to hate, to desire or to avoid, to esteem or to despise. It is thus
opinions are transmitted from fathers, mothers, nurses, and masters,
to man in his infantine state. It is thus, that his mind by degrees
saturates itself with truth, or fills itself with error; after which
he regulates his conduct, which renders him either happy or miserable,
virtuous or vicious, estimable or hateful. It is thus he becomes either
contented or discontented with his destiny, according to the objects
towards which they have directed his passions--towards which they have
bent the energies of his mind; that is to say, in which they have shewn
him his interest, in which they have taught him to place his felicity:
in consequence, he loves and searches after that which they have taught
him to revere--that which they have made the object of his research; he
has those tastes, those inclinations, those phantasms, which, during the
whole course of his life, he is forward to indulge, which he is eager to
satisfy, in proportion to the activity they have excited in him, and the
capacity with which he has been provided by Nature.

_Politics_ ought to be the art of regulating the passions of man--of
directing them to the welfare of society--of diverting them into a
genial current of happiness--of making them flow gently to the
general benefit of all: but too frequently it is nothing more than the
detestible art of arming the passions of the various members of society
against each other,--of making them the engines to accomplish their
mutual destruction,--of converting them into agents which embitter
their existence, create jealousies among them, and fill with rancorous
animosities that association from which, if properly managed, man ought
to derive his felicity. Society is commonly so vicious because it is not
founded upon Nature, upon experience, and upon general utility; but
on the contrary, upon the passions, upon the caprices, and upon the
particular interests of those by whom it is governed. In short, it is
for the most part the advantage of the few opposed to the prosperity of
the many.

Politics, to be useful, should found its principles upon Nature; that is
to say, should conform itself to the essence of man, should mould itself
to the great end of society: but what is society? and what is its end?
It is a whole, formed by the union of a great number of families, or by
a collection of individuals, assembled from a reciprocity of interest,
in order that they may satisfy with greater facility their reciprocal
wants--that they may, with more certainty, procure the advantages they
desire--that they may obtain mutual succours--above all, that they may
gain the faculty of enjoying, in security, those benefits with which
Nature and industry may furnish them: it follows, of course, that
politics, which are intended to maintain society, and to consolidate
the interests of this congregation, ought to enter into its views, to
facilitate the means of giving them efficiency, to remove all those
obstacles that have a tendency to counteract the intention with which
man entered into association.

Man, in approximating to his fellow man, to live with him in society,
has made, either formally or tacitly, a covenant; by which he engages
to render mutual services, to do nothing that can be prejudicial to his
neighbour. But as the nature of each individual impels him each instant
to seek after his own welfare, which he has mistaken to consist in the
gratification of his passions, and the indulgence of his transitory
caprices, without any regard to the convenience of his fellows; there
needed a power to conduct him back to his duty, to oblige him to conform
himself to his obligations, and to recall him to his engagements, which
the hurry of his passions frequently make him forget. This power is the
_law_; it is, or ought to be, the collection of the will of society,
reunited to fix the conduct of its members, to direct their action in
such a mode, that it may concur to the great end of his association--the
general good.

But as society, more especially when very numerous, is incapable of
assembling itself, unless with great difficulty, as it cannot with
tumult make known its intentions, it is obliged to choose citizens in
whom it places a confidence, whom it makes the interpreter of its will,
whom it constitutes the depositaries of the power requisite to carry
it into execution. Such is the origin of all _government_, which to be
legitimate can only be founded on the free consent of society. Those
who are charged with the care of governing, call themselves sovereigns,
chiefs, legislators: according to the form which society has been
willing to give to its government: these sovereigns are styled monarchs,
magistrates, representatives, &c. Government only borrows its power from
society: being established for no other purpose than its welfare, it is
evident society can revoke this power whenever its interest shall exact
it; change the form of its government; extend or limit the power which
it has confided to its chiefs, over whom, by the immutable laws of
Nature, it always conserves a supreme authority: because these laws
enjoin, that the part shall always remain subordinate to the whole.

Thus sovereigns are the ministers of society, its interpreters, the
depositaries of a greater or of a less portion of its power; but they
are not its absolute masters, neither are they the proprietors of
nations. By a _covenant_, either expressed or implied, they engage
themselves to watch over the maintenance, to occupy themselves with the
welfare of society; it is only upon these conditions society consents to
obey them. The price of obedience is protection. There is or ought to
be a reciprocity of interest between the governed and the governor:
whenever this reciprocity is wanting, society is in that state of
confusion of which we spoke in the fifth chapter: it is verging on
destruction. No society upon earth was ever willing or competent to
confer irrevocably upon its chiefs the power, the right, of doing it
injury. Such a concession, such a compact, would be annulled, would be
rendered void by Nature; because she wills that each society, the
same as each individual of the human species shall tend to its own
conservation; it has not therefore the capacity to consent to its
permanent unhappiness. _Laws_, in order that they may be just, ought
invariably to have for their end, the general interest of society; that
is to say, to assure to the greater number of citizens those advantages
for which man originally associated. These advantages are _liberty,
property, security_.

_Liberty_, to man, is the faculty of doing, for his own peculiar
happiness, every thing which does not injure or diminish the happiness
of his associates: in associating, each individual renounced the
exercise of that portion of his natural liberty which would be able to
prejudice or injure the liberty of his fellows. The exercise of that
liberty which is injurious to society is called _licentiousness_.

_Property_, to man, is the faculty of enjoying those advantages which
spring from labour; those benefits which industry or talent has procured
to each member of society.

_Security_, to man, is the certitude, the assurance, that each
individual ought to have, of enjoying in his person, of finding for
his property the protection of the laws, as long as he shall faithfully
observe, as long as he shall punctually perform, his engagements with
society.

_Justice_, to man, assures to all the members of society, the possession
of these advantages, the enjoyment of those rights, which belong to
them. From this, it will appear, that without justice, society is not in
a condition to procure the happiness of any man. Justice is also called
_equity_, because by the assistance of the laws made to command the
whole, she reduces all its members to a state of equality; that is
to say, she prevents them from prevailing one over the other, by
the inequality which Nature or industry may have made between their
respective powers.

_Rights_, to man, are every thing which society, by equitable laws,
permits each individual to do for his own peculiar felicity. These
rights are evidently limited by the invariable end of all association:
society has, on its part, rights over all its members, by virtue of the
advantages which it procures for them; all its members, in turn, have
a right to claim, to exact from society, or secure from its ministers
those advantages for the procuring of which they congregated, in favour
of which they renounced a portion of their natural liberty. A society,
of which the chiefs, aided by the laws, do not procure any good for its
members, evidently loses its right over them: those chiefs who injure
society lose the right of commanding. It is not our country, without
it secures the welfare of its inhabitants; a society without equity
contains only enemies; a society oppressed is composed only of tyrants
and slaves; slaves are incapable of being citizens; it is liberty,
property, and security, that render our country dear to us; it is the
true love of his country that forms the citizen.

For want of having a proper knowledge of these truths, or for want
of applying them when known, some nations have become unhappy--have
contained nothing but a vile heap of slaves, separated from each other,
detached from society, which neither procures for them any good, nor
secures to them any one advantage. In consequence of the imprudence of
some nations, or of the craft, cunning, and violence of those to whom
they have confided the power of making laws, and carrying them into
execution, their sovereigns have rendered themselves absolute masters of
society. These, mistaking the true source of their power, pretended to
hold it from heaven, to be accountable for their actions to God alone,
to owe nothing, not to have any obligation to society, in a word, to
be gods upon earth, to possess the right of governing arbitrarily.
From thence politics became corrupted: they were only a mockery. Such
nations, disgraced and grown contemptible, did not dare resist the will
of their chiefs; their laws were nothing more than the expression of the
caprice of these chiefs; public welfare was sacrificed to their peculiar
interests; the force of society was turned against itself; its members
withdrew to attach themselves to its oppressors, to its tyrants; these
to seduce them, permitted them to injure it with impunity and to profit
by its misfortunes. Thus liberty, justice, security, and virtue, were
banished from many nations; politics was no longer any thing more than
the art of availing itself of the forces of a people and of the treasure
of society; of dividing it on the subject of its interest, in order to
subjugate it by itself; at length a stupid, a mechanical habit, made
them cherish their oppressors, and love their chains.

Man when he has nothing to fear, presently becomes wicked; he who
believes he has not occasion for his fellow, persuades himself he may
follow the inclinations of his heart without caution or discretion. Thus
fear is the only obstacle society can effectually oppose to the passions
of its chiefs; without it they will quickly become corrupt, and will
not scruple to avail themselves of the means society has placed in their
hands, to make them accomplices in their iniquity. To prevent these
abuses, it is requisite society should set bounds to its confidence;
should limit the power which it delegates to its chiefs; should reserve
to itself a sufficient portion of authority to prevent them from
injuring it; it must establish prudent checks: it must cautiously divide
the power it confers, because re-united, it will by such reunion be
infallibly oppressed. The slightest reflection, the most scanty
review, will make men feel that the burthen of governing and weight
of administration, is too ponderous and overpowering to be borne by an
individual; that the scope of his jurisdiction, that the range of his
surveillance, and multiplicity of his duties must always render him
negligent; that the extent of his power has ever a tendency to render
him mischievous. In short, the experience of all ages will convince
nations that man is continually tempted to the abuse of power: that as
an abundance of strong liquor intoxicates his brain, so unlimited power
corrupts his heart; that therefore the sovereign ought to be subject to
the law, not the law to the sovereign.

_Government_ has necessarily an equal influence over the philosophy, as
over the morals of nations. In the same manner that its care produces
labour, activity, abundance, salubrity and justice; its negligence
induces idleness, sloth, discouragement, penury, contagion, injustice,
vices and crimes. It depends upon government either to foster industry,
mature genius, give a spring to talents, or stifle them. Indeed
government, the disturber of dignities, of riches, of rewards, and
punishments; the master of those objects in which man from his infancy
has learned to place his felicity, and contemplate as the means of his
happiness; acquires a necessary influence over his conduct: it kindles
his passions; gives them direction; makes him instrumental to whatever
purpose it pleases; it modifies him; determines his manners; which in
a whole people, as in the individual, is nothing more than the conduct,
the general system of wills, of actions that necessarily result from his
education, government, laws, and religious opinions--his institutions,
whether rational or irrational. In short, manners are the habits of a
people: these are good whenever society draws from them true felicity
and solid happiness; they are bad, they are detestable in the eye of
reason, when the happiness of society does not spring from them; they
are unwholesome when they have nothing more in their favour than the
suffrage of time, and the countenance of prejudice which rarely
consults experience, which is almost ever at variance with good sense:
notwithstanding they may have the sanction of the law, custom, religion,
public opinion, or example, they may be unworthy and may be disgraceful,
provided society is in disorder; that crime abounds; that virtue shrinks
beneath the basilisk eye of triumphant vice; they may then be said to
resemble the UPAS, whose luxuriant yet poisonous foliage, the produce
of a rank soil, becomes more baneful to those who are submitted to
its vortex, in proportion as it extends its branches. If experience he
consulted, it will be found there is no action, however abominable, that
has not received the applause, that has not obtained the approbation of
some people. Parricide, the sacrifice of children, robbery, usurpation,
cruelty, intolerance, and prostitution, have all in their turn been
licensed actions; have been advocated; have been deemed laudable
and meritorious deeds with some nations of the earth. Above all,
_superstition_ has consecrated the most unreasonable, the most revolting
customs.

Man's passions result from and depend on the motion of attraction or
repulsion, of which he is rendered susceptible by Nature; who enables
him, by his peculiar essence, to be attracted by those objects which
appear useful to him, to be repelled by those which he considers
prejudicial; it follows that government, by holding the magnet, can put
these passions into activity, has the power either of restraining them,
or of giving them a favorable or an unfavorable direction. All his
passions are constantly limited by either loving or hating, seeking
or avoiding, desiring or fearing. These passions, so necessary to the
conservation of man, are a consequence of his organization; they display
themselves with more or less energy, according to his temperament;
education and habit develope them; government gives them play, conducts
them towards those objects, which it believes itself interested in
making desirable to its subjects. The various names which have been
given to these passions, are relative to the different objects by which
they are excited, such as pleasure, grandeur, or riches, which produce
voluptuousness, ambition, vanity and avarice. If the source of those
passions which predominate in nations be attentively examined it will
be commonly found in their governments. It is the impulse received
from their chiefs that renders them sometimes warlike, sometimes
superstitious, sometimes aspiring after glory, sometimes greedy after
wealth, sometimes rational, and sometimes unreasonable; if sovereigns,
in order to enlighten and render happy their dominions, were to employ
only the _tenth_ part of the vast expenditures which they lavish, only
a _tythe_ of the pains which they employ to render them brutish, to
stupify them, to deceive them, and to afflict them; their subjects
would presently be as wise, would quickly be as happy, as they are now
remarkable for being blind, ignorant, and miserable.

Let the vain project of destroying, the delusive attempt at rooting his
passions from the heart of man, he abandoned; let an effort be made to
direct them towards objects that may be useful to himself, beneficial to
his associates. Let education, let government, let the laws, habituate
him to restrain his passions within those just bounds that experience
fixes and reason prescribes. Let the ambitious have honours, titles,
distinctions, and power, when they shall have usefully served their
country; let riches be given to those who covet them, when they shall
have rendered themselves necessary to their fellow citizens; let
commendations, let eulogies, encourage those who shall be actuated by
the love of glory. In short, let the passions of man have a free, an
uninterrupted course, whenever there shall result from their exercise,
real, substantial, and durable advantages to society. Let education
kindle only those, which are truly beneficial to the human species; let
it favour those alone which are really necessary to the maintenance of
society. The passions of man are dangerous, only because every thing
conspires to give them an evil direction.

Nature does not make man either good or wicked: she combines machines
more or less active, mobile, and energetic; she furnishes him with
organs and temperament, of which his passions, more or less impetuous,
are the necessary consequence; these passions have always his happiness
for their object, his welfare for their end: in consequence they are
legitimate, they are natural, they can only be called bad or good,
relatively, to the influence they have on the beings of his species.
Nature gives man legs proper to sustain his weight, and necessary to
transport him from one place to another; the care of those who rear them
strengthens them, habituates him to avail himself of him, accustoms
him to make either a good or a bad use of them. The arm which he has
received from Nature is neither good nor bad; it is necessary to a great
number of the actions of life; nevertheless, the use of this arm
becomes criminal, if he has contracted the habit of using it to rob, to
assassinate, with a view to obtain that money which he has been taught
from his infancy to desire, and which the society in which he lives
renders necessary to him, but which his industry will enable him to
obtain without doing injury to his fellow man.

The heart of man is a soil which Nature has made equally suitable to the
production of brambles, or of useful grain--of deleterous poison, or of
refreshing fruit, by virtue of the seeds which may be sown in it--by the
cultivation that may be bestowed upon it, In his infancy, those objects
are pointed out to him which he is to estimate or to despise, to
seek after or to avoid, to love or to hate. It is his parents,
his instructors, who render him either virtuous or wicked, wise or
unreasonable, studious or dissipated, steady or trifling, solid or
vain. Their example, their discourse, modify him through his whole life,
teaching him what are the things he ought either to desire or to avoid;
what the objects he ought to fear or to love: he desires them, in
consequence; and he imposes on himself the task of obtaining them,
according to the energy of his temperament, which ever decides the
force of his passions. It is thus that education, by inspiring him with
opinions, by infusing into him ideas, whether true or false, gives
him those primitive impulsions after which he acts, in a manner either
advantageous or prejudicial both to himself and to others. Man, at
his birth, brings with him into the world nothing but the necessity
of conserving himself, of rendering his existence happy: instruction,
example, the customs of the world, present him with the means, either
real or imaginary, of achieving it; habit procures for him the facility
of employing these means: he attaches himself strongly to those he
judges best calculated, most proper to secure to him the possession of
those objects which they have taught him, which he has learned to
desire as the preferable good attached to his existence. Whenever his
education--whenever the examples which have been afforded him--whenever
the means with which he has been provided, are approved by reason, are
the result of experience, every thing concurs to render him virtuous;
habit strengthens these dispositions in him; he becomes, in consequence,
a useful member of society; to the interests of which, every thing ought
to prove to him his own permanent well-being, his own durable felicity,
is necessarily allied. If, on the contrary, his education--his
institutions--the examples which are set before him--the opinions which
are suggested to him in his infancy, are of a nature to exhibit to his
mind virtue as useless and repugnant--vice as useful and congenial to
his own individual happiness, he will become vicious; he will believe
himself interested in injuring society, in rendering his associates
unhappy; he will be carried along by the general current: he will
renounce virtue, which to him will no longer be any thing more than
a vain idol, without attractions to induce him to follow it; without
charms to tempt his adoration; because it will appear to exact, that he
should immolate at its shrine, that he should sacrifice at its altar all
those objects which he has been constantly taught to consider the most
dear to himself; to contemplate as benefits the most desirable.

In order that man may become virtuous, it is absolutely requisite that
he should have an interest, that he should find advantages in practising
virtue. For this end, it is necessary that education should implant in
him reasonable ideas; that public opinion should lean towards virtue, as
the most desirable good; that example should point it out as the object
most worthy esteem; that government should faithfully recompense, should
regularly reward it; that honor should always accompany its practice;
that vice should constantly be despised; that crime should invariably be
punished. Is virtue in this situation amongst men? does the education of
man infuse into him just, faithful ideas of happiness--true notions of
virtue--dispositions really favourable to the beings with whom he is to
live? The examples spread before him, are they suitable to innocence and
manners? are they calculated to make him respect decency--to cause him
to love probity--to practice honesty--to value good faith--to esteem
equity--to revere conjugal fidelity--to observe exactitude in fulfilling
his duties? Religion, which alone pretends to regulate his manners, does
it render him sociable--does it make him pacific--does it teach him to
be humane? The arbiters, the sovereigns of society, are they faithful
in recompensing, punctual in rewarding, those who have best served their
country? in punishing those who have pillaged, who have robbed, who have
plundered, who have divided, who have ruined it? Justice, does she hold
her scales with a firm, with an even hand, between all the citizens
of the state? The laws, do they never support the strong against the
weak--favor the rich against the poor--uphold the happy against the
miserable? In short, is it an uncommon spectacle to behold crime
frequently justified, often applauded, sometimes crowned with success,
insolently triumphing, arrogantly striding over that merit which it
disdains, over that virtue which it outrages? Well then, in societies
thus constituted, virtue can only be heard by a very small number of
peaceable citizens, a few generous souls, who know how to estimate its
value, who enjoy it in secret. For the others, it is only a disgusting
object; they see in it nothing but the supposed enemy to their
happiness, or the censor of their individual conduct.

If man, according to his nature, is necessitated to desire his welfare,
he is equally obliged to love and cherish the means by which he believes
it is to be acquired: it would be useless, it would perhaps be unjust,
to demand that a man should be virtuous, if he could not be so without
rendering himself miserable. Whenever he thinks vice renders him happy,
he must necessarily love vice; whenever he sees inutility recompensed,
crime rewarded--whenever he witnesses either or both of them
honored,--what interest will he find in occupying himself with the
happiness of his fellow-creatures? what advantage will he discover in
restraining the fury of his passions? Whenever his mind is saturated
with false ideas, filled with dangerous opinions, it follows, of course,
that his whole conduct will become nothing more than a long chain of
errors, a tissue of mistakes, a series of depraved actions.

We are informed, that the savages, in order to flatten the heads
of their children, squeeze them between two boards, by that means
preventing them from taking the shape designed for them by Nature. It is
pretty nearly the same thing with the institutions of man; they commonly
conspire to counteract Nature, to constrain and divert, to extinguish
the impulse Nature has given him, to substitute others which are the
source of all his misfortunes. In almost all the countries of the
earth, man is bereft of truth, is fed with falsehoods, and amused with
marvellous chimeras: he is treated like those children whose members
are, by the imprudent care of their nurses, swathed with little fillets,
bound up with rollers, which deprive them of the free use of their
limbs, obstruct their growth, prevent their activity, and oppose
themselves to their health.

Most of the superstitious opinions of man have for their object only to
display to him his supreme felicity in those illusions for which they
kindle his passions: but as the phantoms which are presented to his
imagination are incapable of being considered in the same light by all
who contemplate them, he is perpetually in dispute concerning these
objects; he hates his fellow, he persecutes his neighbour, his neighbour
in turn persecutes him, and he believes that in doing this he is doing
well: that in committing the greatest crimes to sustain his opinions
he is acting right. It is thus superstition infatuates man from his
infancy, fills him with vanity, and enslaves him with fanaticism: if he
has a heated imagination, it drives him on to fury; if he has activity,
it makes him a madman, who is frequently as cruel himself, as he is
dangerous to his fellow-creatures, as he is incommodious to others: if,
on the contrary, he be phlegmatic, and of a slothful habit, he becomes
melancholy and useless to society.

_Public opinion_ every instant offers to man's contemplation false ideas
of honor, and wrong notions of glory: it attaches his esteem not only
to frivolous advantages, but also to prejudicial interests and injurious
actions; which example authorizes, which prejudice consecrates, which
habit precludes him from viewing with the disgust and horror which they
merit. Indeed, habit familiarizes his mind with the most absurd
ideas, the most unreasonable customs, the most blameable actions; with
prejudices the most contrary to his own interests, and detrimental
to the society in which he lives. He finds nothing strange, nothing
singular, nothing despicable, nothing ridiculous, except those opinions
and objects to which he is himself unaccustomed. There are countries
in which the most laudable actions appear very blameable and
ridiculous--where the foulest and most diabolical actions pass for very
honest and perfectly rational conduct. In some nations they kill the old
men; in some the children strangle their fathers. The Phoenicians and
Carthaginians immolated their children to their gods. Europeans approve
duels; he who refuses to cut the throat of another, or to blow out the
brains of his neighbour, is contemplated by them as dishonoured. The
Spaniards and Portuguese think it meritorious to burn an heretic. In
some countries women prostitute themselves without dishonour; in others
it is the height of hospitality for a man to present his wife to the
embraces of the stranger: the refusal to accept this, excites his scorn
and calls forth his resentment.

_Authority_ commonly believes itself interested in maintaining the
received opinions: those prejudices and errors which it considers
requisite to the maintenance of its power and the consolidation of its
interests, are sustained by force, which is never rational. Princes
themselves, filled with deceptive images of happiness, mistaken notions
of power, erroneous opinions of grandeur, and false ideas of glory, are
surrounded with flattering courtiers, who are interested in keeping
up the delusion of their masters: these contemptible men have acquired
ideas of virtue, only that they may outrage it: by degrees they
corrupt the people, these become depraved, lend themselves to their
debaucheries, pander to the vices of the great, then make a merit of
imitating them in their irregularities. A court is too frequently the
true focus of the corruption of a people.

This is the true source of moral evil. It is thus that every thing
conspires to render man vicious, and give a fatal impulse to his soul:
from whence results the general confusion of society, which becomes
unhappy, from the misery of almost every one of its members. The
strongest motive-powers are put in action to inspire man with a passion
for futile objects which are indifferent to him; which make him become
dangerous to his fellow man, by the means which he is compelled to
employ, in order to obtain them. Those who have the charge of guiding
his steps, either impostors themselves, or the dupes to their own
prejudices, forbid him to hearken to reason; they make truth appear
dangerous to him; they exhibit error as requisite to his welfare, not
only in this world, but in the next. In short, habit strongly attaches
him to his irrational opinions, to his perilous inclinations, and to his
blind passion for objects either useless or dangerous. Here, then,
is the reason why for the most part man finds himself necessarily
determined to evil; the reason why the passions, inherent in his
Nature and necessary to his conservation, become the instruments of his
destruction, and the bane of that society, which properly conducted,
they ought to preserve; the reason why society becomes a state of
warfare; why it does nothing but assemble enemies, who are envious of
each other, and are always rivals for the prize. If some virtuous beings
are to be found in these societies, they must be sought for in the
very small number of those, who born with a phlegmatic temperament have
moderate passions, who therefore, either do not desire at all, or desire
very feebly, those objects with which their associates are continually
inebriated.

Man's nature, diversely cultivated, decides upon his faculties, as
well corporeal as intellectual; upon his qualities, as well moral
as physical. The man who is of a sanguine, robust constitution, must
necessarily have strong passions; he who is of a bilious, melancholy
habit, will as necessarily have fantastical and gloomy passions; the man
of a gay turn, of a sprightly imagination, will have cheerful passions;
while the man in whom phlegm abounds, will have those which are gentle,
or which have a very slight degree of violence. It appears to be upon
the equilibrium of the humours, that depends the state of the man who
is called _virtuous_; his temperament seems to be the result of a
combination, in which the elements or principles are balanced with such
precision that no one passion predominates over another, or carries into
his machine more disorder than its neighbour.

Habit, as we have seen, is man's nature modified: this latter furnishes
the matter; education, domestic example, national manners, give it the
form: these, acting on his temperament, make him either reasonable, or
irrational--enlightened, or stupid--a fanatic, or a hero--an enthusiast
for the public good, or an unbridled criminal--a wise man, smitten with
the advantages of virtue, or a libertine, plunged into every kind of
vice. All the varieties of the moral man, depend on the diversity of his
ideas; which are themselves arranged and combined in his brain by the
intervention of his senses. His temperament is the produce of physical
substances, his habits are the effect of physical modifications; the
opinions, whether good or bad, injurious or beneficial, true or false,
which form themselves in his mind, are never more than the effect of
those physical impulsions which the brain receives by the medium of the
senses.





CHAP. X.

_The Soul does not derive its ideas from itself--It has no innate
Ideas._


What has preceded suffices to prove, that the interior organ of man,
which is called his _soul_, is purely material. He will be enabled to
convince himself of this truth, by the manner in which he acquires his
ideas,--from those impressions which material objects successively make
on his organs, which are themselves acknowledged to be material. It has
been seen, that the faculties which are called intellectual, are to be
ascribed to that of feeling; the different qualities of those faculties
which are called moral, have been explained after the necessary laws
of a very simple mechanism: it now remains, to reply to those who still
obstinately persist in making the soul a substance distinguished from
the body, or who insist on giving it an essence totally distinct. They
seem to found their distinction upon this, that this interior organ has
the faculty of drawing its ideas from within itself; they will have it,
that man, at his birth, brings with him ideas into the world, which,
according to this wonderful notion, they have called _innate_. The Jews
have a similar doctrine which they borrowed from the Chaldeans: their
rabbins taught, that each soul, before it was united to the seed that
must form an infant in the womb of a woman, is confided to the care of
an angel, which causes him to behold heaven, earth, and hell: this, they
pretend, is done by the assistance of a lamp, which extinguishes itself
as soon as the infant comes into the world. Some ancient philosophers
have held, that the soul originally contains the principles of several
notions or doctrines: the Stoics designated this by the term PROLEPSIS,
_anticipated opinions_; the Greek mathematicians, KOINAS ENNOIAS,
_universal ideas_. They have believed that the soul, by a special
privilege, in a nature where every thing is connected, enjoyed the
faculty of moving itself without receiving any impulse; of creating to
itself ideas, of thinking on a subject, without being determined to
such action, by any exterior object; which by moving its organs should
furnish it with an image of the subject of its thoughts. In consequence
of these gratuitous suppositions, of these extraordinary pretensions,
which it is only requisite to expose, in order to confute some very able
speculators, who were prepossessed by their superstitious prejudices;
have ventured the length to assert, that without model, without
prototype to act on the senses, the soul is competent to delineate to
itself, the whole universe with all the beings it contains. DESCARTES
and his disciples have assured us, that the body went absolutely for
nothing, in the sensations, in the perceptions, in the ideas of the
soul; that it can feel, that it can perceive, that it can understand,
that it can taste, that it can touch, even when there should exist
nothing that is corporeal or material exterior to ourselves. But what
shall be said of a BERKELEY, who has endeavoured, who has laboured to
prove to man, that every thing in this world is nothing more than a
chimerical illusion; that the universe exists nowhere but in himself;
that it has no identity but in his imagination; who has rendered the
existence of all things problematical by the aid of sophisms, insolvable
even to those who maintain the doctrine of the spirituality of the soul.

Extravagant as this doctrine of the BISHOP OF CLOYNE may appear, it
cannot well be more so than that of MALEBRANCHE, the champion of innate
ideas; who makes the divinity the common bond between the soul and the
body: or than that of those metaphysicians, who maintain that the soul
is a substance heterogeneous to the body; who by ascribing to this soul
the thoughts of man, have in fact rendered the body superfluous. They
have not perceived they were liable to one solid objection, which is,
that if the ideas of man are innate, if he derives them from a superior
being, independent of exterior causes, if he sees every thing in God;
how comes it that so many false ideas are afloat, that so many errors
prevail, with which the human mind is saturated? From whence comes these
opinions, which according to the theologians are so displeasing to God?
Might it not be a question to the Malebranchists, was it in the Divinity
that SPINOZA beheld his system?

Nevertheless, to justify such monstrous opinions, they assert that ideas
are only the objects of thought. But according to the last analysis,
these ideas can only reach man from exterior objects, which in giving
impulse to his senses modify his brain; or from the material beings
contained within the interior of his machine, who make some parts of his
body experience those sensations which he perceives, which furnish him
with ideas, which he relates, faithfully or otherwise, to the cause that
moves him. Each idea is an effect, but however difficult it may be to
recur to the cause, can we possibly suppose it is not ascribable to
a cause? If we can only form ideas of material substances, how can we
suppose the cause of our ideas can possibly be immaterial? To pretend
that man without the aid of exterior objects, without the intervention
of his senses, is competent to form ideas of the universe, is to assert,
that a blind man is in a capacity to form a true idea of a picture, that
represents some fact of which he has never heard any one speak.

It is very easy to perceive the source of those errors, into which men,
otherwise extremely profound and very enlightened have fallen, when they
have been desirous to speak of the soul: to describe its operations.
Obliged either by their own prejudices, or by the fear of combatting the
opinions of some imperious theologian, they have become the advocates of
the principle, that the soul was a pure spirit: an immaterial substance;
of an essence directly different from that of the body; from every thing
we behold: this granted, they have been incompetent to conceive how
material objects could operate, in what manner gross and corporeal
organs were enabled to act on a substance, that had no kind of analogy
with them; how they were in a capacity to modify it by conveying its
ideas; in the impossibility of explaining this phenomenon, at the same
time perceiving that the soul had ideas, they concluded that it must
draw them from itself, and not from those beings, which according to
their own hypothesis, were incapable of acting on it, or rather, of
which they could not conceive the manner of action; they therefore
imagined that all the modifications, all the actions of this soul,
sprung from its own peculiar energy, were imprinted on it from its first
formation, by the Author of Nature: that these did not in any manner
depend upon the beings of which we have a knowledge, or which act upon
it, by the gross means of our senses.

There are, however, some phenomena, which, considered superficially,
appear to support the opinion of these philosophers; to announce a
faculty in the human soul of producing ideas within itself, without any
exterior aid; these are _dreams_, in which the interior organ of man,
deprived of objects that move it visibly, does not, however, cease to
have ideas--to be set in activity--to be modified in a manner that is
sufficiently sensible--to have an influence upon his body. But if a
little reflection be called in, the solution to this difficulty will
be found: it will be perceived that, even during sleep, his brain is
supplied with a multitude of ideas, with which the eye or time before
has stocked it; these ideas were communicated to it by exterior or
corporeal objects, by which they have been modified: it will be found
that these modifications renew themselves, not by any spontaneous,
not by any voluntary motion on its part, but by a chain of involuntary
movements which take place in his machine, which determine, which excite
those that give play to the brain; these modifications renew themselves
with more or less fidelity, with a greater or lesser degree of
conformity to those which it has anteriorly experienced. Sometimes in
dreaming, he has memory, then he retraces to himself the objects which
have struck him faithfully;--at other times, these modifications renew
themselves without order, and without connection, very differently from
those, which real objects have before excited in his interior organ. If
in a dream he believes he sees a friend, his brain renews in itself the
modifications or the ideas which this friend had formerly excited--in
the same order that they arranged themselves when his eyes really beheld
him--this is nothing more than an effect of memory. If in his dream he
fancies he sees a monster which has no model in nature, his brain is
then modified in the same manner that it was by the particular, by the
detached ideas, with which it then does nothing more than compose an
ideal whole; by assembling, and associating, in a ridiculous manner, the
scattered ideas that were consigned to its keeping; it is then, that in
dreaming he has imagination.

Those dreams that are troublesome, extravagant, whimsical, or
unconnected, are commonly the effect of some confusion in his machine;
such as painful indigestion--an overheated blood--a prejudicial
fermentation, &c.--these material causes excite in his body a disorderly
motion, which precludes the brain from being modified in the same manner
it was on the day before; in consequence of this irregular motion the
brain is disturbed, it only represents to itself confused ideas that
want connection. When in a dream, he believes he sees a Sphinx, a being
supposed by the poets to have a head and face like a woman, a body like
a dog, wings like a bird, and claws like a lion, who put forth riddles
and killed those who could not expound them; either, he has seen the
representation of one when he was awake, or else the disorderly motion
of the brain is such that it causes it to combine ideas, to connect
parts, from which there results a whole without model, of which the
parts were not formed to be united. It is thus, that his brain combines
the head of a woman, of which it already has the idea, with the body of
a lioness, of which it also has the image. In this his head acts in the
same manner, as when by any defect in the interior organ, his disordered
imagination paints to him some objects, notwithstanding he is awake. He
frequently dreams, without being asleep: his dreams never produce any
thing so strange but that they have some resemblance, with the
objects which have anteriorly acted on his senses; which have already
communicated ideas to his brain. The watchful theologians have composed,
at their leisure, in their waking hours, those phantoms, of which they
avail themselves, to terrify or frighten man; they have done nothing
more than assemble the scattered traits which they have found in the
most terrible beings of their own species; by exaggerating the powers,
by enlarging the rights claimed by tyrants, they have formed ideal
beings, before whom man trembles, and is afraid.

Thus, it is seen, that dreams, far from proving that the soul acts by
its own peculiar energy, that it draws its ideas from its own recesses;
prove, on the contrary, that in sleep it is intirely passive, that it
does not even renew its modifications, but according to the involuntary
confusion, which physical causes produce in the body, of which every
thing tends to shew the identity, the consubstantiality with the soul.
What appears to have led those into a mistake, who maintained that the
soul drew its ideas from itself, is this, they have contemplated these
ideas, as if they were real beings, when, in point of fact, they are
nothing more than the modifications produced in the brain of man, by
objects to which this brain is a stranger; they are these objects,
who are the true models, who are the real archetypes to which it is
necessary to recur: here is the source of all their errors.

In the individual who dreams, the soul does not act more from itself,
than it does in the man who is drunk, that is to say, who is modified
by some spirituous liquor: or than it does in the sick man, when he is
delirious, that is to say, when he is modified by those physical causes
which disturb his machine, which obstruct it in the performance of its
functions; or than it, does in him, whose brain is disordered: dreams,
like these various states, announce nothing more than a physical
confusion in the human machine, under the influence of which the brain
ceases to act, after a precise and regular manner: this disorder may
be traced to physical causes, such as the aliments--the humours--the
combinations--the fermentations, which are but little analogous to the
salutary state of man; from hence it will appear, that his brain is
necessarily confused, whenever his body is agitated in an extraordinary
manner.

Do not let him, therefore, believe that his soul acts by itself, or
without a cause, in any one moment of his existence; it is, conjointly
with the body, submitted to the impulse of beings, who act on him
necessarily, according to their various properties. Wine taken in too
great a quantity, necessarily disturbs his ideas, causes confusion in
his corporeal functions, occasions disorder in his mental faculties.

If there really existed a being in Nature, with the capability of moving
itself by its own peculiar energies, that is to say, able to produce
motion, independent of all other causes, such a being would have the
power of arresting itself, or of suspending the motion of the universe;
which is nothing more than an immense chain of causes linked one to
another, acting and re-acting by necessary immutable laws, and which
cannot be changed, which are incapable of being suspended, unless the
essences of every thing in it were changed, without the properties
of every thing were annihilated. In the general system of the world,
nothing more can be perceived than a long series of motion, received
and communicated in succession, by beings capacitated to give impulse to
each other: it is thus, that each body is moved by the collision of some
other body. The invisible motion of some soul is to be attributed to
causes concealed within himself; he believes that it is moved by itself,
because he does not see the springs which put it in motion, or because
he conceives those powers are incapable of producing the effects he
so much admires: but, does he more clearly conceive, how a spark in
exploding gunpowder, is capable of producing the terrible effects he
witnesses? The source of his errors arise from this, that he regards his
body as gross and inert, whilst this body is a sensible machine, which
has necessarily an instantaneous conscience the moment it receives an
impression; which is conscious of its own existence by the recollection
of impressions successively experienced; memory by resuscitating an
impression anteriorly received, by detaining it, or by causing an
impression which it receives to remain, whilst it associates it with
another, then with a third, gives all the mechanism of _reasoning_.

An idea, which is only an imperceptible modification of the brain, gives
play to the organ of speech, which displays itself by the motion it
excites in the tongue: this, in its turn, breeds ideas, thoughts, and
passions, in those beings who are provided with organs susceptible of
receiving analagous motion; in consequence of which, the wills of
a great number of men are influenced, who, combining their efforts,
produce a revolution in a state, or even have an influence over the
entire globe. It is thus, that an ALEXANDER decided the fate of Asia, it
is thus, that a MAHOMET changed the face of the earth; it is thus,
that imperceptible causes produce the most terrible, the most extended
effects, by a series of necessary motion imprinted on the brain of man.

The difficulty of comprehending the effects produced on the soul of man,
has made him attribute to it those incomprehensible qualities which have
been examined. By the aid of imagination, by the power of thought, this
soul appears to quit his body, to carry itself with the greatest ease,
to transport itself with the utmost facility towards the most distant
objects; to run over, to approximate in the twinkling of an eye, all the
points of the universe: he has therefore believed, that a being who is
susceptible of such rapid motion, must be of a nature very distinguished
from all others; he has persuaded himself that this soul in reality does
travel, that it actually springs over the immense space necessary to
meet these various objects; he did not perceive, that to do it in
an instant, it had only to run over itself to approximate the ideas
consigned to its keeping, by means of the senses.

Indeed, it is never by any other means than by his senses, that
beings become known to man, or furnish him with ideas; it is only
in consequence of the impulse given to his body, that his brain is
modified, or that his soul thinks, wills, and acts. If, as ARISTOTLE
asserted more than two thousand years ago,--"_nothing enters the mind
of man but through the medium of his senses_,"--it follows as a
consequence, that every thing that issues from it must find some
sensible object to which it can attach its ideas, whether immediately,
as a man, a tree, a bird, &c. or in the last analysis or decomposition,
such as pleasure, happiness, vice, virtue, &c. This principle, so true,
so luminous, so important in its consequence, has been set forth in all
its lustre, by a great number of philosophers; among the rest, by the
great LOCKE. Whenever, therefore, a word or its idea does not connect
itself with some sensible object to which it can be related, this word
or this idea is unmeaning, and void of sense; it were better for man
that the idea was banished from his mind, struck out of his language:
this principle is only the converse of the axiom of ARISTOTLE,--"_if
the direct be evident, the inverse must be so likewise_." How has it
happened, that the profound LOCKE, who, to the great mortification
of the metaphysicians, has placed this principle of ARISTOTLE in the
clearest point of view? how is it, that all those who, like him, have
recognized the absurdity of the system of innate ideas, have not drawn
the immediate, the necessary consequences? How has it come to pass, that
they have not had sufficient courage to apply so clear a principle to
all those fanciful chimeras with which the human mind has for such a
length of time been so vainly occupied? did they not perceive that
their principle sapped the very foundations of those metaphysical
speculations, which never occupy man but with those objects of which, as
they are inaccessible to his senses, he consequently can never form
to himself any accurate idea? But prejudice, when it is generally held
sacred, prevents him from seeing the most simple application of the most
self-evident principles. In metaphysical researches, the greatest men
are frequently nothing more than children, who are incapable of either
foreseeing or deducing the consequence of their own data.

LOCKE, as well as all those who have adopted his system, which is so
demonstrable,--or to the axiom of ARISTOTLE, which is so clear, ought
to have concluded from it that all those wonderful things with
which metaphysicians have amused themselves, are mere chimeras; mere
wanderings of the imagination; that an immaterial spirit or substance,
without extent, without parts, is, in fact, nothing more than an
absence of ideas; in short, they ought to have felt that the ineffable
intelligence which they have supposed to preside at the helm of the
world, is after all nothing more than a being of their own imagination,
on which man has never been in accord, whom he has pictured under all
the variety of forms, to which he has at different periods, in different
climes, ascribed every kind of attribute, good or bad; but of which
it is impossible his senses can ever prove either the existence or the
qualities.

For the same reason, moral philosophers ought to have concluded, that
what is called moral sentiment, _moral instinct_, that is, innate
ideas of virtue, anterior to all experience of the good or bad effects
resulting from its practice, are mere chimerical notions, which, like a
great many others, have for their guarantee and base only metaphysical
speculation. Before man can judge, he must feel; before he can
distinguish good from evil, he must compare. _Morals_, is a science of
facts: to found them, therefore, on an hypothesis inaccessible to his
senses, of which he has no means of proving the reality, is to render
them uncertain; it is to cast the log of discord into his lap, to cause
him unceasingly to dispute upon that which he can never understand.
To assert that the ideas of morals are _innate_, or the effect of
_instinct_, is to pretend that man knows how to read before he has
learned the letters of the alphabet; that he is acquainted with the laws
of society before they are either made or promulgated.

To undeceive him, with respect to innate ideas or modifications,
imprinted on his soul, at the moment of his birth, it is simply
requisite to recur to their source; he will then see that those with
which he is familiar, which have, as it were, identified themselves with
his existence, have all come to him through the medium of some of
his senses; that they are sometimes engraven on his brain with great
difficulty,--that they have never been permanent,--that they have
perpetually varied in him: he will see that these pretended inherent
ideas of his soul, are the effect of education, of example, above all,
of habit, which by reiterated motion has taught his brain to associate
his ideas either in a confused or a perspicuous manner; to familiarize
itself with systems either rational or absurd. In short, he takes those
for innate ideas of which he has forgotten the origin; he no longer
recals to himself, either the precise epoch, or the successive
circumstances when these ideas were first consigned to his brain:
arrived at a certain age he believes he has always had the same notions;
his memory, crowded with experience, loaded with a multitude of facts,
is no longer able to distinguish the particular circumstances which
have contributed to give his brain its present modifications; its
instantaneous mode of thinking; its actual opinions. For example, not
one of his race, perhaps, recollects the first time the word God struck
his ears--the first ideas that it formed in him--the first thoughts that
it produced in him; nevertheless, it is certain that from thence he
has searched for some being with whom to connect the idea which he has
either formed to himself, or which has been suggested to him: accustomed
to hear God continually spoken of, he has, when in other respects, the
most enlightened, regarded this idea as if it were infused into him by
Nature; whilst it is visibly to be attributed to those delineations of
it, which his parents or his instructors have made to him; which he has,
in consequence, modified according to his own particular organization,
and the circumstances in which he has been placed; it is thus, that each
individual forms to himself a God, of which he is himself the model, or
which he modifies after his own fashion.

His ideas of morals, although more real than those of metaphysics, are
not however innate: the moral sentiments he forms on the will, or the
judgment he passes on the actions of man, are founded on experience;
which alone can enable him to discriminate those which are either useful
or prejudicial, virtuous or vicious, honest or dishonest, worthy his
esteem, or deserving his censure. His moral sentiments are the fruit
of a multitude of experience that is frequently very long and very
complicated. He gathers it with time; it is more or less faithful, by
reason of his particular organization and the causes by which he is
modified; he ultimately applies this experience with greater or less
facility; to this is to be attributed his habit of judging. The celerity
with which he applies his experience when he judges of the moral actions
of his fellow man, is what has been termed _moral instinct_.

That which in natural philosophy is called _instinct_, is only the
effect of some want of the body, the consequence of some attraction or
some repulsion in man or animals. The child that is newly born, sucks
for the first time; the nipple of the breast is put into his mouth:
by the natural analogy, that is found between the conglomerate glands,
filled with nerves; which line his mouth, and the milk which flows from
the bosom of the nurse, through the medium of the nipple, causes
the child to press it with his mouth, in order to express the fluid
appropriate to nourish his tender age; from all this the infant gathers
experience; by degrees the idea of a nipple, of milk, of pleasure,
associate themselves in his brain: every time he sees the nipple, he
seizes it, promptly conveys it to his mouth, and applies it to the use
for which it is designed.

What has been said, will enable us to judge of those prompt and sudden
sentiments, which have been designated _the force of blood_.
Those sentiments of love, which fathers and mothers have for their
children--those feelings of affection, which children, with good
inclinations, bear towards their parents, are by no means _innate
sentiments_; they are nothing more, than the effect of experience, of
reflection, of habit, in souls of sensibility. These sentiments do not
even exist in a great number of human beings. We but too often witness
tyrannical parents, occupied with making enemies of their children, who
appear to have been formed, only to be the victims of their irrational
caprices or their unreasonable desires.

From the instant in which man commences, until that in which he ceases
to exist, he feels--he is moved either agreeably or unpleasantly--he
collects facts--he gathers experience; these produce ideas in his brain,
that are either cheerful or gloomy. Not one individual has all this
experience present to his memory at the same time, it does not ever
represent to him the whole clew at once: it is, however, this experience
that mechanically directs him, without his knowledge, in all his
actions; it was to designate the rapidity with, which he applied this
experience, of which he so frequently loses the connection--of which he
is so often at a loss to render himself an account, that he imagined the
word _instinct_: it appears to be the effect of magic, the operation of
a supernatural power, to the greater number of individuals: it is a word
devoid of sense to many others; but to the philosopher it is the effect
of a very lively feeling to him it consists in the faculty of combining,
promptly, a multitude of experience--of arranging with facility--of
comparing with quickness, a long and numerous train of extremely
complicated ideas. It is want that causes the inexplicable instinct we
behold in animals which have been denied souls without reason,
whilst they are susceptible of an infinity of actions that prove they
think--judge--have memory--are capable of experience--can combine
ideas--can apply them with more or less facility to satisfy the wants
engendered by their particular organization; in short, that prove they
have passions that are capable of being modified. Nothing but the
height of folly can refuse intellectual faculties to animals; they feel,
choose, deliberate, express love, show hatred; in many instances their
senses are much keener than those of man. Fish will return periodically
to the spot where it is the custom to throw them bread.

It is well known the embarrassments which animals have thrown in the
way of the partizans of the doctrine of spirituality; they have been
fearful, if they allowed them to have a spiritual soul, of elevating
them to the condition of human creatures; on the other hand, in not
allowing them to have a soul, they have furnished their adversaries
with authority to deny it in like manner to man, who thus finds himself
debased to the condition of the animal. Metaphysicians have never known
how to extricate themselves from this difficulty. DESCARTES fancied he
solved it by saying that beasts have no souls, but are mere machines.
Nothing can be nearer the surface, than the absurdity of this principle.
Whoever contemplates Nature without prejudice, will readily acknowledge
that there is no other difference between the man and the beast, than
that which is to be attributed to the diversity of his organization.

In some beings of the human species, who appear to be endowed with a
greater sensibility of organs than others, may be seen an instinct,
by the assistance of which they very promptly judge of the concealed
dispositions of their fellows, simply by inspecting the lineaments of
their face. Those who are denominated _physiognomists_, are only men of
very acute feelings; who have gathered an experience of which others,
whether from the coarseness of their organs, from the little attention
they have paid, or from some defect in their senses, are totally
incapable: these last do not believe in the science of physiognomy,
which appears to them perfectly ideal. Nevertheless, it is certain,
that the action of this soul, which has been made spiritual, makes
impressions that are extremely marked upon the exterior of the body;
these impressions, continually reiterated, their image remains: thus the
habitual passions of man paint themselves on his countenance; by which
the attentive observer, who is endowed with acute feeling, is enabled to
judge with great rapidity of his mode of existence, and even to foresee
his actions, his inclinations, his desires, his predominant passions,
&c. Although the science of physiognomy appears chimerical to a great
number of persons, yet there are few who have not a clear idea of
a tender regard--of a cruel eye--of an austere aspect--of a false,
dissimulating look--of an open countenance, &c. Keen practised optics
acquire without doubt the faculty of penetrating the concealed motion
of the soul, by the visible traces it leaves upon features that it has
continually modified. Above all, the eyes of man very quickly undergo
changes according to the motion which is excited in him: these delicate
organs are visibly altered by the smallest shock communicated to his
brain. Serene eyes announce a tranquil soul; wild eyes indicate a
restless mind; fiery eyes pourtray a choleric, sanguine temperament;
fickle or inconstant eyes give room to suspect a soul either alarmed or
dissimulating. It is the study of this variety of shades that renders
man practised and acute: upon the spot he combines a multitude of
acquired experience, in order to form his judgment of the person he
beholds. His judgment, thus rapidly formed, partakes in nothing of
the supernatural, in nothing of the wonderful: such a man is only
distinguished by the fineness of his organs, and by the celerity with
which his brain performs its functions.

It is the same with some beings of the human species, in whom may be
discovered an extraordinary sagacity, which, to the uninformed, appears
miraculous. The most skilful practitioners in medicine, are, no
doubt, men endowed with very acute feelings, similar to that of the
physiognomists, by the assistance of which they judge with great
facility of diseases, and very promptly draw their prognostics. Indeed,
we see men who are capable of appreciating in the twinkling of an eye a
multitude of circumstances, who have sometimes the faculty of foreseeing
the most distant events; yet, this species of prophetic talent has
nothing in it of the supernatural; it indicates nothing more than great
experience, with an extremely delicate organization, from which they
derive the faculty of judging with extreme faculty of causes, of
foreseeing their very remote effects. This faculty, however, is also
found in animals, who foresee much better than man, the variations of
the atmosphere with the various changes of the weather. Birds have long
been the prophets, and even the guides of several nations who pretend to
be extremely enlightened.

It is, then, to their organization, exercised after a particular manner,
that must be attributed those wonderous faculties which distinguish
some beings, that astonish others. To have _instinct_, only signifies
to judge quickly, without requiring to make a long, reasoning on the
subject. Man's ideas upon vice and upon virtue, are by no means innate;
they are, like all others, acquired: the judgment he forms, is
founded upon experience, whether true or false,--this depends upon his
conformation, and upon the habits that have modified him. The infant
has no ideas either of the Divinity or of virtue; it is from those who
instruct him that he receives these ideas; he makes more or less use of
them, according to his natural organization, or as his dispositions have
been more or less exercised. Nature gives man legs, the nurse teaches
him their use, his agility depends upon their natural conformation, and
the manner in which he exercises them.

What is called _taste_, in the fine arts, is to be attributed, in the
same manner, only to the acuteness of man's organs, practised by the
habit of seeing, of comparing, of judging certain objects; from whence
results, to some of his species, the faculty of judging with great
rapidity, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole with its various
relations. It is by the force of seeing, of feeling, of experiencing
objects, that he attains to a knowledge of them; it is in consequence of
reiterating this experience, that he acquires the power, that he gains
the habit of judging with celerity. But this experience is by no means
innate, he did not possess it before he was born; he is neither able to
think, to judge, nor to have ideas, before he has feeling; he is neither
in a capacity to love, nor to hate; to approve, nor to blame, before he
has been moved, either agreeably or disagreeably. Nevertheless, this is
precisely what must be supposed by those who are desirous to make
man admit of innate ideas, of opinions; infused by Nature, whether in
morals, metaphysics, or any other science. That his mind should have the
faculty of thought, that it should occupy itself with an object, it is
requisite it should be acquainted with its qualities; that it may have a
knowledge of these qualities, it is necessary some of his senses should
have been struck by them: those objects, therefore, of which he does not
know any of the qualities, are nullities; or at least they do not exist
for him.

It will be asserted, perhaps, that the universal consent of man, upon
certain propositions, such as _the whole is greater than its part_, upon
all geometrical demonstrations, appear to warrant the supposition
of certain primary notions that are innate, not acquired. It may be
replied, that these notions are always acquired; that they are the
fruit of an experience more or less prompt; that it is requisite to have
compared the whole with its part, before conviction can ensue, that the
whole is the greater of the two. Man when he is born, does not bring
with him the idea that two and two make four; but he is, nevertheless,
speedily convinced of its truth. Before forming any judgment whatever,
it is absolutely necessary to have compared facts.

It is evident, that those who have gratuitously supposed innate ideas,
or notions inherent in man, have confounded his organization, or his
natural dispositions, with the habit by which he is modified; with the
greater or less aptitude he has of making experience, and of applying
it in his judgment. A man who has taste in painting, has, without doubt,
brought with him into the world eyes more acute, more penetrating than
another; but these eyes would by no means enable him to judge with
promptitude, if he had never had occasion to exercise them; much less,
in some respects, can those dispositions which are called _natural_, be
regarded as innate. Man is not, at twenty years of age, the same as
he was when he came into the world; the physical causes that are
continually acting upon him, necessarily have an influence upon his
organization, and so modify it, that his natural dispositions themselves
are not at one period what they are at another. La Motte Le Vayer says,
"We think quite otherwise of things at one time than at another; when
young than when old--when hungry than when our appetite is satisfied--in
the night than in the day--when peevish than when cheerful. Thus,
varying every hour, by a thousand other circumstances, which keep us in
a state of perpetual inconstancy and instability." Every day may be seen
children, who, to a certain age--display a great deal of ingenuity, a
strong aptitude for the sciences, who finish by falling into stupidity.
Others may be observed, who, during their infancy, have shown
dispositions but little favourable to improvement, yet develope
themselves in the end, and astonish us by an exhibition of those
qualities of which we hardly thought them susceptible: there arrives
a moment in which the mind takes a spring, makes use of a multitude of
experience which it has amassed, without its having been perceived; and,
if I may be allowed the expression, without their own knowledge.

Thus, it cannot be too often repeated, all the ideas, all the notions,
all the modes of existence, and all the thoughts of man, are acquired.
His mind cannot act, cannot exercise itself, but upon that of which it
has knowledge; it can understand either well or ill, only those things
which it has previously felt. Such of his ideas that do not suppose some
exterior material object for their model, or one to which he is able to
relate them, which are therefore called _abstract ideas_, are only modes
in which his interior organ considers its own peculiar modifications, of
which it chooses some without respect to others. The words which he uses
to designate these ideas, such as _bounty, beauty, order, intelligence,
virtue_, &c. do not offer any one sense, if he does not relate them to,
or if he does not explain them by, those objects which his senses have
shewn him to be susceptible of those qualities, or of those modes of
existence, of that manner of acting, which is known to him. What is it
that points out to him the vague idea of _beauty_, if he does not attach
it to some object that has struck his senses in a peculiar manner,
to which, in consequence, he attributes this quality? What is it that
represents the word _intelligence_, if he does not connect it with a
certain mode of being and of acting? Does the word _order_ signify any
thing, if he does not relate it to a series of actions, to a chain of
motion, by which he is affected in a certain manner? Is not the word
_virtue_ void of sense, if he does not apply it to those dispositions
of his fellows which produce known effects, different from those
which result from contrary inclinations? What do the words _pain_ and
_pleasure_ offer to his mind in the moment when his organs neither
suffer nor enjoy, if it be not the modes in which he has been affected,
of which his brain conserves the remembrance, of those impressions,
which experience has shewn him to be either useful or prejudicial? But
when he bears the words spirituality, immateriality, incorporeality, &c.
pronounced, neither his senses nor his memory afford him any assistance;
they do not furnish him with any means by which he can form an idea of
their qualities, or of the objects to which he ought to apply them; in
that which is not matter he can only see vacuum and emptiness, which as
long as he remains what he is, cannot, to his mind, be susceptible of
any one quality.

All the errors, all the disputes of men, have their foundation in this,
that they have renounced experience, have surrendered the evidence of
their senses, to give themselves up to the guidance of notions which
they have believed infused or innate; although in reality they are no
more than the effect of a distempered imagination, of prejudices, in
which they have been instructed from their infancy, with which habit
has familiarized them, which authority has obliged them to conserve.
Languages are filled with abstract words, to which are attached confused
and vague ideas; of which, when they come to be examined, no model can
be found in Nature; no object to which they can be related. When man
gives himself the trouble to analyze things, he is quite surprised to
find, that those words which are continually in the mouths of men,
never present any fixed or determinate idea: he hears them unceasingly
speaking of spirits--of the soul and its faculties--of duration--of
space--of immensity--of infinity--of perfection--of virtue--of
reason--of sentiment--of instinct--of taste, &c. without his being
able to tell precisely, what they themselves understand by these words.
Nevertheless, they do not appear to have been invented, but for the
purpose of representing the images of things; or to paint, by the
assistance of the senses, those known objects on which the mind is able
to meditate, which it is competent to appreciate, to compare, and to
judge.

For man to think of that which has not acted on any of his senses, is to
think on words; it is for his senses to dream; it is to seek in his own
imagination for objects to which he can attach his wandering ideas: to
assign qualities to these objects is, unquestionably, to redouble his
extravagance, to set no limits to his folly. If a word be destined to
represent to him an object that has not the capacity to act on any one
of his organs; of which, it is impossible for him to prove either the
existence or the qualities; his imagination, by dint of racking itself,
will nevertheless, in some measure, supply him with the ideas he wants;
he composes some kind of a picture, with the images or colours he is
always obliged to borrow, from the objects of which he has a knowledge:
thus the Divinity has been represented by some under the character of
a venerable old man; by others, under that of a puissant monarch; by
others, as an exasperated, irritated being, &c. It is evident, however,
that man, with some of his qualities, has served for the model of these
pictures: but if he be informed of objects that are represented as pure
spirits--that have neither body nor extent--that are not contained in
space--that are beyond nature,--here then he is plunged into emptiness;
his mind no longer has any ideas--it no longer knows upon what it
meditates. This, as will be seen in the sequel, no doubt, is the source
of those unformed notions which some men have formed of the Divinity;
they themselves frequently annihilate him, by assembling incompatible
and contradictory attributes. In giving him morals--in composing him of
known qualities,--they make him a man;--in assigning him the negative
attributes of every thing they know, they render him inaccessible to
their senses--they destroy all antecedent ideas--they make him a mere
nothing. From this it will appear, that those sublime sciences which are
called _Theology, Psychology, Metaphysics_, have been mere sciences of
words: morals and politics, with which they very frequently mix, have,
in consequence, become inexplicable enigmas, which there is nothing
short of the study of Nature can enable us to expound.

Man has occasion for truth; it consists in a knowledge of the true
relations he has with those beings competent to have an influence on
his welfare; these relations are to be known only by experience: without
experience there can be no reason; without reason man is only a blind
creature, who conducts himself by chance. But, how is he to acquire
experience upon ideal objects, which his senses neither enable him to
know nor to examine? How is he to assure himself of the existence, how
ascertain the qualities of beings he is not able to feel? How can he
judge whether there objects be favorable or prejudicial to him? How is
he to know, without the evidence of his senses, what he ought to love,
what he should hate, what to seek after, what to shun, what to do, what
to leave undone? It is, however, upon this knowledge that his condition
in this world rests; it is upon this knowledge that morals is founded.
From whence it may be seen, that, by causing him to blend vague
metaphysical notions with morals, or the science of the certain and
invariable relations which subsist between mankind; or by weakly
establishing them upon chimerical ideas, which have no existence but in
his imagination; these morals, upon which the welfare of society so much
depends, are rendered uncertain, are made arbitrary, are abandoned to
the caprices of fancy, are not fixed upon any solid basis.

Beings essentially different by their natural organization, by the
modifications they experience, by the habits they contract, by the
opinions they acquire, must of necessity think differently. His
temperament, as we have seen, decides the mental qualities of man:
this temperament itself is diversely modified in him: from whence it
consecutively follows, his imagination cannot possibly be the same;
neither can it create to him the same images. Each individual is a
connected whole, of which all the parts have a necessary correspondence.
Different eyes must see differently, must give extremely varied ideas
of the objects they contemplate, even when these objects are real. What,
then, must be the diversity of these ideas, if the objects meditated
upon do not act upon the senses? Mankind have pretty nearly the same
ideas, in the gross, of those substances that act upon his organs with
vivacity; he is sufficiently in unison upon some qualities which he
contemplates very nearly in the same manner; I say, very nearly, because
the intelligence, the notion, the conviction of any one proposition,
however simple, however evident, however clear it may be supposed, is
not, nor cannot be, strictly the same, in any two men. Indeed, one man
not being another man, the first cannot, for example, have rigorously
and mathematically the same notion of unity as the second; seeing that
an identical effect cannot be the result of two different causes. Thus,
when men are in accord in their ideas, in their modes of thinking, in
their judgment, in their passions, in their desires, in, their tastes,
their consent does not arise from their seeing or feeling the same
objects precisely in the same manner, but pretty nearly; language is
not, nor cannot be, sufficiently copious to designate the vast variety
of shades, the multiplicity of imperceptible differences, which is to be
found in their modes of seeing and thinking. Each man, then, has, to say
thus, a language which is peculiar to himself alone, and this language
is incommunicable to others. What harmony, what unison, then, can
possibly exist between them, when they discourse with each other, upon
objects only known to their imagination? Can this imagination in
one individual ever be the same as in another? How can they possibly
understand each other, when they assign to those objects qualities that
can only be attributed to the particular manner in which their brain is
affected.

For one man to exact from another that he shall think like himself, is
to insist that he shall be organized precisely in the same manner--that
he shall have been modified exactly the same in every moment of his
existence: that he shall have received the same temperament, the same
nourishment, the same education: in a word, that he shall require that
other to be himself. Wherefore is it not exacted that all men shall have
the same features? Is man more the master of his opinions? Are not his
opinions the necessary consequence of his Nature, and of those peculiar
circumstances which, from his infancy, have necessarily had an influence
upon his mode of thinking, and his manner of acting? If man be a
connected whole, whenever a single feature differs from his own, ought
he not to conclude that it is not possible his brain can either think,
associate ideas, imagine, or dream precisely in the same manner with
that other.

The diversity in the temperament of man, is the natural, the necessary
source of the diversity of his passions, of his taste, of his ideas of
happiness, of his opinions of every kind. Thus, this same diversity will
be the fatal source of his disputes, of his hatreds, of his injustice,
every time he shall reason upon unknown objects, but to which he shall
attach the greatest importance. He will never understand either himself
or others, in speaking of a spiritual soul, or of immaterial substances
distinguished from Nature; he will, from that moment, cease to speak
the same language, and he will never attach the same ideas to the same
words. What, then, shall be, the common standard that shall decide which
is the man that thinks with the greatest justice? What the scale by
which to measure who has the best regulated imagination? What balance
shall be found sufficiently exact to determine whose knowledge is most
certain, when he agitates subjects, which experience cannot enable him
to examine, that escape all his senses, that have no model, that are
above reason? Each individual, each legislator, each speculator, each
nation, has ever formed to himself different ideas of these things; each
believes, that his own peculiar reveries ought to be preferred to those
of his neighbours; which always appear to him an absurd, ridiculous, and
false as his own can possibly have appeared to his fellow; each clings
to his own opinion, because each retains his own peculiar mode of
existence; each believes his happiness depends upon his attachment
to his prejudices, which he never adopts but because he believes them
beneficial to his welfare. Propose to a man to change his religion
for yours, he will believe you a madman; you will only excite his
indignation, elicit his contempt; he will propose to you, in his turn,
to adopt his own peculiar opinions; after much reasoning, you will treat
each other as absurd beings, ridiculously opiniated, pertinaciously
stubborn: and he will display the least folly, who shall first yield.
But if the adversaries become heated in the dispute, which always
happens, when they suppose the matter important, or when they would
defend the cause of their own self-love; from thence their passions
sharpen, they grow angry, quarrels are provoked, they hate each other,
and end by reciprocal injury. It is thus, that for opinions, which no
man can demonstrate, we see the Brahmin despised; the Mahommedan hated;
the Pagan held in contempt; that they oppress and disdain each with the
most rancorous animosity: the Christian burns the Jew at what is called
an _auto-de-fe_, because he clings to the faith of his fathers: the
Roman Catholic condemns the Protestant to the flames, and makes a
conscience of massacring him in cold blood: this re-acts in his turn;
sometimes the various sects of Christians league together against the
incredulous Turk, and for a moment suspend their own bloody disputes
that they may chastise the enemies to the true faith: then, having
glutted their revenge, return with redoubled fury, to wreak over again
their infuriated vengeance on each other.

If the imaginations of men were the same, the chimeras which they bring
forth would be every where the same; there would be no disputes among
them on this subject, if they all dreamt in the same manner; great
numbers of human beings would be spared, if man occupied his mind with
objects capable of being known, of which the existence was proved,
of which he was competent to discover the true qualities, by sure,
by reiterated experience. _Systems of Philosophy_ are not subject
to dispute but when their principles are not sufficiently proved;
by degrees experience, in pointing out the truth and detecting
their errors, terminates these quarrels. There is no variance among
_geometricians_ upon the principles of their science; it is only
raised, when their suppositions are false, or their objects too much
complicated. _Theologians_ find so much difficulty in agreeing among
themselves, simply, because, in their contests, they divide without
ceasing, not known and examined propositions, but prejudices with which
they have been imbued in their youth--in the schools--by each other's
books, &c. They are perpetually reasoning, not upon real objects, of
which the existence is demonstrated, but upon imaginary systems of which
they have never examined the reality; they found these disputes,
not upon averred experience, or constant facts, but upon gratuitious
suppositions, which each endeavours to convince the other are without
solidity. Finding these ideas of long standing, that few people, refuse
to admit them, they take them for incontestible truths, that ought to
be received merely upon being announced; whenever they attach great
importance to them, they irritate themselves against the temerity of
those who have the audacity to doubt, or even to examine them.

If prejudice had been laid aside, it would perhaps have been discovered
that many of those objects, which have given birth to the most shocking,
the most sanguinary disputes among men, were mere phantoms; which a
little examination would have shown to be unworthy their notice: _the
priests of Apollo_ would have been harmless, if man had examined for
himself, without prejudice, the tenets they held forth: he would have
found, that he was fighting, that he was cutting his neighbour's throat,
for words void of sense; or, at the least, he would have learned to
doubt his right to act in the manner he did; he would have renounced
that dogmatical, that imperious tone he assumed, by which he would
oblige his fellow to unite with him in opinion. The most trifling
reflection would have shewn him the necessity of this diversity in his
notions, of this contrariety in his imagination, which depends upon
his Natural conformation diversely modified: which necessarily has an
influence over his thoughts, over his will, and over his actions. In
short, if he had consulted morals, if he had fallen back upon reason,
every thing would have conspired to prove to him, that beings who call
themselves rational, were made to think variously; on that account were
designed to live peaceable with each other, to love each other, to lend
each other mutual succours whatever may be their opinions upon subjects,
either impossible to be known, or to be contemplated under the same
point of view: every thing would have joined in evidence to convince
him of the unreasonable tyranny, of the unjust violence, of the useless
cruelty of those men of blood, who persecute, who destroy mankind, in
order that they may mould him to their own peculiar opinions; every
thing would have conducted mortals to _mildness_, to _indulgence_, to
_toleration_; virtues, unquestionably of more real importance, much more
necessary to the welfare of society, than the marvellous speculations by
which it is divided, by which it is frequently hurried on to sacrifice
to a maniacal fury, the pretended enemies to these revered flights of
the imagination.

From this it must be evident, of what importance it is to _morals_ to
examine the ideas, to which it has been agreed to attach so much worth;
to which man is continually sacrificing his own peculiar happiness; to
which he is immolating the tranquillity of nations, at the irrational
command of fanatical cruel guides. Let him fall back on his experience;
let him return to Nature; let him occupy himself with reason; let him
consult those objects that are real, which are useful to his permanent
felicity; let him study Nature's laws; let him study himself; let him
consult the bonds which unite him to his fellow mortals; let him examine
the fictitious bonds that enchain him to the most baneful prejudices.
If his imagination must always feed itself with illusions, if he remains
steadfast in his own opinions, if his prejudices are dear to him, let
him at least permit others to ramble in their own manner, or seek after
truth as best suits their inclination; but let him always recollect,
that all the opinions--all the ideas--all the systems--all the
wills--all the actions of man, are the necessary consequence of his
nature, of his temperament, of his organization, and of those causes,
either transitory or constant, which modify hint: in short, that _man is
not more a free agent to think than to act:_ a truth that will be again
proved in the following chapter.





CHAP. XI

_Of the System of Man's free agency._


Those who have pretended that the _soul_ is distinguished from the body,
is immaterial, draws its ideas from its own peculiar source, acts by its
own energies without the aid of any exterior object; by a consequence
of their own system, have enfranchised it from those physical laws,
according to which all beings of which we have a knowledge are obliged
to act. They have believed that the foul is mistress of its own conduct,
is able to regulate its own peculiar operations; has the faculty to
determine its will by its own natural energy; in a word, they have
pretended man is a _free agent_.

It has been already sufficiently proved, that the soul is nothing more
than the body, considered relatively to some of its functions, more
concealed than others: it has been shewn, that this soul, even when it
shall be supposed immaterial, is continually modified conjointly with
the body; is submitted to all its motion; that without this it would
remain inert and dead: that, consequently, it is subjected to the
influence of those material, to the operation those physical causes,
which give impulse to the body; of which the mode of existence, whether
habitual or transitory, depends upon the material elements by which it
is surrounded; that form its texture; that constitute its temperament;
that enter into it by the means of the aliments; that penetrate it by
their subtility; the faculties which are called intellectual, and those
qualities which are styled moral, have been explained in a manner purely
physical; entirely natural: in the last place, it has been demonstrated,
that all the ideas, all the systems, all the affections, all the
opinions, whether true or false, which man forms to himself, are to be
attributed to his physical powers; are to be ascribed to his material
senses. Thus man is a being purely physical; in whatever manner he
is considered, he is connected to universal Nature: submitted to the
necessary, to the immutable laws that she imposes on all the beings
she contains, according to their peculiar essences; conformable to the
respective properties with which, without consulting them, she endows
each particular species. Man's life is a line that Nature commands him
to describe upon the surface of the earth: without his ever being
able to swerve from it even for an instant. He is born without his own
consent; his organizations does in no wise depend upon himself; his
ideas come to him involuntarily; his habits are in the power of those
who cause him to contract them; he is unceasingly modified by causes,
whether visible or concealed, over which he has no controul; give the
hue to his way of thinking, and determine his manner of acting. He
is good or bad--happy or miserable--wise or foolish--reasonable or
irrational, without his will going for anything in these various states.
Nevertheless, in despite of the shackles by which he is bound, it is
pretended he is a free agent, or that independent of the causes by which
he is moved, he determines his own will; regulates his own condition.

However slender the foundation of this opinion, of which every thing
ought to point out to him the error; it is current at this day for
an incontestible truth, and believed enlightened; it is the basis or
religion, which has been incapable of imagining how man could either
merit reward or deserve punishment if he was not a free agent. Society
has been believed interested in this system, because an idea has gone
abroad, that if all the actions of man were to be contemplated as
necessary, the right of punishing those who injure their associates
would no longer exist. At length human vanity accommodated itself to an
hypothesis which, unquestionable, appears to distinguish man from all
other physical beings, by assigning to him the special privilege of
a total independence of all other causes; but of which a very little
reflection would have shewn him the absurdity or even the impossibility.

As a part, subordinate to the great whole, man is obliged to experience
its influence. To be a free agent it were needful that each individual
was of greater strength than the entire of Nature; or, that he was out
of this Nature: who, always in action herself, obliges all the beings
she embraces, to act, and to concur to her general motion; or, as it
has been said elsewhere, to conserve her active existence, by the motion
that all beings produce in consequence of their particular energies,
which result from their being submitted to fixed, eternal, and immutable
laws. In order that man might be a free agent, it were needful that
all beings should lose their essences; it is equally necessary that
he himself should no longer enjoy physical sensibility; that he should
neither know good nor evil; pleasure nor pain; but if this was the case,
from that moment he would no longer be in a state to conserve himself,
or render his existence happy; all beings would become indifferent to
him; he would no longer have any choice; he would cease to know what he
ought to love; what it was right he should fear; he would not have any
acquaintance with that which he should seek after; or with that which it
is requisite he should avoid. In short, man would be an unnatural being;
totally incapable of acting in the manner we behold. It is the actual
essence of man to tend to his well-being; to be desirous to conserve
his existence; if all the motion of his machine springs as a necessary
consequence from this primitive impulse; if pain warns him of that which
he ought to avoid; if pleasure announces to him that which he should
desire; if it is in his essence to love that which either excites
delight, or, that from which he expects agreeable sensations; to hate
that which makes him either fear contrary impressions; or, that which
afflicts him with uneasiness; it must necessarily be, that he will be
attracted by that which he deems advantageous; that his will shall be
determined by those objects which he judges useful; that he will be
repelled by those beings which he believes prejudicial, either to his
habitual, or to his transitory mode of existence; by that which he
considers disadvantageous. It is only by the aid of experience, that man
acquires the faculty of understanding what he ought to love; of knowing
what he ought to fear. Are his organs sound? his experience will be
true: are they unsound? it will be false: in the first instance he will
have reason, prudence, foresight; he will frequently foresee very remote
effects; he will know, that what he sometimes contemplates as a good,
may possibly become an evil, by its necessary or probable consequences:
that what must be to him a transient evil, may by its result procure him
a solid and durable good. It is thus experience enables him to foresee
that the amputation of a limb will cause him painful sensation, he
consequently is obliged to fear this operation, and he endeavours
to avoid the pain; but if experience has also shewn him, that the
transitory pain this amputation will cause him may be the means of
saving his life; the preservation, of his existence being of necessity
dear to him, he is obliged to submit himself to the momentary pain with
a view to procuring a permanent good, by which it will be overbalanced.

The will, as we have elsewhere said, is a modification of the brain, by
which it is disposed to action or prepared to give play to the organs.
This will is necessarily determined by the qualities, good or bad,
agreeable or painful, of the object or the motive that acts upon his
senses; or of which the idea remains with him, and is resuscitated
by his memory. In consequence, he acts necessarily; his action is the
result of the impulse he receives either from the motive, from the
object, or from the idea, which has modified his brain, or disposed
his will. When he does not act according to this impulse, it is because
there comes some new cause, some new motive, some new idea, which
modifies his brain in a different manner, gives him a new impulse,
determines his will in another way; by which the action of the former
impulse is suspended: thus, the sight of an agreeable object, or its
idea, determines his will to set him in action to procure it; but if a
new object or a new idea more powerfully attracts him, it gives a
new direction to his will, annihilates the effect of the former, and
prevents the action by which it was to be procured. This is the mode in
which reflection, experience, reason, necessarily arrests or suspends
the action of man's will; without this, he would, of necessity, have
followed the anterior impulse which carried him towards a then desirable
object. In all this he always acts according to necessary laws, from
which he has no means of emancipating himself.

If, when tormented with violent thirst, he figures to himself an idea,
or really perceives a fountain, whose limpid streams might cool his
feverish habit, is he sufficient master of himself to desire or not
to desire the object competent to satisfy so lively a want? It will no
doubt be conceded, that it is impossible he should not be desirous to
satisfy it; but it will be said,--If at this moment it is announced
to him, the water he so ardently desires is poisoned, he will,
notwithstanding his vehement thirst, abstain from drinking it; and it
has, therefore, been falsely concluded that he is a free agent. The
fact, however, is, that the motive in either case is exactly the same:
his own conservation. The same necessity that determined him to drink,
before he knew the water was deleterious, upon this new discovery,
equally determines him not to drink; the desire of conserving himself,
either annihilates or suspends the former impulse; the second motive
becomes stronger than the preceding; that is, the fear of death, or
the desire of preserving himself, necessarily prevails over the painful
sensation caused by his eagerness to drink. But, (it will be said) if
the thirst is very parching, an inconsiderate man, without regarding
the danger, will risque swallowing the water. Nothing is gained by this
remark: in this case, the anterior impulse only regains the ascendency;
he is persuaded, that life may possibly be longer preserved, or that
he shall derive a greater good by drinking the poisoned water, than by
enduring the torment, which, to his mind, threatens instant dissolution:
thus, the first becomes the strongest, and necessarily urges him on to
action. Nevertheless, in either case, whether he partakes of the water,
or whether he does not, the two actions will be equally necessary; they
will be the effect of that motive which finds itself most puissant;
which consequently acts in a most coercive manner upon his will.

This example will serve to explain the whole phaenomena of the human
will. This will, or rather the brain, finds itself in the same situation
as a bowl, which although it has received an impulse that drives it
forward in a straight line, is deranged in its course, whenever a force,
superior to the first, obliges it to change its direction. The man who
drinks the poisoned water, appears a madman; but the actions of fools
are as necessary as those of the most prudent individuals. The motives
that determine the voluptuary, that actuate the debauchee to risk their
health, are as powerful, their actions are as necessary, as those
which decide the wise man to manage his. But, it will be insisted, the
debauchee may be prevailed on to change his conduct; this does not imply
that he is a free agent; but, that motives may be found sufficiently
powerful to annihilate the effect of those that previously acted upon
him; then these new motives determine his will to the new mode of
conduct he may adopt, as necessarily as the former did to the old mode.

Man is said to _deliberate_ when the action of the will is suspended;
this happens when two opposite motives act alternately upon him.
To deliberate, is to hate and to love in succession; it is to be
alternately attracted and repelled; it is to be moved sometimes by one
motive, sometimes by another. Man only deliberates when he does not
distinctly understand the quality of the objects from which he receives
impulse, or when experience has not sufficiently apprised him of the
effects, more or less remote, which his actions will produce. He
would take the air, but the weather is uncertain; he deliberates in
consequence; he weighs the various motives that urge his will to go out
or to stay at home; he is at length determined by that motive which is
most probable; this removes his indecision, which necessarily settles
his will either to remain within or to go abroad: this motive is always
either the immediate or ultimate advantage he finds or thinks he finds
in the action to which he is persuaded.

Man's will frequently fluctuates between two objects, of which either
the presence or the ideas move him alternately: he waits until he has
contemplated the objects or the ideas they have left in his brain; which
solicit him to different actions; he then compares these objects or
ideas: but even in the time of deliberation, during the comparison,
pending these alternatives of love and hatred, which succeed each other
sometimes with the utmost rapidity, he is not a free agent for a single
instant; the good or the evil which he believes he finds successively in
the objects, are the necessary motives of these momentary wills; of
the rapid motion of desire or fear that he experiences as long as his
uncertainty continues. From this it will be obvious, that deliberation
is necessary; that uncertainty is necessary; that whatever part he
takes, in consequence of this deliberation, it will always necessarily
be that which he has judged, whether well or ill, is most probable to
turn to his advantage.

When the soul is assailed by two motives that act alternately upon it,
or modify it successively, it deliberates; the brain is in a sort of
equilibrium, accompanied with perpetual oscillations, sometimes towards
one object, sometimes towards the other, until the most forcible carries
the point, and thereby extricates it, from this state of suspense,
in which consists the indecision of his will. But when the brain is
simultaneously assailed by causes equally strong, that move it in
opposite directions; agreeable to the general law of all bodies, when
they are struck equally by contrary powers, it stops, it is in _nisu_;
it is neither capable to will nor to act; it waits until one of the
two causes has obtained sufficient force to overpower the other, to
determine its will, to attract it in such a manner that it may prevail
over the efforts of the other cause.

This mechanism, so simple, so natural, suffices to demonstrate, why
uncertainty is painful; why suspense is always a violent state for
man. The brain, an organ so delicate, so mobile, experiences such rapid
modifications, that it is fatigued; or when it is urged in contrary
directions, by causes equally powerful, it suffers a kind of
compression, that prevents the activity which is suitable to the
preservation of the whole, which is necessary to procure what is
advantageous to its existence. This mechanism will also explain the
irregularity, the indecision, the inconstancy of man; and account for
that conduct, which frequently appears an inexplicable mystery, which
indeed it is, under the received systems. In consulting experience, it
will be found that the soul is submitted to precisely the same physical
laws as the material body. If the will of each individual, during a
given time, was only moved by a single cause or passion, nothing would
be more easy than to foresee his actions; but his heart is frequently
assailed by contrary powers, by adverse motives, which either act on him
simultaneously or in succession; then his brain, attracted in opposite
directions, is either fatigued, or else tormented by a state of
compression, which deprives it of activity. Sometimes it is in a state
of incommodious inaction; sometimes it is the sport of the alternate
shocks it undergoes. Such, no doubt, is the state in which man finds
himself, when a lively passion solicits him to the commission of crime,
whilst fear points out to him the danger by which it is attended: such,
also, is the condition of him whom remorse, by the continued labour
of his distracted soul, prevents from enjoying the objects he has
criminally obtained.

If the powers or causes, whether exterior or interior, acting on the
mind of man, tend towards opposite points, his soul, is well as all
other bodies, will take a mean direction between the two; in consequence
of the violence with which his soul is urged, his condition becomes
sometimes so painful that his existence is troublesome: he has no longer
a tendency to his own peculiar conservation; he seeks after death, as a
sanctuary against himself--as the only remedy to his despair: it is
thus we behold men, miserable and discontented, voluntarily destroy
themselves, whenever life becomes insupportable. Man is competent to
cherish his existence, no longer than life holds out charms to him;
when he is wrought upon by painful sensations, or drawn by contrary
impulsions, his natural tendency is deranged, he is under the necessity
to follow a new route; this conducts him to his end, which it even
displays to him as the most desirable good. In this manner may be
explained, the conduct of those melancholy beings, whose vicious
temperaments, whose tortured consciences, whose chagrin, whose _ennui_,
sometimes determine them to renounce life.

The various powers, frequently very complicated, that act either
successively or simultaneously upon the brain of man, which modify him
so diversely in the different periods of his existence, are the true
causes of that obscurity in morals, of that difficulty which is found,
when it is desired to unravel the concealed springs of his enigmatical
conduct. The heart of man is a labyrinth, only because it very rarely
happens that we possess the necessary gift of judging it; from whence
it will appear, that his circumstances, his indecision, his conduct,
whether ridiculous, or unexpected, are the necessary consequences of
the changes operated in him; are nothing but the effect of motives that
successively determine his will; which are dependent on the frequent
variations experienced by his machine. According to these variations,
the same motives have not, always, the same influence over his will,
the same objects no longer enjoy the faculty of pleasing him; his
temperament has changed, either for the moment, or for ever. It follows
as a consequence, that his taste, his desires, his passions, will
change; there can be no kind of uniformity in his conduct, nor any
certitude in the effects to be expected.

Choice by no means proves the free-agency of man; he only deliberates
when he does not yet know which to choose of the many objects that move
him, he is then in an embarrassment, which does not terminate, until his
will as decided by the greater advantage he believes be shall find in
the object he chooses, or the action he undertakes. From whence it may
be seen that choice is necessary, because he would not determine for an
object, or for an action, if he did not believe that he should find
in it some direct advantage. That man should have free-agency, it were
needful that he should be able to will or choose without motive; or,
that he could prevent motives coercing his will. Action always being the
effect of his will once determined, as his will cannot be determined but
by a motive, which is not in his own power, it follows that he is
never the master of the determination of his own peculiar will; that
consequently he never acts as a free agent. It has been believed that
man was a free agent, because he had a will with the power of choosing;
but attention has not been paid to the fact, that even his will is moved
by causes independent of himself, is owing to that which is inherent
in his own organization, or which belongs to the nature of the beings
acting on him. Indeed, man passes a great portion of his life without
even willing. His will attends the motive by which it is determined. If
he was to render an exact account of every thing he does in the course
of each day, from rising in the morning to lying down at night, he would
find, that not one of his actions have been in the least voluntary; that
they have been mechanical, habitual, determined by causes he was not
able to foresee, to which he was either obliged to, yield, or with which
he was allured to acquiesce; he would discover, that all the motives of
his labours, of his amusements, of his discourses, of his thoughts, have
been necessary; that they have evidently either seduced him or drawn him
along. Is he the master of willing, not to withdraw his hand from the
fire when he fears it will be burnt? Or has he the power to take away
from fire the property which makes him fear it? Is he the master of not
choosing a dish of meat which he knows to be agreeable, or analogous
to his palate; of not preferring it to that which he knows to be
disagreeable or dangerous? It is always according to his sensations, to
his own peculiar experience, or to his suppositions, that he judges of
things either well or ill; but whatever way be his judgment, it depends
necessarily on his mode of feeling, whether habitual or accidental,
and the qualities he finds in the causes that move him, which exist in
despite of himself.

All the causes which by his will is actuated, must act upon him in a
manner sufficiently marked, to give him some sensation, some perception,
some idea, whether complete or incomplete, true or false; as soon as
his will is determined, he must have felt, either strongly or feebly; if
this was not the case he would have determined without motive: thus, to
speak correctly, there are no causes which are truly indifferent to the
will: however faint the impulse he receives, whether on the part of the
objects themselves, or on the part of their images or ideas, as soon
as his will acts, the impulse has been competent to determine him. In
consequence of a slight, of a feeble impulse, the will is weak, it is
this weakness of the will that is called _indifference_. His brain with
difficulty perceives the sensation, it has received; it consequently
acts with less vigour, either to obtain or remove the object or the idea
that has modified it. If the impulse is powerful, the will is strong,
it makes him act vigorously, to obtain or to remove the object which
appears to him either very agreeable or very incommodious.

It has been believed man was a free agent, because it has been imagined
that his soul could at will recall ideas, which sometimes suffice
to check his most unruly desires. Thus, the idea of a remote evil
frequently prevents him from enjoying a present and actual good: thus,
remembrance, which is an almost insensible, a slight modification of his
brain, annihilates, at each instant, the real objects that act upon
his will. But he is not master of recalling to himself his ideas at
pleasure; their association is independent of him; they are arranged in
his brain, in despite of him, without his own knowledge, where they have
made an impression more or less profound; his memory itself depends upon
his organization; its fidelity depends upon the habitual or momentary
state in which he finds himself; when his will is vigorously determined
to some object or idea that excites a very lively passion in him, those
objects or ideas that would be able to arrest his action no longer
present themselves to his mind; in those moments his eyes are shut
to the dangers that menace him, of which the idea ought to make him
forbear; he marches forward headlong towards the object by whose image
he is hurried on; reflection cannot operate upon him in any way; he sees
nothing but the object of his desires; the salutary ideas which might be
able to arrest his progress disappear, or else display themselves either
too faintly or too late to prevent his acting. Such is the case with
all those who, blinded by some strong passion, are not in a condition
to recal to themselves those motives, of which the idea alone, in cooler
moments, would be sufficient to deter them from proceeding; the disorder
in which they are, prevents their judging soundly; render them incapable
of foreseeing the consequence of their actions; precludes them from
applying to their experience; from making use of their reason; natural
operations, which suppose a justness in the manner of associating
their ideas; but to which their brain is then not more competent, in
consequence of the momentary delirium it suffers, than their hand is to
write whilst they are taking violent exercise.

Man's mode of thinking is necessarily determined by his manner of
being; it must, therefore, depend on his natural organization, and the
modification his system receives independently of his will. From this we
are obliged to conclude, that his thoughts, his reflections, his manner
of viewing things, of feeling, of judging, of combining ideas, is
neither voluntary nor free. In a word, that his soul is neither mistress
of the motion excited in it, nor of representing to itself, when wanted,
those images or ideas that are capable of counterbalancing the impulse
it receives. This is the reason why man, when in a passion, ceases to
reason; at that moment reason is as impossible to be heard, as it is
during an extacy, or in a fit of drunkenness. The wicked are never more
than men who are either drunk or mad: if they reason, it is not until
tranquillity is re-established in their machine; then, and not till
then, the tardy ideas that present themselves to their mind, enable them
to see the consequence of their actions, and give birth to ideas,
that bring on them that trouble, which is designated _shame, regret,
remorse_.

The errors of philosophers on the free-agency of man, have arisen from
their regarding his will as the _primum mobile_, the original motive
of his actions; for want of recurring back, they have not perceived the
multiplied, the complicated causes, which, independently of him, give
motion to the will itself, or which dispose and modify his brain, whilst
he himself is purely passive in the motion he receives. Is he the master
of desiring or not desiring an object that appears desirable to him?
Without doubt it will be answered, No: but he is the master of resisting
his desire, if he reflects on the consequences. But, I ask, is he
capable of reflecting on these consequences when his soul is hurried
along by a very lively passion, which entirely depends upon his natural
organization, and the causes by which he is modified? Is it in his power
to add to these consequences all the weight necessary to counterbalance
his desire? Is he the master of preventing the qualities which render an
object desirable from residing in it? I shall be told, he ought to have
learned to resist his passions; to contract a habit of putting a curb on
his desires. I agree to it without any difficulty: but in reply, I again
ask, Is his nature susceptible of this modification? Does his boiling
blood, his unruly imagination, the igneous fluid that circulates in his
veins, permit him to make, enable him to apply true experience in the
moment when it is wanted? And, even when his temperament has capacitated
him, has his education, the examples set before him, the ideas with
which he has been inspired in early life, been suitable to make him
contract this habit of repressing his desires? Have not all these things
rather contributed to induce him to seek with avidity, to make him
actually desire those objects which you say he ought to resist.

The _ambitious man_ cries out,--You will have me resist my passion, but
have they not unceasingly repeated to me, that rank, honours, power,
are the most desirable advantages in life? Have I not seen my
fellow-citizens envy them--the nobles of my country sacrifice every
thing to obtain them? In the society in which I live, am I not obliged
to feel, that if I am deprived of these advantages, I must expect to
languish in contempt, to cringe under the rod of oppression?

The _miser_ says,--You forbid me to love money, to seek after the means
of acquiring it: alas! does not every thing tell me, that in this world
money is the greatest blessing; that it is amply sufficient to render
me happy? In the country I inhabit, do I not see all my fellow-citizens
covetous of riches? but do I not also witness that they are little
scrupulous in the means of obtaining wealth? As soon as they are
enriched by the means which you censure, are they not cherished,
considered, and respected? By what authority, then, do you object to my
amassing treasure? what right have you to prevent my using means,
which although you call them sordid and criminal, I see approved by the
sovereign? Will you have me renounce my happiness?

The _voluptuary_ argues,--You pretend that I should resist my desires;
but was I the maker of my own temperament, which unceasingly invites me
to pleasure? You call my pleasures disgraceful; but in the country in
which I live, do I not witness the most dissipated men enjoying the most
distinguished rank? Do I not behold, that no one is ashamed of adultery
but the husband it has outraged? do not I see men making trophies
of their debaucheries, boasting of their libertinism, rewarded, with
applause?

The _choleric_ man vociferates,--You advise me to put a curb on my
passions; to resist the desire of avenging myself: but can I conquer my
nature? Can I alter the received opinions of the world? Shall I not be
for ever disgraced, infallibly dishonoured in society, if I do not wash
out, in the blood of my fellow-creature, the injuries I have received?

The _zealous enthusiast_ exclaims,--You recommend to me mildness,
you advise me to be tolerant, to be indulgent to the opinions of my
fellow-men; but is not my temperament violent? Do I not ardently love my
God? Do they not assure me that zeal is pleasing to him; that sanguinary
inhuman persecutors have been his friends? That those who do not think
as I do are his enemies? I wish to render myself acceptable in his
sight, I therefore adopt the means you reprobate.

In short, the actions of man are never free; they are always the
necessary consequence of his temperament, of the received ideas, of
the notions, either true or false, which he has formed to himself
of happiness: of his opinions, strengthened by example, forfeited
by education, consolidated by daily experience. So many crimes are
witnessed on the earth, only because every thing conspires to render man
vicious, to make him criminal; very frequently, the superstitions he
has adopted, his government, his education, the examples set before him,
irresistibly drive him on to evil: under these circumstances morality
preaches virtue to him in vain. In those societies where vice is
esteemed, where crime is crowned, where venality is constantly
recompenced, where the most dreadful disorders are punished, only in
those who are too weak to enjoy the privilege of committing them with
impunity; the practice of virtue is considered nothing more than a
painful sacrifice of fancied happiness. Such societies chastise, in the
lower orders, those excesses which they respect in the higher ranks; and
frequently have the injustice to condemn those in penalty of death,
whom public prejudices, maintained by constant example, have rendered
criminal.

Man, then, is not a free agent in any one instant of his life; he is
necessarily guided in each step by those advantages, whether real or
fictitious, that he attaches to the objects by which his passions
are roused: these passions themselves are necessary in a being who,
unceasingly tends towards his own happiness; their energy is necessary,
since that depends on his temperament; his temperament is necessary,
because it depends on the physical elements which enter into his
composition; the modification of this temperament is necessary, as it
is the infallible result, the inevitable consequence of the impulse he
receives from the incessant action of moral and physical beings.

In despite of these proofs of the want of free-agency in man, so clear
to unprejudiced minds, it will, perhaps, be insisted upon with no small
feeling of triumph, that if it be proposed to any one to move or not to
move his hand, an action in the number of those called _indifferent_,
he evidently appears to be the master of choosing; from which it is
concluded, evidence has been offered of his free-agency. The reply is,
this example is perfectly simple; man in performing some action which he
is resolved on doing, does not by any means prove his free-agency: the
very desire of displaying this quality, excited by the dispute, becomes
a necessary motive which decides his will either for the one or the
other of these actions: what deludes him in this instance, or that which
persuades him he is a free agent at this moment, is, that he does not
discern the true motive which sets him in action; which is neither more
nor less than the desire of convincing his opponent: if in the heat of
the dispute he insists and asks, "Am I not the master of throwing myself
out of the window?" I shall answer him, no; that whilst he preserves his
reason, there is not even a probability that the desire of proving his
free-agency, will become a motive sufficiently powerful, to make him
sacrifice his life to the attempt; if, notwithstanding this, to prove he
is a free agent, he should actually precipitate himself from the window,
it would not be a sufficient warrantry to conclude he acted freely, but
rather that it was the violence of his temperament which spurred him
on to this folly. Madness is a state that depends upon the heat of
the blood, not upon the will. A fanatic or a hero, braves death as
necessarily as a more phlegmatic man or a coward flies from it. There
is, in point of fact, no difference between the man who is cast out of
the window by another, and the man who throws himself out of it, except
that the impulse in the first instance comes immediately from without,
whilst that which determines the fall in the second case, springs from
within his own peculiar machine, having its more remote cause also
exterior. When Mutius Scaevola held his hand in the fire, he was as much
acting under the influence of necessity, caused by interior motives,
that urged him to this strange action, as if his arm had been held by
strong men; pride, despair, the desire of braving his enemy, a wish
to astonish him, an anxiety to intimidate him, &c. were the invisible
chains that held his hand bound to the fire. The love of glory,
enthusiasm for their country, in like manner, caused Codrus and Decius
to devote themselves for their fellow citizens. The Indian Calanus and
the philosopher Peregrinus were equally obliged to burn themselves, by
the desire of exciting the astonishment of the Grecian assembly.

It is said that free-agency is the absence of those obstacles competent
to oppose themselves to the actions of man, or to the exercise of his
faculties: it is pretended that he is a free agent, whenever, making use
of these faculties, he produces the effect he has proposed to himself.
In reply to this reasoning, it is sufficient to consider that it in no
wise depends upon himself to place or remove the obstacles that either
determine or resist him; the motive that causes his action is no more in
his own power than the obstacle that impedes him, whether this obstacle
or motive be within his own machine or exterior of his person: he is not
master of the thought presented to his mind which determines his will;
this thought is excited by some cause independent of himself.

To be undeceived on the system of his free-agency, man has simply to
recur to the motive by which his will is determined, he will always find
this motive is out of his own controul. It is said, that in consequence
of an idea to which the mind gives birth, man acts freely if he
encounters no obstacle. But the question is, what gives birth to this
idea in his brain? has he the power either to prevent it from presenting
itself, or from renewing itself in his brain? Does not this idea
depend either upon objects that strike him exteriorly and in despite of
himself, or upon causes that without his knowledge act within himself
and modify his brain? Can he prevent his eyes, cast without design upon
any object whatever, from giving him an idea of this object, from
moving his brain? He is not more master of the obstacles; they are the
necessary effects of either interior or exterior causes, which always
act according to their given properties. A man insults a coward, who is
necessarily irritated against his insulter, but his will cannot vanquish
the obstacle that cowardice places to the object of his desire, which
is, to resent the insult; because his natural conformation, which does
not depend upon himself, prevents his having courage. In this case
the coward is insulted in despite of himself, and against his will is
obliged patiently to brook the insult he has received.

The partizans of the system of free-agency appear ever to have
confounded constraint with necessity. Man believes he acts as a free
agent, every time he does not see any thing that places obstacles to his
actions; he does not perceive that the motive which causes him to will
is always necessary, is ever independent of himself. A prisoner loaded
with chains is compelled to remain in prison, but he is not a free
agent, he is not able to resist the desire to emancipate himself;
his chains prevent him from acting, but they do not prevent him from
willing; he would save himself if they would loose his fetters, but he
would not save himself as a free agent, fear or the idea of punishment
would be sufficient motives for his action.

Man may therefore cease to be restrained, without, for that reason,
becoming a free agent: in whatever manner he acts, he will act
necessarily; according to motives by which he shall be determined.
He may be compared to a heavy body, that finds itself arrested in its
descent by any obstacle whatever: take away this obstacle, it will
gravitate or continue to fall; but who shall say this dense body is
free to fall or not? Is not its descent the necessary effect of its own
specific gravity? The virtuous Socrates submitted to the laws of his
country, although they were unjust; notwithstanding the doors of his
gaol were left open to him he would not save himself; but in this he
did not act as a free agent; the invisible chains of opinion, the secret
love of decorum, the inward respect for the laws, even when they were
iniquitous, the fear of tarnishing his glory, kept him in his prison:
they were motives sufficiently powerful, with this enthusiast for
virtue, to induce him to wait death with tranquillity; it was not in
his power to save himself, because he could find no potential motive to
bring him to depart, even for an instant, from those principles to which
his mind was accustomed.

Man, says he, frequently acts against his inclination, from whence
he has falsely concluded he is a free agent; when he appears to act
contrary to his inclination, he is determined to it by some motive
sufficiently efficacious to vanquish this inclination. A sick man, with
a view to his cure, arrives at conquering his repugnance to the most
disgusting remedies: the fear of pain, the dread of death, then become
necessary and intelligent motives; consequently, this sick man cannot be
said, with truth, by any means, to act freely.

When it is said, that man is not a free agent, it is not pretended to
compare him to a body moved by a simple impulsive cause: he contains
within himself causes inherent to his existence; he is moved by an
interior organ, which has its own peculiar laws; which is itself
necessarily determined, in consequence of ideas formed from perceptions,
resulting from sensations, which it receives from exterior objects. As
the mechanism of these sensations, of these perceptions, and the manner
they engrave ideas on the brain of man, are not known to him, because he
is unable to unravel all these motions; because he cannot perceive
the chain of operations in his soul, or the motive-principle that
acts within him, he supposes himself a free agent; which, literally
translated, signifies that he moves himself by himself; that he
determines himself without cause; when he rather ought to say, he is
ignorant how or for why he acts in the manner he does. It is true the
soul enjoys an activity peculiar to itself, but it is equally certain
that this activity would never be displayed if some motive or some cause
did not put it in a condition to exercise itself, at least it will not
be pretended that the soul is able either to love or to hate without
being moved, without knowing the objects, without having some idea of
their qualities. Gunpowder has unquestionably a particular activity, but
this activity will never display itself, unless fire be applied to it;
this, however, immediately sets in motion.

It is the great complication of motion in man, it is the variety of
his action, it is the multiplicity of causes that move him, whether
simultaneously or in continual succession, that persuades him he is a
free agent: if all his motions were simple, if the causes that move him
did not confound themselves with each other, if they were distinct, if
his machine was less complicated, he would perceive that all his actions
were necessary, because he would be enabled to recur instantly to
the cause that made him act. A man who should be always obliged to
go towards the west would always go on that side, but he would feel
extremely well, that in so going he was not a free agent: if he had
another sense, as his actions or his motion augmented by a sixth would
be still more varied, much more complicated, he would believe himself
still more a free agent than he does with his five senses.

It is, then, for want of recurring to the causes that move him, for
want of being able to analyse, from not being competent to decompose
the complicated motion of his machine, that man believes himself a free
agent; it is only upon his own ignorance that he founds the profound
yet deceitful notion he has of his free-agency, that he builds those
opinions which he brings forward as a striking proof of his pretended
freedom of action. If, for a short time, each man was willing to examine
his own peculiar actions, to search out their true motives, to discover
their concatenation, he would remain convinced that the sentiment he has
of his natural free-agency is a chimera that must speedily be destroyed
by experience.

Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that the multiplicity, the
diversity of the causes which continually act upon man, frequently
without even his knowledge, render it impossible, or at least extremely
difficult, for him to recur to the true principles of his own peculiar
actions, much less the actions of others; they frequently depend
upon causes so fugitive, so remote from their effects, and which,
superficially examined, appear to have so little analogy, so slender
a relation with them, that it requires singular sagacity to bring them
into light. This is what renders the study of the moral man a task of
such difficulty; this is the reason why his heart is an abyss, of which
it is frequently impossible for him to fathom the depth. He is, then,
obliged to content himself with a knowledge of the general and necessary
laws by which the human heart is regulated; for the individuals of his
own species these laws are pretty nearly the same, they vary only in
consequence of the organization that is peculiar to each, and of the
modification it undergoes; this, however, is not, cannot be rigorously
the same in any two. It suffices to know that by his essence man tends
to conserve himself, to render his existence happy: this granted,
whatever may be his actions, if he recurs back to this first principle,
to this general, this necessary tendency of his will, he never can be
deceived with regard to his motives. Man, without doubt, for want of
cultivating reason, being destitute of experience, frequently deceives
himself upon the means of arriving at this end; sometimes the means he
employs are unpleasant to his fellows, because they are prejudicial
to their interests; or else those of which he avails himself appear
irrational, because they remove him from the end to which he would
approximate: but whatever may be these means, they have always
necessarily and invariably for object, either an existing or imaginary
happiness; are directed to preserve himself in a state analogous to his
mode of existence, to his manner of feeling, to his way of thinking;
whether durable or transitory. It is from having mistaken this truth,
that the greater number of moral philosophers have made rather the
romance, than the history of the human heart; they have attributed the
actions of man to fictitious causes; at least they have not sought out
the necessary motives of his conduct. Politicians and legislators have
been in the same state of ignorance; or else impostors have found it
much shorter to employ imaginary motive-powers, than those which really
have existence: they have rather chosen to make man wander out of his
way, to make him tremble under incommodious phantoms, than guide him to
virtue by the direct road to happiness; notwithstanding the conformity
of the latter with the natural desires of his heart. So true it is, that
_error can never possibly be useful, to the human species_.

However this may be, man either sees or believes he sees, much more
distinctly, the necessary relation of effects with their causes in
natural philosophy than in the human heart; at least he sees in the
former sensible causes constantly produce sensible effects, ever the
same, when the circumstances are alike. After this, he hesitates not
to look upon physical effects as necessary, whilst he refuses to
acknowledge necessity in the acts of the human will; these he has,
without any just foundation, attributed to a motive-power that acts
independently by its own peculiar energy, that is capable of modifying
itself without the concurrence of exterior causes, and which is
distinguished from all material or physical beings. _Agriculture_ is
founded upon the assurance afforded by experience, that the earth,
cultivated and sown in a certain manner, when it has otherwise the
requisite qualities, will furnish grain, fruit, and flowers, either
necessary for subsistence or pleasing to the senses. If things were
considered without prejudice, it would be perceived, that in morals
education is nothing more than _the agriculture of the mind_; that like
the earth, by reason of its natural disposition, of the culture bestowed
upon it, of the seeds with which it is sown, of the seasons, more or
less favorable, that conduct it to maturity, we may be assured that
the soul will produce either virtue or vice; _moral fruit_ that will be
either salubrious for man or baneful to society. _Morals_ is the science
of the relations that subsist between the minds, the wills, and the
actions of men; in the same manner that _geometry_ is the science of the
relations that are found between bodies. Morals would be a chimera,
it would have no certain principles, if it was not founded upon the
knowledge of the motives which must necessarily have an influence upon
the human will, and which must necessarily determine the actions of
human beings.

If in the moral as well as in the physical world, a cause of which the
action is not interrupted be necessarily followed by a given effect, it
flows consecutively that a _reasonable education_, grafted upon truth,
founded upon wise laws,--that honest principles instilled during youth,
virtuous examples continually held forth, esteem attached solely to
merit, recompense awarded to none but good actions, contempt regularly
visiting vice, shame following falsehood as its shadow, rigorous
chastisements applied without distinction to crime, are causes that
would necessarily act on the will of man; that would determine the
greater number of his species to exhibit virtue, to love it for its own
sake, to seek after it as the most desirable good, as the surest road
to the happiness he so ardently desires. But if, on the contrary,
superstition, politics, example, public opinion, all labour to
countenance wickedness, to train man viciously; if, instead of fanning
his virtues, they stifle good principles; if, instead of directing his
studies to his advantage, they render his education either useless or
unprofitable; if this education itself, instead of grounding him in
virtue, only inoculates him with vice; if, instead of inculcating
reason, it imbues him with prejudice; if, instead of making him
enamoured of truth, it furnishes him with false notions; if, instead
of storing his mind with just ideas drawn from experience, it fills
him with dangerous opinions; if, instead of fostering mildness and
forbearance, it kindles in his breast only those passions which are
incommodious to himself and hurtful to others; it must be of necessity,
that the will of the greater number shall determine them to evil; shall
render them unworthy, make them baneful to society. Many authors have
acknowledged the importance of a good education, that youth was the
season to feed the human heart with wholesome diet; but they have not
felt, that a good education is incompatible, nay, impossible, with the
superstition of man, since this commences with giving his mind a false
bias: that it is equally inconsistent with arbitrary government, because
this always dreads lest he should become enlightened, and is ever
sedulous to render him servile, mean, contemptible, and cringing; that
it is incongruous with laws that are not founded in equity, that are
frequently bottomed on injustice; that it cannot obtain with those
received customs that are opposed to good sense; that it cannot exist
whilst public opinion is unfavourable to virtue; above all, that it is
absurd to expect it from incapable instructors, from masters with weak
minds, who have only the ability to infuse into their scholars those
false ideas with which they are themselves infected. Here, without
doubt, is the real source from whence springs that universal corruption,
that wide-spreading depravity, of which moralists, with great justice,
so loudly complain; without, however, pointing out those causes of the
evil, which are true as they are necessary: instead of this, they search
for it in human nature, say it is corrupt, blame man for loving himself,
and for seeking after his own happiness, insist that he must have
supernatural assistance, some marvellous interference, to enable him to
become good: this is a very prejudicial doctrine for him, it is directly
subversive of his true happiness; by teaching him to hold himself in
contempt, it tends necessarily to discourage him; it either makes him
sluggish, or drives him to despair whilst waiting for this grace: is it
not easy to be perceived, that he would always have it if he was well
educated; if he was honestly governed? There cannot well exist a
wilder or a stranger system of morals, than that of the theologians who
attribute all moral evil to an original sin, and all moral good to the
pardon of it. It ought not to excite surprise if such a system is of no
efficacy; what can reasonably be the result of such an hypothesis? Yet,
notwithstanding the supposed, the boasted free-agency of man, it
is insisted that nothing less than the Author of Nature himself is
necessary to destroy the wicked desires of his heart: but, alas! no
power whatever is found sufficiently efficacious to resist those unhappy
propensities, which, under the fatal constitution of things, the most
vigorous motives, as before observed, are continually infusing into
the will of man; no agency seems competent to turn the course of that
unhappy direction these are perpetually giving to the stream of his
natural passions. He is, indeed, incessantly exhorted to resist these
passions, to stifle them, and to root them out of his heart; but is it
not evident they are necessary to his welfare? Can it not be perceived
they are inherent in his nature? Does not experience prove them to be
useful to his conservation, since they have for object, only to avoid
that which may be injurious to him; to procure that which may be
advantageous to his mode of existence? In short, is it not easy to
be seen, that these passions, well directed, that is to say, carried
towards objects that are truly useful, that are really interesting
to himself, which embrace the happiness of others, would necessarily
contribute to the substantial, to the permanent well-being of society?
Theologians themselves have felt, they have acknowledged the necessity
of the passions: many of the fathers of the church have broached this
doctrine; among the rest Father Senault has written a book expressly on
the subject: the passions of man are like fire, at once necessary to
the wants of life, suitable to ameliorate the condition of humanity,
and equally capable of producing the most terrible ravages, the most
frightful devastation.

Every thing becomes an impulse to the will; a single word frequently
suffices to modify a man for the whole course of his life, to decide
for ever his propensities; an infant who has burned his finger by having
approached it too near the flame of a lighted taper, is warned from
thence, that he ought to abstain from indulging a similar temptation; a
man, once punished and despised for having committed a dishonest
action, is not often tempted to continue so unfavourable a course. Under
whatever point of man is considered, he never acts but after the impulse
given to his will, whether it be by the will of others, or by more
perceptible physical causes. The particular organization decides
the nature of the impulse; souls act upon souls that are analogous;
inflamed, fiery imaginations, act with facility upon strong passions;
upon imaginations easy to be inflamed, the surprising progress of
enthusiasm; the hereditary propagation of superstition; the transmission
of religious errors from race to race, the excessive ardour with which
man seizes on the marvellous, are effects as necessary as those which
result from the action and re-action of bodies.

In despite of the gratuitous ideas which man has formed to himself on
his pretended free-agency; in defiance of the illusions of this suppose
intimate sense, which, contrary to his experience, persuades him that
he is master of his will,--all his institutions are really founded upon
necessity: on this, as on a variety of other occasions, practice throws
aside speculation. Indeed, if it was not believed that certain motives
embraced the power requisite to determine the will of man, to arrest the
progress of his passions, to direct them towards an end, to modify him;
of what use would be the faculty of speech? What benefit could arise
from education itself? What does education achieve, save give the first
impulse to the human will, make man contract habits, oblige him to
persist in them, furnish him with motives, whether true or false, to
act after a given manner? When the father either menaces his son with
punishment, or promises him a reward, is he not convinced these things
will act upon his will? What does legislation attempt, except it be
to present to the citizens of a state those motives which are supposed
necessary to determine them to perform some actions that are considered
worthy; to abstain from committing others that are looked upon as
unworthy? What is the object of morals, if it be not to shew man that
his interest exacts he should suppress the momentary ebullition of
his passions, with a view to promote a more certain happiness, a more
lasting well-being, than can possibly result from the gratification of
his transitory desires? Does not the religion of all countries suppose
the human race, together with the entire of Nature, submitted to the
irresistible will of a necessary being, who regulates their condition
after the eternal laws of immutable wisdom? Is not God the absolute
master of their destiny? Is it not this divine being who chooses and
rejects? The anathemas fulminated by religion, the promises it holds
forth, are they not founded upon the idea of the effects they will
necessarily produce upon mankind? Is not man brought into existence
without his own knowledge? Is he not obliged to play a part against his
will? Does not either his happiness or his misery depend on the part he
plays?

All religion has been evidently founded upon _Fatalism_. Among the
Greeks they supposed men were punished for their necessary faults,
as may be seen in Orestes, in Oedipus, &c. who only committed crimes
predicted by the oracles. It is rather singular that the theological
defenders of the doctrine of _free-agency_, which they endeavour
to oppose to that of _predestination_,--which according to them is
irreconcileable with _Christianity_, inasmuch as it is a false and
dangerous system,--should not have been aware that the doctrines of _the
fall of angels, original sin, the small number of the elect, the system
of grace, &c._ were most incontestibly supporting, by the most cogent
arguments, a _true system of fatalism_.

_Education_, then, is only necessity shewn to children: _legislation_
is necessity shewn to the members of the body politic: _morals_ is the
necessity of the relations subsisting between men, shewn to reasonable
beings: in short, man grants _necessity_ in every thing for which he
believes he has certain, unerring experience: that of which he does
not comprehend the necessary connection of causes with their effects
he styles _probability_: he would not act as he does, if he was not
convinced, or, at least, if he did not presume he was, that certain
effects will necessarily follow his actions. The _moralist_ preaches
reason, because he believes it necessary to man: the _philosopher_
writes, because he believes truth must, sooner or later, prevail over
falsehood: _tyrants_ and _fanatical priests_ necessarily hate truth,
despise reason, because they believe them prejudicial to their
interests: the _sovereign_, who strives to terrify crime by the
severity of his laws, but who nevertheless, from motives of state policy
sometimes renders it useful and even necessary to his purposes, presumes
the motives he employs will be sufficient to keep his subjects within
bounds. All reckon equally upon the power or upon the necessity of the
motives they make use of; each individual flatters himself, either with
or without reason, that these motives will have an influence on the
conduct of mankind. The education of man is commonly so defective, so
inefficacious, so little calculated to promote the end he has in view,
because it is regulated by prejudice: even when this education is good,
it is but too often speedily counteracted, by almost every thing that
takes place in society. Legislation and politics are very frequently
iniquitous, and serve no better purpose than to kindle passions in the
bosom of man, which once set afloat, they are no longer competent to
restrain. The great art of the moralist should be, to point out to man,
to convince those who are entrusted with the sacred office of regulating
his will, that their interests are identified; that their reciprocal
happiness depends upon the harmony of their passions; that the safety,
the power, the duration of empires, necessarily depend on the good
sense diffused among the individual members; on the truth of the notions
inculcated in the mind of the citizens, on the moral goodness that
is sown in their hearts, on the virtues that are cultivated in their
breasts; religion should not be admissible, unless it truly fortified,
unless it really strengthened these motives. But in the miserable
state into which error has plunged a considerable portion of the human
species, man, for the most part, is seduced to be wicked: he injures his
fellow-creature as a matter of conscience, because the strongest motives
are held out to him to be persecuting; because his institutions invite
him to the commission of evil, under the lure of promoting his own
immediate happiness. In most countries superstition renders him a
useless being, makes him an abject slave, causes him to tremble under
its terrors, or else turns him into a furious fanatic, who is at once
cruel, intolerant, and inhuman: in a great number of states arbitrary
power crushes him, obliges him to become a cringing sycophant, renders
him completely vicious: in those despotic states the law rarely visits
crime with punishment, except in those who are too feeble to oppose
its course? or when it has become incapable of restraining the violent
excesses to which a bad government gives birth. In short, rational
education is neglected; a prudent culture of the human mind is despised;
it depends, but too frequently, upon bigotted, superstitious priests,
who are interested in deceiving man, and who are sometimes impostors;
or else upon parents or masters without understanding, who are devoid
of morals, who impress on the ductile mind of their scholars those vices
with which they are themselves tormented; who transmit to them the false
opinions, which they believe they have an interest in making them adopt.

All this proves the necessity of falling back to man's original errors,
and recurring to the primitive source of his wanderings, if it be
seriously intended to furnish him with suitable remedies for such
enormous maladies: it is useless to dream of correcting his mistakes,
of curing him of his depravity, until the true causes that move his will
are unravelled; until more real, more beneficial, more certain motives
are substituted for those which are found so inefficacious; which prove
so dangerous both to society and to himself. It is for those who guide
the human will, who regulate the condition of nations, who hold the
real happiness of man in their grasp, to seek after these motives,--with
which reason will readily furnish them--which experience will enable
them to apply with success: even a good book, by touching the heart of
a great prince, may become a very powerful cause that shall necessarily
have an influence over the conduct of a whole people, and decide upon
the felicity of a portion of the human race.

From all that has been advanced in this chapter, it results, that in no
one moment of his existence man is a free agent: he is not the architect
of his own conformation; this he holds from Nature, he has no controul
over his own ideas, or over the modification of his brain; these are
due to causes, that, in despite of him, very frequently without his own
knowledge, unceasingly act upon him; he is not the master of not loving
that which he finds amiable; of not coveting that which appears to
him desirable; he is not capable of refusing to deliberate, when he
is uncertain of the effects certain objects will produce upon him; he
cannot avoid choosing that which he believes will be most advantageous
to him: in the moment when his will is determined by his choice, he is
not competent to act otherwise than he does: in what instance, then, is
he the master of his own actions? In what moment is he a free agent?

That which a man is about to do is always a consequence of that which
he has been--of that which he is--of that which he has done up to the
moment of the action: his total and actual existence, considered under
all its possible circumstances, contains the sum of all the motives
to the action he is about to commit; this is a principle, the truth of
which no thinking, being will be able to refuse accrediting: his life
is a series of necessary moments; his conduct, whether good or bad,
virtuous or vicious, useful or prejudicial, either to himself or to
others, is a concatenation of action, a chain of causes and effects, as
necessary as all the moments of his existence. To _live_, is to exist in
a necessary mode during the points of its duration, which succeed each
other necessarily: to _will_, is to acquiesce or not in remaining such
as he is: to be _free_, is to yield to the necessary motives that he
carries within himself.

If he understood the play of his organs, if he was able to recal to
himself all the impulsions they have received, all the modifications
they have undergone, all the effects they have produced, he would
perceive, that all his actions are submitted to that _fatality_ which
regulates his own particular system, as it does the entire system of the
universe: no one effect in him, any more than in Nature, produce itself
by _chance_; this, as has been before proved, is a word void of sense.
All that passes in him, all that is done by him, as well as all that
happens in Nature, or that is attributed to her, is derived from
necessary laws, which produce necessary effects; from whence necessarily
flow others.

_Fatality_ is the eternal, the immutable, the necessary order
established in Nature, or the indispensible connection of causes that
act with the effects they operate. Conforming to this order, heavy
bodies fall, light bodies rise; that which is analogous in matter,
reciprocally attracts; that which is heterogeneous, mutually repels; man
congregates himself in society, modifies each his fellow, becomes either
virtuous or wicked; either contributes to his mutual happiness, or
reciprocates his misery; either loves his neighbour, or hates his
companion necessarily; according to the manner in which the one acts
upon the other. From whence it may be seen, that the same necessity
which regulates the physical, also regulates the moral world: in which
every thing is in consequence submitted to fatality. Man, in running
over, frequently without his own knowledge, often in despite of himself,
the route which Nature has marked out for him, resembles a swimmer who
is obliged to follow the current that carries him along; he believes
himself a free agent, because he sometimes consents, sometimes does
not consent, to glide with the stream; which, notwithstanding, always
hurries him forward; he believes himself the master of his condition,
because he is obliged to use his arms under the fear of sinking.

The false ideas he has formed to himself upon free-agency, are
in general thus founded: there are certain events which he judges
_necessary_; either because he sees they are effects that are
constantly, are invariably linked to certain causes, which nothing seems
to prevent; or because he believes he has discovered the chain of causes
and effects that is put in play to produce those events: whilst he
contemplates as _contingent_, other events, of whose causes he is
ignorant; the concatenation of which he does not perceive; with whose
mode of acting he is unacquainted: but in Nature, where every thing is
connected by one common bond, there exists no effect without a cause. In
the moral as well as in the physical world, every thing that happens is
a necessary consequence of causes, either visible or concealed; which
are, of necessity, obliged to act after their peculiar essences.
_In man, free-agency is nothing more than necessity contained within
himself_.





CHAP. XII.

_An examination of the Opinion which pretends that the System of
Fatalism is dangerous._


For a being whose essence obliges him to have a constant tendency to
his own conservation, to continually seek to render himself happy,
experience is indispensible: without it he cannot discover truth, which
is nothing more, as has been already said, than a knowledge of the
constant relations which subsist between man, and those objects that
act upon him; according to his experience he denominates those that
contribute to his permanent welfare useful and salutary; those that
procure him pleasure, more or less durable, he calls agreeable. Truth
itself becomes the object of his desires, only when he believes it is
useful; he dreads it, whenever he presumes it will injure him. But has
truth the power to injure him? Is it possible that evil can result to
man from a correct understanding of the relations he has with other
beings? Can it be true, that he can be harmed by becoming acquainted
with those things, of which, for his own happiness, he is interested in
having a knowledge? No: unquestionably not. It is upon its utility that
truth founds its worth; upon this that it builds its rights; sometimes
it may be disagreeable to individuals--it may even appear contrary to
their interests--but it will ever be beneficial to them in the end;
it will always be useful to the whole human species; it will eternally
benefit the great bulk of mankind; whose interests must for ever remain
distinct from those of men, who, duped by their own peculiar passions,
believe their advantage consists in plunging others into error.

_Utility_, then, is the touchstone of his systems, the test of his
opinions, the criterion of the actions of man; it is the standard of the
esteem, the measure of the love he owes to truth itself: the most useful
truths are the most estimable: those truths which are most interesting
for his species, he styles _eminent_; those of which the utility limits
itself to the amusement of some individuals who have not correspondent
ideas, similar modes of feeling, wants analogous to his own, he either
disdains, or else calls them _barren_.

It is according to this standard, that the principles laid down in this
work, ought to be judged. Those who are acquainted with the immense
chain of mischief produced on the earth by erroneous systems of
superstition, will acknowledge the importance of opposing to them
systems more accordant with truth, schemes drawn from Nature, sciences
founded on experience. Those who are, or believe they are, interested in
maintaining the established errors, will contemplate, with horror, the
truths here presented to them: in short, those infatuated mortals, who
do not feel, or who only feel very faintly, the enormous load of misery
brought upon mankind by metaphysical speculation; the heavy yoke of
slavery under which prejudice makes him groan, will regard all our
principles as useless; or, at most, as sterile truths, calculated to
amuse the idle hours of a few speculators.

No astonishment, therefore, need be excited at the various judgments
formed by man: his interests never being the same, any more than his
notions of utility, he condemns or disdains every thing that does not
accord with his own peculiar ideas. This granted, let us examine, if
in the eyes of the disinterested man, who is not entangled by
prejudice--who is sensible to the happiness of his species--who delights
in truth--the _doctrine of fatalism_ be useful or dangerous? Let us
see if it is a barren speculation, that his not any influence upon the
felicity of the human race? At has been already shewn, that it will
furnish morals with efficacious arguments, with real motives to
determine the will, supply politics with the true lever to raise the
proper activity in the mind of man. It will also be seen that it
serves to explain in a simple manner the mechanism of man's actions; to
develope in an easy way the arcana of the most striking phenomena of
the human heart: on the other hand, if his ideas are only the result of
unfruitful speculations, they cannot interest the happiness of the
human species. Whether he believes himself a free agent, or whether
he acknowledges the necessity of things, he always equally follows the
desires imprinted on his soul; which are to preserve his existence and
render himself happy. A rational education, honest habits, wise systems,
equitable laws, rewards uprightly distributed, punishments justly
inflicted, will conduct man to happiness by making him virtuous; while
thorny speculations, filled with difficulties, can at most only have an
influence over persons unaccustomed to think.

After these reflections, it will be very easy to remove the difficulties
that are unceasingly opposed to the system of fatalism, which so many
persons, blinded by their superstitious prejudices, are desirous to have
considered as dangerous--as deserving of punishment--as calculated
to disturb public tranquility--as tending to unchain the passions--to
undermine the opinions man ought to have; and to confound his ideas of
vice and of virtue.

The opposers of necessity, say, that if all the actions of man are
necessary, no right whatever exists to punish bad ones, or even to he
angry with those who commit them: that nothing ought to be imputed to
them; that the laws would be unjust if they should decree punishment for
necessary actions; in short, that under this system man could neither
have merit nor demerit. In reply, it may be argued, that, to impute an
action to any one, is to attribute that action to him; to acknowledge
him for the author: thus, when even an action was supposed to be the
effect of an agent, and that agent _necessity_, the imputation would
lie: the merit or demerit, that is ascribed to an action are ideas
originating in the effects, whether favourable or pernicious, that
result to those who experience its operation; when, therefore, it should
be conceded, that the agent was necessity, it is not less certain, that
the action would be either good or bad; estimable or contemptible, to
those who must feel its influence; in short that it would be capable of
either eliciting their love, or exciting their anger. Love and anger
are modes of existence, suitable to modify, beings of the human species:
when, therefore, man irritates himself against his fellow, he intends
to excite his fear, or even to punish him, in order to deter him from
committing that which is displeasing to him. Moreover his anger is
necessary; it is the result of his Nature; the consequence of his
temperament. The painful sensation produced by a stone that falls on the
arm, does not displease the less, because it comes from a cause deprived
of will; which acts by the necessity of its Nature. In contemplating
man as acting necessarily, it is impossible to avoid distinguishing that
mode of action or being which is agreeable, which elicits approbation,
from that which is afflicting, which irritates, which Nature obliges him
to blame and to prevent. From this it will be seen, that the system of
fatalism, does not in any manner change the actual state of things, and
is by no means calculated to confound man's ideas of virtue and vice.

Man's Nature always revolts against that which opposes it: there are men
so choleric, that they infuriate themselves even against insensible and
inanimate objects; reflection on their own impotence to modify these
objects ought to conduct them back to reason. Parents are frequently
very much to be blamed for correcting their children with anger: they
should be contemplated as beings who are not yet modified; or who have,
perhaps, been very badly modified by themselves: nothing is more common
in life, than to see men punish faults of which they are themselves the
cause.

Laws are made with a view to maintain society; to uphold its existence;
to prevent man associated, from injuring his neighbour; they are
therefore competent to punish those who disturb its harmony, or those
who commit actions that are injurious to their fellows; whether these
associates may be the agents of necessity, or whether they are free
agents, it suffices to know they are susceptible of modification, and
are therefore submitted to the operation of the law. Penal laws are,
or ought to be, those motives which experience has shewn capable of
restraining the inordinate passions of man, or of annihilating the
impulse these passions give to his will; from whatever necessary cause
man may derive these passions, the legislator proposes to arrest their
effect, when he takes suitable means, when he adopts proper methods,
he is certain of success. The Judge, in decreeing to crime, gibbets,
tortures, or any other chastisement whatever, does nothing more than is
done by the architect, who in building a house, places gutters to carry
off the rain, and prevent it from sapping the foundation.

Whatever may be the cause that obliges man to act, society possesses
the right to crush the effects, as much as the man whose land would be
ruined by a river, has to restrain its waters by a bank: or even, if he
is able, to turn its course. It is by virtue of this right that society
has the power to intimidate, the faculty to punish, with a view to its
own conservation, those who may be tempted to injure it; or those who
commit actions which are acknowledged really to interrupt its repose; to
be inimical to its security; repugnant to its happiness.

It will, perhaps, be argued, that society does not, usually, punish
those faults in which the will has no share; that, in fact, it punishes
the will alone; that this it is which decides the nature of the crime,
and the degree of its atrocity; that if this will be not free, it ought
not to be punished. I reply, that society is an assemblage of sensible
beings, susceptible of reason, who desire their own welfare; who fear
evil, and seek after good. These dispositions enable their will to be so
modified or determined, that they are capable of holding such a conduct
as will conduce to the end they have in view. Education, the laws,
public opinion, example, habit, fear, are the causes that must modify
associated man, influence his will, regulate his passions, restrain the
actions of him who is capable of injuring the end of his association,
and thereby make him concur to the general happiness. These causes are
of a nature to make impressions on every man, whose organization, whose
essence, whose sanity, places him in a capacity to contract the habits,
to imbibe the modes of thinking, to adopt the manner of acting, with
which society is willing to inspire him. All the individuals of the
human species are susceptible of fear, from whence it flows as a natural
consequence, that the fear of punishment, or the privation of the
happiness he desires, are motives that must necessarily more or less
influence his will, and regulate his actions. If the man is to be found
who is so badly constituted as to resist, whose organization is so
vicious as to be insensible to those motives which operate upon all his
fellows, he is not fit to live in society; he would contradict the very
end of his association: he would be its enemy; he would place obstacles
to its natural tendency; his rebellious disposition, his unsociable
will, not being susceptible of that modification which is convenient
to his own true interests and to the interests of his fellow-citizens;
these would unite themselves against such an enemy; and the law which
is, or ought to be the expression of the general will, would visit with
condign punishment that refractory individual upon whom the motives
presented to him by society, had not the effect which it had been
induced to expect: in consequence, such an unsociable man would be
chastised; he would be rendered miserable, and according to the nature
of his crime he would be excluded from society as a being but little
calculated to concur in its views.

If society has the right to conserve itself, it has also the right
to take the means: these means are the laws which present or ought to
present to the will of man those motives which are most suitable to
deter him from committing injurious actions. If these motives fail of
the proper effect, if they are unable to influence him, society, for its
own peculiar good, is obliged to wrest from him the power of doing it
further injury. From whatever source his actions may arise, therefore,
whether they are the result of free-agency, or whether they are the
offspring of necessity, society coerces him if, after having furnished
him with motives, sufficiently powerful to act upon reasonable beings,
it perceives that these motives have not been competent to vanquish his
depraved nature. It punishes him with justice, when the actions from
which it dissuades him are truly injurious to society; it has an
unquestionable right to punish, when it only commands those things
that are conformable to the end proposed by man in his association; or
defends the commission of those acts, which are contrary to this
end; which are hostile to the nature of beings associated for their
reciprocal advantage. But, on the other hand, the law has not acquired
the right to punish him: if it has failed to present to him the motives
necessary to have an influence over his will, it has not the right to
coerce him if the negligence of society has deprived him of the means
of subsisting; of exercising his talents; of exerting his industry; of
labouring for its welfare. It is unjust, when it punishes those to whom
it has, neither given an education, nor honest principles; whom it has
not enabled to contract habits necessary to the maintenance of society:
it is unjust when it punishes them for faults which the wants of their
nature, or the constitution of society has rendered necessary to them:
it is unjust, it is irrational, whenever it chastises them for having
followed those propensities, which example, which public opinion, which
the institutions, which society itself conspires to give them. In short,
the law is defective when it does not proportion the punishment to the
real evil which society has sustained. The last degree of injustice, the
acme of folly is, when society is so blinded as to inflict punishment on
those citizens who have served it usefully.

The _penal_ laws, in exhibiting terrifying objects to man, who must be
supposed susceptible of fear, presents him with motives calculated to
have an influence over his will. The idea of pain, the privation of
liberty, the fear of death, are, to a being well constituted, in the
full enjoyment of his faculties, very puissant obstacles, that strongly
oppose themselves to the impulse of his unruly desires: when these do
not coerce his will, when they fail to arrest his progress, he is
an irrational being; a madman; a being badly organized; against whom
society has the right to guarantee itself; against whom it has a right
to take measures for its own security. Madness is, without doubt, an
involuntary, a necessary state; nevertheless, no one feels it unjust to
deprive the insane of their liberty, although their actions can only
be imputed to the derangement of their brain. The wicked are men whose
brain is either constantly or transitorily disturbed; still they must be
punished by reason of the evil they commit; they must always be placed
in the impossibility of injuring society: if no hope remains of bringing
them back to a reasonable conduct--if every prospect of recalling them
to their duty has vanished--if they cannot be made to adopt a mode of
action conformable to the great end of association--they must be for
ever excluded its benefits.

It will not be requisite to examine here, how far the punishments which
society inflicts upon those who offend against it, may be reasonably
carried. Reason should seem to indicate that the law ought to shew to
the necessary crimes of man, all the indulgence that is compatible with
the conservation of society. The system of fatalism, as we have seen,
does not leave crime unpunished; but it is, at least, calculated to
moderate the barbarity with which a number of nations punish the victims
to their anger. This cruelty becomes still more absurd, when experience
has shewn its inutility: the habit of witnessing ferocious punishments
familiarizes criminals with the idea. If it be true that society
possesses the right of taking away the life of its members--if it be
really a fact, that the death of a criminal, thenceforth useless, can
be advantageous for society, which it will be necessary to examine,
humanity, at least, exacts that this death should not be accompanied
with useless tortures; with which laws, perhaps in this instance too
rigorous, frequently seem to delight in overwhelming their victim. This
cruelty seems to defeat its own end, it only serves to make the culprit,
who is immolated to the public vengeance, suffer without any advantage
to society; it moves the compassion of the spectator, interests him
in favor of the miserable offender who groans under its weight; it
impresses nothing upon the wicked, but the sight of those cruelties
destined for himself; which but too frequently renders him more
ferocious, more cruel, more the enemy of his associates: if the
example of death was less frequent, even without being accompanied with
tortures, it would be more efficacious. If experience was consulted, it
would be found that the greater number of criminals only look upon death
as a _bad quarter of an hour_. It is an unquestionable fact, that a
thief seeing one of his comrades, display a want of firmness under the
punishment, said to him: _"Is not this what I have often told you,
that in our business, we have one evil more than the rest of mankind?"_
Robberies are daily committed, even at the foot of the scaffolds where
criminals are punished. In those nations, where the penalty of death is
so lightly inflicted, has sufficient attention been paid to the fact,
that society is yearly deprived of a great number of individuals who
would be able to render it very useful service, if made to work, and
thus indemnify the community for the injuries they have committed?
The facility with which the lives of men are taken away, proves
the incapacity of counsellors; is an evidence of the negligence of
legislators: they find it a much shorter road, that it gives them less
trouble to destroy the citizens than to seek after the means to render
them better.

What shall be said for the unjust cruelty of some nations, in which
the law, that ought to have for its object the advantage of the whole,
appears to be made only for the security of the most powerful? How shall
we account for the inhumanity of those societies, in which punishments
the most disproportionate to the crime, unmercifully take away the lives
of men, whom the most urgent necessity, the dreadful alternative of
famishing in a land of plenty, has obliged to become criminal? It
is thus that in a great number of civilized nations, the life of the
citizen is placed in the same scales with money; that the unhappy wretch
who is perishing from hunger, who is writhing under the most abject
misery, is put to death for having taken a pitiful portion of the
superfluity of another whom he beholds rolling in abundance! It is this
that, in many otherwise very enlightened societies, is called _justice_,
or making the punishment commensurate with the crime.

Let the man of humanity, whose tender feelings are alive to the welfare
of his species--let the moralist, who preaches virtue, who holds out
forbearance to man--let the philosopher, who dives into the secrets of
Nature--let the theologian himself say, if this dreadful iniquity, this
heinous sin, does not become yet more crying, when the laws decree the
most cruel tortures for crimes to which the most irrational customs gave
birth--which bad institutions engender--which evil examples multiply? Is
not this something like building a sorry, inconvenient hovel, and then
punishing the inhabitant, because he does not find all the conveniences
of the most complete mansion, of the most finished structure? Man, as
at cannot be too frequently repeated, is so prone to evil, only because
every thing appears to urge him on to the commission of it, by too
frequently shewing him vice triumphant: his education is void in a great
number of states, perhaps defective in nearly all; in many places
he receives from society no other principles, save those of an
unintelligible superstition; which make but a feeble barrier against
those propensities that are excited by dissolute manners; which are
encouraged by corrupt examples: in vain the law cries out to him:
"abstain from the goods of thy neighbour;" his wants, more powerful,
loudly declare to him that he must live: unaccustomed to reason, having
never been submitted to a wholesome discipline, he conceives he must
do it at the expence of a society who has done nothing for him: who
condemns him to groan in misery, to languish in indigence: frequently
deprived of the common necessaries requisite to support his existence,
which his essence, of which he is not the master, compels him to
conserve. He compensates himself by theft, he revenges himself by
assassination, he becomes a plunderer by profession, a murderer by
trade; he plunges into crime, and seeks at the risque of his life, to
satisfy those wants, whether real or imaginary, to which every thing
around him conspires to give birth. Deprived of education, he has
not been taught to restrain the fury of his temperament--to guide his
passions with discretion--to curb his inclinations. Without ideas of
decency, destitute of the true principles of honour, he engages in
criminal pursuits that injure his country: which at the same time has
been to him nothing more than a step-mother. In the paroxysm of his
rage, in the exacerbation of his mind, he loses sight of his neighbour's
rights, he overlooks the gibbet, he forgets the torture; his unruly
desires have become too potent--they have completely absorbed his mind;
by a criminal indulgence they have given an inveteracy to his habits
which preclude him from changing them; laziness has made him torpid:
remorse has gnawed his peace; despair has rendered him blind; he rushes
on to death; and society is compelled to punish him rigorously, for
those fatal, those necessary dispositions, which it has perhaps itself
engendered in his heart by evil example: or which at least, it has not
taken the pains seasonably to root out; which it has neglected to
oppose by suitable motives--by those calculated to give him honest
principles--to excite him to industrious habits, to imbue him with
virtuous inclinations. Thus, society frequently punishes those
propensities of which it is itself the author, or which its negligence
has suffered to spring up in the mind of man: it acts like those
unjust fathers, who chastise their children for vices which they have
themselves made them contract.

However unjust, however unreasonable this conduct may be, or appear to
be, it is not the less necessary: society, such as it is, whatever may
be its corruption, whatever vices may pervade its institutions, like
every thing else in Nature, is willing to subsist; tends to conserve
itself: in consequence, it is obliged to punish those excesses which
its own vicious constitution has produced: in despite of its peculiar
prejudices, notwithstanding its vices, it feels cogently that its own
immediate security demands that it should destroy the conspiracies of
those who make war against its tranquillity: if these, hurried on by the
foul current of their necessary propensities, disturb its repose--if,
borne on the stream of their ill-directed desires, they injure its
interests, this following the natural law, which obliges it to labour
to its own peculiar conservation, removes them out of its road; punishes
them with more or less rigor, according to the objects to which it
attaches the greatest importance, or which it supposes best suited to
further its own peculiar welfare: without doubt, it deceives itself
frequently, both upon these objects and the means; but it deceives
itself necessarily, for want of the knowledge calculated to enlighten
it, with regard to its true interests; for want of those, who regulate
its movements possessing proper vigilance--suitable talents--the
requisite virtue. From this it will appear, that the injustice of
a society badly constituted, and blinded by its prejudices, is as
necessary, as the crimes of those by whom it is hostilely attacked--by
whose vices it is distracted. The body politic, when in a state of
insanity, cannot act more consistently with reason, than one of its
members whose brain is disturbed by madness.

It will still be said that these maxims, by submitting every thing
to necessity, must confound, or even destroy the notions man forms of
justice and injustice; of good and evil; of merit and demerit: I deny
it. Although man, in every thing he does, acts necessarily, his actions
are good, they are just, they are meritorious, every time they tend
to the real utility of his fellows; of the society of which he makes a
part: they are, of necessity, distinguished from those which are really
prejudicial to the welfare of his associates. Society is just, it is
good, it is worthy our reverence, when it procures for all its members,
their physical wants, when it affords them protection, when it secures
their liberty, when it puts them in possession of their natural rights.
It is ill this that consists all the happiness of which the social
compact is susceptible: society is unjust, it is bad, it is unworthy
our esteem, when it is partial to a few, when it is cruel to the greater
number: it is then that it multiplies its enemies, obliges them to
revenge themselves by criminal actions which it is under the necessity
to punish. It is not upon the caprices of political society that depend
the true notions of justice and injustice--the right ideas of moral
good and evil--a just appreciation of merit and demerit; it is upon
_utility_, upon the necessity of things, which always forces man to feel
that there exists a mode of acting on which he implicitly relies, which
he is obliged to venerate, which he cannot help approving either in
his fellows, in himself, or in society: whilst there is another mode to
which he cannot lend his confidence, which his nature makes him to hate,
which his feelings compel him to condemn. It is upon his own peculiar
essence that man founds his ideas of pleasure and of pain--of right and
of wrong--of vice and of virtue: the only difference between these is,
that pleasure and pain make them instantaneously felt in his brain;
he becomes conscious of their existence upon the spot; in the place of
which, the advantages that accrue to him from justice, the benefit that
he derives from virtue, frequently do not display themselves but after
a long train of reflections--after multiplied experience and complicated
attention; which many, either from a defect in their conformation, or
from the peculiarity of the circumstances under which they are placed,
are prevented from making, or at least from making correctly.

By a necessary consequence of this truism, the system of fatalism,
although it has frequently been so accused, does not tend to encourage
man in crime, to make remorse vanish from his mind. His propensities are
to be ascribed to his nature; the use he makes of his passions depends
upon his habits, upon his opinions, upon the ideas he has received in
his education; upon the examples held forth by the society in which he
lives. These things are what necessarily decide his conduct. Thus,
when his temperament renders him susceptible of strong passions, he is
violent in his desires, whatever may be his speculations.

_Remorse_ is the painful sentiment excited in him by grief, caused
either by the immediate or probable future effect of his indulged
passions: if these effects were always useful to him, he would not
experience remorse; but, as soon as he is assured that his actions
render him hateful, that his passions make him contemptible; or, as
soon as he fears he shall be punished in some mode or other, he becomes
restless, discontented with himself--he reproaches himself with his own
conduct--he feels ashamed--he fears the judgement of those beings whose
affection he has learned to esteem--in whose good-will he finds his own
comfort deeply interested. His experience proves to him that the wicked
man is odious to all those upon whom his actions have any influence:
if these actions are concealed at the moment of commission, he knows
it very rarely happens they remain so for ever. The smallest reflection
convinces him that there is no wicked man who is not ashamed of his
own conduct--who is truly contented with himself--who does not envy the
condition of the good man--who is not obliged to acknowledge that he has
paid very dearly for those advantages he is never able to enjoy, without
experiencing the most troublesome sensations, without making the most
bitter reproaches against himself; then he feels ashamed, despises
himself, hates himself, his conscience becomes alarmed, remorse follows
in it train. To be convinced of the truth of this principle it is only
requisite to cast our eyes on the extreme precautions that tyrants
and villains, who are otherwise sufficiently powerful not to dread the
punishment of man, take to prevent exposure;--to what lengths they push
their cruelties against some, to what meannesses they stoop to others of
those who are able to hold them up to public scorn. Have they not, then,
a consciousness of their own iniquities? Do they not know that they
are hateful and contemptible? Have they not remorse? Is their condition
happy? Persons well brought up acquire these sentiments in their
education; which are either strengthened or enfeebled by public opinion,
by habit, or by the examples set before them. In a depraved society,
remorse either does not exist, or presently disappears; because, in
all his actions, it is ever the judgment of his fellow-man that man is
obliged necessarily to regard. He never feels either shame or remorse
for actions he sees approved, that are practised by the world.
Under corrupt governments, venal souls, avaricious being, mercenary
individuals, do not blush either at meanness, robbery, or rapine, when
it is authorized by example; in licentious nations, no one blushes
at adultery except the husband, at whose expence it is committed; in
superstitious countries, man does not blush to assassinate his fellow
for his opinions. It will be obvious, therefore, that his remorse, as
well as the ideas, whether right or wrong, which man has of decency,
virtue, justice, &c. are the necessary consequence of his temperament,
modified by the society in which he lives: assassins and thieves, when
they live only among themselves, have neither shame nor remorse.

Thus, I repeat, all the actions of man are necessary those which are
always useful, which constantly contribute to the real, tend to the
permanent happiness of his species, are called _virtues_, and are
necessarily pleasing to all who experience their influence; at least,
if their passions or false opinions do not oblige them to judge in that
manner which is but little accordant with the nature of things: each man
acts, each individual judges, necessarily, according to his own peculiar
mode of existence--after the ideas, whether true or false, which he has
formed with regard to his happiness. There are necessary actions
which man is obliged to approve; there are others, that, in despite of
himself, he is compelled to censure; of which the idea generates shame
when his reflection permits him to contemplate them under the same point
of view that they are regarded by his associates. The virtuous man and
the wicked man act from motives equally necessary: they differ simply in
their organization--in the ideas they form to themselves of happiness:
we love the one necessarily--we detest the other from the same
necessity. The law of his nature, which wills that a sensible being
shall constantly labour to preserve himself, has not left to man the
power to choose, or the free-agency to prefer pain to pleasure--vice to
utility--crime to virtue. It is, then, the essence of man himself that
obliges him to discriminate those actions which are advantageous to him,
form those which are prejudicial to his interest, from those which are
baneful to his felicity.

This distinction subsists even in the most corrupt societies, in which
the ideas of virtue, although completely effaced from their conduct,
remain the same in their mind. Let us suppose a matt, who had decidedly
determined for villainy, who should say to himself--"It is folly to
be virtuous in a society that is depraved, in a community that is
debauched." Let us suppose also, that he has sufficient address, the
unlooked-for good fortune to escape censure or punishment, during a
long series of years; I say, that in despite of all these circumstances,
apparently so advantageous for himself, such a man has neither been
happy nor contented with his own conduct, He has been in continual
agonies--ever at war with his own actions--in a state of constant
agitation. How much pain, how much anxiety, has he not endured in this
perpetual conflict with himself? How many precautions, what excessive
labour, what endless solicitude, has he not been compelled to employ in
this continued struggle; how many embarrassments, how many cares, has
he not experienced in this eternal wrestling with his associates, whose
penetration he dreads, whose scorn he fears will follow a true knowledge
of his pursuits. Demand of him what he thinks of himself, he will shrink
from the question. Approach the bedside of this villain at the moment
he is dying; ask him if he would be willing to recommence, at the same
price, a life of similar agitation? If he is ingenuous, he will avow
that he has tasted neither repose nor happiness; that each crime filled
him with inquietude--that reflection prevented him from sleeping--that
the world has been to him only one continued scene of alarm--an
uninterrupted concatenation of terror--an everlasting, anxiety of
mind;--that to live peaceably upon bread and water, appears to him to be
a much happier, a more easy condition, than to possess riches, credit,
reputation, honours, on the same terms that he has himself acquired
them. If this villain, notwithstanding all his success, finds his
condition so deplorable, what must be thought of the feelings of those
who have neither the same resources nor the same advantages to succeed
in their criminal projects.

Thus, the system of necessity is a truth not only founded upon certain
experience, but, again, it establishes morals upon an immoveable basis.
Far from sapping the foundations of virtue, it points out its necessity;
it clearly shows the invariable sentiments it must excite--sentiments
so necessary, so strong, so congenial to his existence, that all the
prejudices of man--all the vices of his institutions--all the effect of
evil example, have never been able entirely to eradicate them from his
mind. When he mistakes the advantages of virtue, it ought to be ascribed
to the errors that are infused into him--to the irrationality of
his institutions: all his wanderings are the fatal consequences of
error,--the necessary result of prejudices which have identified
themselves with his existence. Let it not, therefore, any longer be
imputed to his nature that he has become wicked, but to those baneful
opinions which he has imbibed with his mother's milk,--that have
rendered him ambitious, avaricious, envious, haughty, arrogant,
debauched, intolerant, obstinate, prejudiced, incommodious to his
fellows, mischievous to himself. It is education that carries into his
system the germ of those vices which necessarily torment him during the
whole course of his life.

_Fatalism_ is reproached with discouraging man--with damping the ardour
of his soul--with plunging him into apathy--with destroying the bonds
that should connect him with society. Its opponents say, "If every thing
is necessary, we must let things go on, and not be disturbed by any
thing." But does it depend on man to be sensible or not? Is he master
of feeling or not feeling pain? If Nature has endowed him with a humane,
with a tender soul, is it possible he should not interest himself in a
very lively manner, in the welfare of beings whom he knows are necessary
to his own peculiar happiness? His feelings are necessary: they depend
on his own peculiar nature, cultivated by education. His imagination,
prompt to concern itself with the felicity of his race, causes his
heart to be oppressed at the sight of those evils his fellow-creature is
obliged to endure,--makes his soul tremble in the contemplation of
the misery arising from the despotism that crushes him--from the
superstition that leads him astray--from the passions that distract
him in a state of warfare against his neighbour. Although he knows that
death is the fatal, the necessary period to the form of all beings, his
soul is not affected in a less lively manner at the loss of a beloved
wife,--at the demise of a child calculated to console his old age,--at
the final separation from an esteemed friend who had become dear to his
heart. Although he is not ignorant that it is the essence of fire to
burn, he does not believe he is dispensed from using his utmost efforts
to arrest the progress of a conflagration. Although he is intimately
convinced that the evils to which he is a witness, are the necessary
consequence of primitive errors with which his fellow-citizens are
imbued, he feels he ought to display truth to them, if Nature has given
him the necessary courage; under the conviction, that if they listen to
it, it will, by degrees, become a certain remedy for their sufferings,
that it will produce those necessary effects which it is of its essence
to operate.

If the speculations of man modify his conduct, if they change his
temperament, he ought not to doubt that the system of necessity would
have the most advantageous influence over him; not only is it suitable
to calm the greater part of his inquietude, but it will also contribute
to inspire him with a useful submission, a rational resignation, to the
decrees of a destiny with which his too great sensibility frequently
causes him to be overwhelmed. This happy apathy, without doubt, would
be, desirable to those whose souls, too tender to brook the inequalities
of life, frequently render them the deplorable sport of their fate; or
whose organs, too weak to make resistance to the buffettings of fortune,
incessantly expose them to be dashed in pieces under the rude blows of
adversity.

But, of all the important advantages the human race would be enabled
to derive from the doctrine of fatalism, if man was to apply it to
his conduct, none would be of greater magnitude, none of more happy
consequence, none that would more efficaciously corroborate his
happiness, than that general indulgence, that universal toleration, that
must necessarily spring from the opinion, that _all is necessary_. In
consequence, of the adoption of this principle, the fatalist, if he
had a sensible soul, would commisserate the prejudices of his
fellow-man--would lament over his wanderings--would seek to undeceive
him--would try by gentleness to lead him into the right path, without
ever irritating himself against his weakness, without ever insulting
his misery. Indeed, what right have we to hate or despise man for his
opinions? His ignorance, his prejudices, his imbecility, his vices,
his passions, his weakness, are they not the inevitable consequence of
vicious institutions? Is he not sufficiently punished by the multitude
of evils that afflict him on every side? Those despots who crush him
with an iron sceptre, are they not continual victims to their own
peculiar restlessness--mancipated to their perpetual diffidence--eternal
slaves to their suspicions? Is there one wicked individual who enjoys
a pure, an unmixed, a real happiness? Do not nations unceasingly
suffer from their follies? Are they not the incessant dupes to their
prejudices? Is not the ignorance of chiefs, the ill-will they bear to
reason, the hatred they have for truth, punished by the imbecility of
their citizens, by the ruin of the states they govern? In short, the
fatalist would grieve to witness necessity each moment exercising its
severe decrees upon mortals who are ignorant of its power, or who feel
its castigation, without being willing to acknowledge the hand from
whence it proceeds; he will perceive that ignorance is necessary, that
credulity is the necessary result of ignorance--that slavery and bondage
are necessary consequences of ignorant credulity--that corruption of
manners springs necessarily from slavery--that the miseries of society,
the unhappiness of its members, are the necessary offspring of this
corruption. The fatalist, in consequence, of these ideas, will neither
be a gloomy misanthrope, nor a dangerous citizen; he will pardon in
his brethren those wanderings, he will forgive them those errors--which
their vitiated nature, by a thousand causes, has rendered necessary--he
will offer them consolation--he will endeavour to inspire them with
courage--he will be sedulous to undeceive them in their idle notions,
in their chimerical ideas; but he will never display against them
bitterness of soul--he will never show them that rancorous animosity
which is more suitable, to make them revolt from his doctrines, than to
attract them to reason;--he will not disturb the repose of society--he
will not raise the people to insurrection against the sovereign
authority; on the contrary, he will feel that the miserable blindness of
the great, and the wretched perverseness, the fatal obstinacy of so many
conductors of the people, are the necessary consequence of that flattery
that is administered to them in their infancy--that feeds their hopes
with allusive falsehoods--of the depraved malice of those who surround
them--who wickedly corrupt them, that they may profit by their
folly--that they may take advantage of their weakness: in short, that
these things are the inevitable effect of that profound ignorance of
their true interest, in which every thing strives to keep them.

The fatalist has no right to be vain of his peculiar talents; no
privilege to be proud of his virtues; he knows that these qualities
are only the consequence of his natural organization, modified by
circumstances that have in no wise depended upon himself. He will
neither have hatred nor feel contempt for those whom Nature and
circumstances have not favoured in a similar manner. It is the fatalist
who ought to be humble, who should be modest from principle: is he
not obliged to acknowledge, that he possesses nothing that he has not
previously received?

In fact, will not every thing conduct to indulgence the fatalist whom
experience has convinced of the necessity of things? Will he not see
with pain, that it is the essence of a society badly constituted,
unwisely governed, enslaved to prejudice, attached to unreasonable
customs, submitted to irrational laws, degraded under despotism,
corrupted by luxury, inebriated by false opinions, to be filled with
trifling members; to be composed of vicious citizens; to be made up
of cringing slaves, who are proud of their chains; of ambitious men,
without idea of true glory; of misers and prodigals; of fanatics and
libertines! Convinced of the necessary connection of things, he will
not be surprised to see that the supineness of their chiefs carries
discouragement into their country, or that the influence of their
governors stirs up bloody wars by which it is depopulated, and causes
useless expenditures that impoverish it; that all these excesses united,
is the reason why so many nations contain only men wanting happiness,
without understanding to attain it; who are devoid of morals, destitute
of virtue. In all this he will contemplate nothing more than the
necessary action and re-action of physics upon morals, of morals upon
physics. In short, all who acknowledge fatality, will remain persuaded
that a nation badly governed is a soil very fruitful in venomous
reptiles--very abundant in poisonous plants; that these have such a
plentiful growth as to crowd each other and choak themselves. It is in a
country cultivated by the hands of a Lycurgus, that he will witness
the production of intrepid citizens, of noble-minded individuals,
of disinterested men, who are strangers to irregular pleasures. In a
country cultivated by a Tiberius, he will find nothing but villains with
depraved hearts, men with mean contemptible souls, despicable informers,
execrable traitors. It is the soil, it is the circumstances in which
man finds himself placed, that renders him either a useful object or
a prejudicial being: the wise man avoids the one, as he would those
dangerous reptiles whose nature it is to sting and communicate their
deadly venom; he attaches himself to the other, esteems him, loves him,
as he does those delicious fruits with whose rich maturity his palate
is pleasantly gratified, with whose cooling juices he finds himself
agreeably refreshed: he sees the wicked without anger--he cherishes the
good with pleasure--he delights in the bountiful: he knows full well
that the tree which is languishing without culture in the arid, sandy
desert, that is stunted for want of attention, leafless for want of
moisture, that has grown crooked from neglect, become barren from
want of loam, whose tender bark is gnawed by rapacious beasts of prey,
pierced by innumerable insects, would perhaps have expanded far and wide
its verdant boughs from a straight and stately stem, have brought forth
delectable fruit, have afforded from its luxuriant foliage under its
lambent leaves an umbrageous refreshing retreat from the scorching rays
of a meridian sun, have offered beneath its swelling branches, under
its matted tufts a shelter from the pitiless storm, it its seed had
been fortunately sown in a more fertile soil, placed in a more congenial
climate, had experienced the fostering cares of a skilful cultivator.

Let it not then be said, that it is degrading man reduce his functions
to a pure mechanism; that it is shamefully to undervalue him,
scandalously to abuse him, to compare him to a tree; to an abject
vegetation. The philosopher devoid of prejudice does not understand this
language, invented by those who are ignorant of what constitutes the
true dignity of man. A tree is an object which, in its station, joins
the useful with the agreeable; it merits our approbation when it
produces sweet and pleasant fruit; when it affords a favourable shade.
All machines are precious, when they are truly useful, when they
faithfully perform the functions for which they are designed. Yes, I
speak it with courage, reiterate it with pleasure, the honest man, when
he has talents, when he possesses virtue, is, for the beings of his
species, a tree that furnishes them with delicious fruit, that affords
them refreshing shelter: the honest man is a machine of which the
springs are adapted to fulfil its functions in a manner that must
gratify the expectation of all his fellows. No, I should not blush, I
should not feel degraded, to be a machine of this sort; and my heart
would leap with joy, if I could foresee that the fruit of my reflections
would one day be useful to my race, consoling to my fellow-man.

Is not Nature herself a vast machine, of which the human species is but
a very feeble spring? I see nothing contemptible either in her or her
productions; all the beings who come out of her hands are good, are
noble, are sublime, whenever they co-operate to the production of
another, to the maintenance of harmony in the sphere where they must
act. Of whatever nature the soul may be, whether it is made mortal, or
whether it be supposed immortal; whether it is regarded as a spirit,
or whether it be looked upon as a portion of the body; it will be found
noble, it will be estimated great, it will be ranked good, it will be
considered sublime, in a Socrates, in an Aristides, in a Cato: it will
be thought abject, it will be viewed as despicable, it will be called
corrupt, in a Claudius, in a Sejanus, in a Nero: its energies will be
admired, we shall be delighted with its manner, fascinated with
its efforts, in a Shakespeare, in a Corneille, in a Newton, in a
Montesquieu: its baseness will be lamented, when we behold mean,
contemptible men, who flatter tyranny, or who servilely cringe at the
foot of superstition.

All that has been said in the course of this work, proves clearly
that every thing is necessary; that every thing is always in order,
relatively to Nature; where all beings do nothing more than follow the
laws that are imposed on their respective classes. It is part of her
plan, that certain portions of the earth shall bring forth delicious
fruits, shall blossom beauteous flowers; whilst others shall only
furnish brambles, shall yield nothing but noxious vegetables: she has
been willing that some societies should produce wise men, great heroes;
that others should only give birth to abject souls, contemptible
men, without energy, destitute of virtue. Passions, winds, tempests,
hurricanes, volcanoes, wars, plagues, famines, diseases, death, are as
necessary to her eternal march as the beneficent heat of the sun, the
serenity of the atmosphere, the gentle showers of spring, plentiful
years, peace, health, harmony, life: vice and virtue, darkness and
light, and science are equally necessary; the one are not benefits,
the other are not evils, except for those beings whose happiness they
influence by either favouring or deranging their peculiar mode of
existence. _The whole cannot be miserable, but it may contain unhappy
individuals._

Nature, then, distributes with the same hand that which is called
_order_, and that which is called _disorder_; that which is called
_pleasure_, and that which is called _pain_: in short, she diffuses by
the necessity of her existence, good and evil in the world we inhabit.
Let not man, therefore, either arraign her bounty, or tax her
with malice; let him not imagine that his feeble cries, his weak
supplications, can never arrest her colossal power, always acting after
immutable laws; let him submit silently to his condition; and when he
suffers, let him not seek a remedy by recurring to chimeras that his
own distempered imagination has created; let him draw from the stores
of Nature herself, the remedies which she offers for the evil she brings
upon him: if she sends him diseases, let him search in her bosom for
those salutary productions to which she has given birth, which will cure
them: if she gives him errors, she also furnishes him with experience to
counteract them; in truth, she supplies him with an antidote suitable
to destroy their fatal effects. If she permits man to groan under the
pressure of his vices, beneath the load of his follies, she also shews
him in virtue, a sure remedy for his infirmities: if the evils that
some societies experience are necessary, when they shall have become
too incommodious they will be irresistibly obliged to search for those
remedies which Nature will always point out to them. If this Nature has
rendered existence insupportable, to some unfortunate beings, whom she
appears to have selected for her victims, still death, is a door
that will surely be opened to them--that will deliver them from their
misfortunes, although in their puny, imbecile, wayward judgment, they
may be deemed impossible of cure.

Let not man, then, accuse Nature with being inexorable to him, since
there does not exist in her whole circle an evil for which she has not
furnished the remedy, to those who have the courage to seek it, who have
the fortitude to apply it. Nature follows general and necessary laws
in all her operations; physical calamity and moral evil are not to
be ascribed to her want of kindness, but to the necessity of things.
Physical calamity is the derangement produced in man's organs by
physical causes which he sees act: moral evil is the derangement
produced in him by physical causes of which the action is to him a
secret. These causes always terminate by producing sensible effects,
which are capable of striking his senses; neither the thoughts nor the
will of man ever shew themselves, but by the marked effects they
produce either in himself or upon those beings whom Nature has rendered
susceptible of feeling their impulse. He suffers, because it is of the
essence of some beings to derange the economy of his machine; he enjoys,
because the properties of some beings are analogous to his own mode of
existence; he is born, because it is of the nature of some matter to
combine itself under a determinate form; he lives, he acts, he thinks,
because it is of the essence of certain combinations to maintain
themselves in existence by given means for a season; at length he dies,
because a necessary law prescribes that all the combinations which are
formed, shall either be destroyed or dissolve themselves. From all this
it results, that Nature is impartial to all its productions; she submits
man, like all other beings, to those eternal laws from which she has
not even exempted herself; if she was to suspend these laws, even for
an instant, from that moment disorder would reign in her, system; her
harmony would be disturbed.

Those who wish to study Nature, must take experience for their guide;
this, and this only, can enable them to dive into her secrets, to
unravel by degrees, the frequently imperceptible woof of those slender
causes, of which she avails herself to operate the greatest phenomena:
by the aid of experience, man often discovers in her properties,
perceives modes of action entirely unknown to the ages which have
preceded him; those effects which his grandfathers contemplated as
marvellous, which they regarded as supernatural efforts, looked upon
as miracles, have become familiar to him in the present day, and are at
this moment contemplated as simple and natural consequences, of which he
comprehends the mechanism--of which he understands the cause--of which
he can unfold the manner of action. Man, in fathoming Nature, has
arrived at discovering the true causes of earthquakes; of the periodical
motion of the sea; of subterraneous conflagrations; of meteors; of the
electrical fluid, the whole of which were considered by his ancestors,
and are still so by the ignorant, by the uninformed, as indubitable
signs of heaven's wrath. His posterity, in following up, in rectifying
the experience already made, will perhaps go further, and discover those
causes which are totally veiled from present eyes. The united efforts of
the human species will one day perhaps penetrate even into the sanctuary
of Nature, and throw into light many of those mysteries which up to the
present time she seems to have refused to all his researches.

In contemplating man under his true aspect; in quitting authority
to follow experience; in laying aside error to consult reason; in
submitting every thing to physical laws, from which his imagination has
vainly exerted its utmost power to withdraw them; it will be found that
the phenomena of the moral world follow exactly the same general rules
as those of the physical; that the greater part of those astonishing
effects, which ignorance, aided by his prejudices, make him consider as
inexplicable, and regard as wonderful, are natural consequences flowing
from simple causes. He will find that the eruption of a volcano and the
birth of a Tamerlane are to Nature the same thing; in recurring to
the primitive causes of those striking events which he beholds with
consternation, which he contemplates with fearful alarm, in falling
back to the sources of those terrible revolutions, those frightful
convulsions, those dreadful explosions that distract mankind, lay waste
the fairest works of Nature, ravage nations, and tear up society by
the roots; he will find the wills that compassed the most surprising
changes, that operated the most extensive alterations in the state of
things, that brought about the most unlooked-for events, were moved
by physical causes, whose exility made him treat them as contemptible;
whose want of consequence in his own purblind eyes led him to believe
them utterly incapable to give birth to the phenomena whose magnitude
strikes him with such awe, whose stupendous range fills him with such
amazement.

If man was to judge of causes by their effects, there would be no small
causes in the universe. In a Nature where every thing is connected,
where every thing acts and re-acts, moves and changes, composes and
decomposes, forms and destroys, there is not an atom which does not play
an important part--that does not occupy a necessary station; there
is not an imperceptible particle, however minute, which, placed in
convenient circumstances, does not operate the most prodigious effects.
If man was in a capacity to follow the eternal chain, to pursue the
concatenated links, that connect with their causes all the effects he
witnesses, without losing sight of any one of its rings,--if he could
unravel the ends of those insensible threads that give impulse to the
thoughts, decision to the will, direction to the passions of those men
who are called mighty, according to their actions, he would find, they
are true atoms which Nature employs to move the moral world; that it is
the unexpected but necessary function of these indiscernible particles
of matter, it is their aggregation, their combination, their proportion,
their fermentation, which modifying the individual by degrees, in
despite of himself, frequently without his own knowledge, make him
think, will, and act, in a determinate, but necessary mode. If, then,
the will and the actions of this individual have an influence over a
great number of other men, here is the moral world in a state of the
greatest combustion, and those consequences ensue which man contemplates
with fearful wonder. Too much acrimony in the bile of a fanatic--blood
too much inflamed in the heart of a conqueror--a painful indigestion in
the stomach of a monarch--a whim that passes in the mind of a woman--are
sometimes causes sufficient to bring on war--to send millions of men
to the slaughter--to root out an entire people--to overthrow walls--to
reduce cities into ashes--to plunge nations into slavery--to put a
whole people into mourning--to breed famine in a land--to engender
pestilence--to propagate calamity--to extend misery--to spread
desolation far and wide upon the surface of our globe, through a long
series of ages.

The dominant passion of an individual of the human species, when it
disposes of the passions of many others, arrives at combining their
will, at uniting their efforts, and thus decides the condition of man.
It is after this manner that an ambitious, crafty, and voluptuous
Arab, gave to his countrymen an impulse of which the effect was the
subjugation and desolation of vast countries in Asia, in Africa, and in
Europe; whose consequences were sufficiently potential to erect a new,
extensive, but slavish empire; to give a novel system of religion to
millions of human beings; to overturn the altars of their former gods;
in short, to alter the opinions, to change the customs of a considerable
portion of the population of the earth. But in examining the primitive
sources of this strange revolution, what were the concealed causes that
had an influence over this man--that excited his peculiar passions, and
modified his temperament? What was the matter from the combination of
which resulted a crafty, ambitious, enthusiastic, and eloquent man; in
short, a personage competent to impose on his fellow-creatures--capable
of making them concur in his most extravagant views. They were,
undoubtedly, the insensible particles of his blood; the imperceptible
texture of his fibres; the salts, more or less acrid, that stimulated
his nerves; the proportion of igneous fluid that circulated in his
system. From whence came these elements? It was from the womb of his
mother; from the aliments which nourished him; from the climate in which
he had his birth; from the ideas he received; from the air which
he respired; without reckoning a thousand inappreciable, a thousand
transitory causes, that in the instance given had modified, had
determined the passions of this importent being, who had thereby
acquired the capacity to change the face of this mundane sphere.

To causes so weak in their principles, if in the origin the slightest
obstacle had been opposed, these wonderful events, which have astounded
man, would never have been produced. The fit of an ague, the consequence
of bile a little too much inflamed, had sufficed, perhaps, to have
rendered abortive all the vast projects, of the legislator of the
Mussulmen. Spare diet, a glass of water, a sanguinary evacuation, would
sometimes have been sufficient to have saved kingdoms.

It will be seen, then, that the condition of the human species, as well
as that of each of its individuals, every instant depends on insensible
causes, to which circumstances, frequently fugitive, give birth; that
opportunity developes, that convenience puts in action: man attributes
their effects to chance, whilst these causes operate necessarily, act
according to fixed rules: he has frequently neither the sagacity nor
the honesty to recur to their true principles; he regards such feeble
motives with contempt, because he has been taught to consider them as
incapable of producing such stupendous events. They are, however, these
motives, weak as they may appear to be, these springs, so pitiful in his
eyes, is which according to her necessary laws, suffice in the hands of
Nature to move the universe. The conquests of a Gengis-Khan have nothing
in them that is more strange to the eye of a philosopher than the
explosion of a mine, caused in its principle by a feeble spark, which
commences with setting fire to a single grain of powder; this presently
communicates itself to many millions of other contiguous grains, of
which the united force, the multiplied powers, terminate by blowing
up mountains, overthrowing fortifications, or converting populous,
well-built cities, into heaps of ruins.

Thus, imperceptible causes, concealed in the bosom of Nature, until the
moment their action is displayed, frequently decide the fate of man.
The happiness or the wretchedness, the prosperity or the misery of each
individual, as well as that of whole nations, are attached to powers
which it is impossible for him to foresee, which he cannot appreciate,
of which he is incapable to arrest the action. Perhaps at this moment
atoms are amassing, insensible particles are combining, of which the
assemblage shall form a sovereign, who will be either the scourge or the
saviour of a mighty empire. Man cannot answer for his own destiny one
single instant; he has no cognizance of what is passing within himself;
he is ignorant of the causes which act in the interior of his machine;
he knows nothing of the circumstances that will give them activity:
he is unacquainted with what may develope their energy; it is,
nevertheless, on these causes, impossible to be unravelled by him, that
depends his condition in life. Frequently, an unforeseen rencontre
gives birth to a passion in his soul, of which the consequences shall,
necessarily, have an influence over his felicity. It is thus that
the most virtuous man, by a whimsical combination of unlooked-for
circumstances, may become in an instant the most criminal of his
species.

This truth, without doubt, will be found frightful--this fact will
unquestionably appear terrible: but at bottom, what has it more
revolting than that which teaches him that an infinity of accidents, as
irremediable as they are unforeseen, may every instant wrest from him
that life to which he is so strongly attached? Fatalism reconciles the
good man easily to death: it makes him contemplate it as a certain means
of withdrawing himself from wickedness; this system shews death, even
to the happy man himself, as a medium between him and those misfortunes
which frequently terminate by poisoning his happiness; that end with
embittering the most fortunate existence.

Let man, then, submit to necessity: in despite of himself it will always
hurry him forward: let him resign himself to Nature, let him accept the
good with which she presents him: let him oppose to the necessary evil
which she makes him experience, those necessary remedies which she
consents to afford him; let him not disturb his mind with useless
inquietude; let him enjoy with moderation, because he will find that
pain is the necessary companion of excess: let him follow the paths of
virtue, because every thing will prove to him, even in this world of
perverseness, that it is absolutely necessary to render him estimable in
the eyes of others, to make him contented with himself.

Feeble, vain mortal, thou pretendest to be a free agent. Alas! dost thou
not see all the threads which enchain thee? Dost thou not perceive that
they are atoms which form thee; that they are atoms which move thee;
that they are circumstances independent of thyself, that modify
thy being; that they are circumstances over which thou hast not any
controul, that rule thy destiny? In the puissant Nature that environs
thee, shalt thou pretend to be the only being who is able to resist her
power? Dost thou really believe that thy weak prayers will induce her
to stop in her eternal march; that thy sickly desires can oblige her to
change her everlasting course?





CHAP. XIII.

_Of the Immortality of the Soul;--of the Doctrine of a future State;--of
the Fear of Death._


The reflections presented to the reader in this work, tend to shew what
ought to be thought of the human soul, as well as of its operations and
faculties: every thing proves, in the most convincing manner, that it
acts, that it moves according to laws similar to those prescribed to the
other beings of Nature; that it cannot be distinguished from the body;
that it is born with it; that it grows up with it; that it is modified
in the same progression; in short, every thing ought to make man
conclude that it perishes with it. This soul, as well as the body,
passes through a state of weakness and infancy; it is in this stage of
its existence, that it is assailed by a multitude of modifications; that
it is stored with an infinity of ideas, which it receives from exterior
objects through the medium of the organs; that it amasses facts, that
it collects experience, whether true or false, that it forms to itself
a system of conduct, according to which it thinks, in conformity with
which it acts, from whence results either its happiness or its misery,
its reason or its delirium, its virtues or its vices; arrived with the
body at its full powers, having in conjunction with it reached maturity,
it does not cease for a single instant to partake in common of its
sensations, whether these are agreeable or disagreeable; it participates
in all its pleasures; it shares in all its pains; in consequence it
conjointly approves or disapproves its state; like it, it is either
sound or diseased; active or languishing; awake or asleep. In old age
man extinguishes entirely, his fibres become rigid, his nerves loose
their elasticity, his senses are obtunded, his sight grows dim, his ears
lose their quickness, his ideas become unconnected, his memory fails,
his imagination cools: what then becomes of his soul? Alas! it sinks
down with the body; it gets benumbed as this loses its feeling; becomes
sluggish as this decays in activity; like it, when enfeebled by years
it fulfils its functions with pain; this substance, which is deemed
spiritual, which is considered immaterial, which it is endeavoured to
distinguish from matter, undergoes the same revolutions, experiences the
same vicissitudes, submits to the same modifications, as does the body
itself.

In despite of this proof of the materiality of the soul, of its identity
with the body, so convincing to the unprejudiced, some thinkers have
supposed, that although the latter is perishable, the former does
not perish: that this portion of man enjoys the especial privilege
of _immortality_; that it is exempt from dissolution: free from those
changes of form all the beings in Nature undergo: in consequence of
this, man has persuaded himself, that this privileged soul does not die:
its immortality, above all, appears indubitable to those who suppose it
spiritual: after having made it a simple being, without extent, devoid
of parts, totally different from any thing of which he has a knowledge,
he pretended that it was not subjected to the laws of decomposition
common to all beings, of which experience shews him the continual
operation.

Man, feeling within himself a concealed force, that insensibly produced
action, that imperceptibly gave direction to the motion of his machine,
believed that the entire of Nature, of whose energies he is ignorant,
with whose modes of acting he is unacquainted, owed its motion to an
agent analogous to his own soul; who acted upon the great macrocosm, in
the same manner that this soul acted upon his body. Man, having supposed
himself double, made Nature double also: he distinguished her from her
own peculiar energy; he separated her from her mover, which by degrees
he made spiritual. Thus Nature, distinguished from herself, was regarded
as the soul of the world; and the soul of man was considered as opinions
emanating from this universal soul. This notion upon the origin of the
soul is of very remote antiquity. It was that of the Egyptians, of the
Chaldeans, of the Hebrews, of the greater number of the _wise men of
the east._ It should appear that Moses believed with the Egyptians the
divine emanation of souls: according to him, _"God formed man of the
dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;
and man became a living soul:"_ nevertheless, the Catholic, at this day,
rejects this system of _divine emanation,_ seeing that it supposes the
Divinity divisible: which would have, been inconvenient to the Romish
idea of purgatory, or to the system of everlasting punishment. Although
Moses, in the above quotation, seems to indicate that the soul was a
portion of the Divinity, it does not appear that the doctrine of the
_immortality of the soul_ was established in any one of the books
attributed to him. It was during the Babylonish captivity, that the
Jews learned the doctrine of future rewards and punishments, taught
by Zoroaster to the Persians, but which the Hebrew legislator did not
understand, or, at least, he left his people ignorant on the subject. It
was in those schools, that Pherecydes, Pythagoras, and Plato, drew up a
doctrine so flattering to the vanity of human nature--so gratifying to
the imagination of mortals. Man thus believed himself a portion of
the Divinity; immortal, like the Godhead, in one part of himself:
nevertheless, subsequent religions have renounced these advantages,
which they judged incompatible with the other parts of their systems;
they held forth that the Sovereign of Nature, or her contriver was not
the soul of man, but, that, in virtue of his omnipotence, he created
human souls, in proportion as he produced the bodies which they must
animate; and they taught, that these souls once produced, by an effect
of the same omnipotence, enjoyed immortality.

However it may be with these variations upon the origin of souls, those
who supposed them emanating from the Divinity, believed that after the
death of the body, which served them for an envelope, they returned, by
refunding to their first source. Those who, without adopting the opinion
of divine emanation, admired the spirituality, believed the immortality
of the soul, were under the necessity to suppose a region, to find out
an abode for these souls, which their imagination painted to them, each
according to his fears, his hopes, his desires, and his prejudices.

Nothing is more popular than the doctrine of the _immortality of the
soul;_ nothing is more universally diffused than the expectation of
another life. Nature having inspired man with the most ardent love for
his existence, the desire of preserving himself for ever was a necessary
consequence; this desire was presently converted into certainty: from
that desire of existing eternally which Nature has implanted in him, he
made an argument, to prove that man would never cease to exist. Abady
says, "our soul has no useless desires, it naturally desires an eternal
life;" and by a very strange logic, he concludes that this desire
could not fail to be fulfilled. Cicero, before Abady, had declared the
immortality of the soul to be an innate idea in man; yet, strange
to tell, in another part of his works he considers Pherecydes as the
inventor of the doctrine. However this may be, man, thus disposed,
listened with avidity to those who announced to him systems so
conformable to his wishes. Nevertheless, he ought not to regard as
supernatural the desire of existing, which always was, and always will
be, of the essence man; it ought not to excite surprise, if he received
with eagerness an hypothesis that flattered his hopes, by promising
that his desire would one day be gratified; but let him beware how he
concludes that this desire itself is an indubitable proof of the reality
of this future life, with which at present he seems to be so much
occupied. The passion for existence is in man only a natural consequence
of the tendency of a sensible being, whose essence it is to be willing
to conserve himself: in the human being it follows the energy of his
soul--keeps pace with the force of his imagination--always ready to
realize that which he strongly desires. He desires the life of the body,
nevertheless this desire is frustrated; wherefore should not the desire
for the life of the soul be frustrated like the other? The partizans of
the doctrine of the immortality of the soul reason thus: "All men
desire to live for ever, therefore they will live for ever." Suppose
the argument retorted on them; would it be believed? If it was asserted,
"All men naturally desire to be rich; therefore all men will one day be
rich," how many partizans would this doctrine find?

The most simple reflection upon the nature of his soul, ought to
convince man that the idea of its immortality is only an illusion of the
brain. Indeed what is his soul, save the principle of sensibility? What
is it, to think, to enjoy, to suffer; is it not to feel? What is life,
except it be the assemblage of modifications, the congregation of
motion, peculiar to an organized being? Thus, as soon as the body
ceases to live, its sensibility can no longer exercise itself; when its
sensibility is no more, it can no longer have ideas, nor in consequence
thoughts. Ideas, as we have proved, can only reach man through his
senses; now, how will they have it, that once deprived of his senses,
he is yet capable of receiving sensations, of having perceptions, of
forming ideas? As they have made the soul of man a being separated
from the animated body, wherefore have they not made life a being
distinguished from the living body? Life in a body is the totality of
this motion; feeling and thought make a part of this motion: thus it is
reasonable to suppose, that in the dead man these motions will cease,
like all the others.

Indeed, by what reasoning will it be proved, that this soul, which
cannot feel, think, will, or act, but by aid of man's organs, can suffer
pain, be susceptible of pleasure, or even have a consciousness of its
own existence, when the organs which should warn it of their presence
are decomposed or destroyed? Is it not evident, that the soul depends
on the arrangement of the various parts of the body; on the order with
which these parts conspire to perform their functions; on the combined
motion of the whole? Thus the organic structure once destroyed, can it
be reasonably doubted the soul will be destroyed also? Is it not seen,
that during the whole course of human life this soul is stimulated,
changed, deranged, disturbed, by all the changes man's organs
experience? And yet it will be insisted, that this soul acts, thinks,
subsists, when these same organs have entirely disappeared!

An organized being may be compared to a clock, which once broken, is no
longer suitable to the use for which it was designed. To say, that the
soul shall feel, shall think, shall enjoy, shall suffer after the
death of the body; is to pretend that a clock, shivered into a thousand
pieces, will continue to strike the hour; shall yet have the faculty
of marking the progress of time. Those who say, that the soul of man is
able to subsist, notwithstanding the destruction of the body, evidently
support the position, that the modification of a body will be enabled
to conserve itself after the subject is destroyed: this on any other
occasion would be considered as completely absurd.

It will be said that the conservation of the soul after the death of the
body, is an effect of the Divine Omnipotence: but this is supporting an
absurdity by a gratuitous hypothesis. It surely is not meant by Divine
Omnipotence, of whatever nature it may be supposed, that a thing shall
exist and not exist at the same time: unless this be granted, it will be
rather difficult to prove, that a soul shall feel and think without the
intermediates necessary to thought.

Let them then, at least, forbear asserting, that reason is not wounded
by the doctrine of the immortality of the soul; or by the expectation
of a future life. These notions, formed to flatter man, to disturb the
imagination of the uninformed, who do not reason, cannot appear either
convincing or probable to enlightened minds. Reason, exempted from the
illusions of prejudice, is, without doubt, wounded by the supposition of
a soul, that feels, that thinks, that is afflicted, that rejoices, that
has ideas, without having organs; that is to say, destitute of the only
known medium, wanting all the natural means, by which, according to
what we can understand, it is possible for it to feel sensations, have
perceptions, or form ideas. If it be replied, other means are able to
exist, which are _supernatural_ or _unknown_, it may be answered, that
these means of transmitting ideas to the soul, separated from the body,
are not better known to, or more within the reach of, those who suppose
it, that they are of other men. It is, at least, very certain, it cannot
admit even of a controversy, that all those who reject the system of
innate ideas, cannot, without contradicting their own principles, admit
the doctrine of the immortality of the soul.

In defiance of the consolation that so many persons pretend to find in
the notion of an eternal existence; in despite of that firm persuasion
which such numbers of men assure us they have, that their souls will
survive their bodies, they seem so very much alarmed at the dissolution
of this body, that they do not contemplate their end, which they ought
to desire as the period of so many miseries, but with the greatest
inquietude; so true it is, that the real, the present, even accompanied
with pain, has much more influence over mankind, than the most beautiful
chimeras of the future; which he never views but through the clouds
of uncertainty. Indeed the most religious men, notwithstanding the
conviction they express of a blessed eternity, do not find these
flattering hopes sufficiently consoling to repress their fears; to
prevent their trembling, when they think on the necessary dissolution of
their bodies. Death was always, for mortals, the most frightful point of
view; they regard it as a strange phenomenon, contrary to the order
of things, opposed to Nature; in a word, as an effect of the celestial
vengeance, as the _wages of sin_. Although every thing proves to man
that death is inevitable, he is never able to familiarize himself with
its idea; he never thinks on it without shuddering; the assurance of
possessing an immortal soul but feebly indemnifies him for the grief he
feels in the deprivation of his perishable body. Two causes contribute
to strengthen his fears, to nourish his alarm; the one is, that this
death, commonly accompanied with pain, wrests from him an existence that
pleases him--with which he is acquainted--to which he is accustomed;
the other is the uncertainty of the state that must succeed his actual
existence.

The illustrious Bacon has said, that "men fear death for the same reason
that children dread being alone in darkness." Man naturally challenges
every thing with which he is unacquainted; he is desirous to see clearly
to the end, that he may guarantee himself against those objects which
may menace his safety; that he may also be enabled to procure for
himself those which may be useful to him; the man who exists cannot form
to himself any idea of non-existence; as this circumstance disturbs him,
for want of experience, his imagination sets to work; this points out to
him, either well or ill, this uncertain state: accustomed to think, to
feel, to be stimulated into activity, to enjoy society, he contemplates
as the greatest misfortune, a dissolution that will strip him of these
objects, that will deprive him of those sensations which his present
nature has rendered necessary to him; he views with dismay a situation
that will prevent his being warned of his own existence--that shall
bereave him of his pleasures--to plunge him into nothing. In supposing
it even exempt from pain, he always looks upon this nothing as an
afflicting solitude--as an heap of profound darkness; he sees himself in
a state of general desolation; destitute of all assistance; and he
feels keenly all the rigour of this frightful situation. But does not
a profound sleep help to give him a true idea of this nothing? Does not
that deprive him of every thing? Does it not appear to annihilate the
universe to him, and him to the universe? Is death any thing more than
a profound, a permanent steep? It is for want of being able to form an
idea of death that man dreads it; if he could figure to himself a true
image of this state of annihilation, he would from thence cease to fear
it; but he is not able to conceive a state in which there is no feeling;
he therefore believes, that when he shall no longer exist, he will have
the same feelings, the same consciousness of things, which, during his
existence, appear so sad to his mind; which his fancy paints in such
gloomy colours. Imagination pictures to him his funeral pomp--the grave
they are digging for him--the lamentations that will accompany him to
his last abode-the epicedium that surviving friendship may dictate;
he persuades himself that these melancholy objects will affect him as
painfully even after his decease, as they do in his present condition,
in which he is in full possession of his senses.

Mortal, led astray by fear! after thy death thine eyes will see no more;
thine ears will hear no longer; in the depth of thy grave thou wilt
no more be witness to this scene, which thine imagination, at present,
represents to thee under such dismal colours; thou wilt no longer take
part in what shall be done in the world; thou wilt no more be occupied
with what may befal thine inanimate remains, than thou wast able to
be the day previous to that which ranked thee among the beings of thy
species. To die is to cease to think; to lack feeling; no longer to
enjoy; to find a period to suffering; thine ideas will perish with thee;
thy sorrows will not follow thee to the silent tomb. Think of death,
not to feed thy fears--not to nourish thy melancholy--but to accustom
thyself to look upon it with a peaceable eye; to cheer thee up against
those false terrors with which the enemies to thy repose labour to
inspire thee! The fears of death are vain illusions, that must disappear
as soon as we learn to contemplate this necessary event under its true
point of view. A great man has defined philosophy to be _a meditation on
death;_ he is not desirous by that to have it understood that man ought
to occupy himself sorrowfully with his end, with a view to nourish his
fears; on the contrary, he wishes to invite him to familiarize himself
with an object that Nature has rendered necessary to him; to accustom
himself to expect it with a serene countenance. If life is a benefit, if
it be necessary to love it, it is no less necessary to quit it; reason
ought to teach him a calm resignation to the decrees of fate: his
welfare exacts that he should contract the habit of contemplating with
placidity, of viewing without alarm, an event that his essence has
rendered inevitable: his interest demands that he should not brood
gloomily over his misfortune; that he should not, by continual dread,
embitter his life; the charms of which he must inevitably destroy, if
he can never view its termination but with trepidation. Reason and his
interest then, concur to assure him against those vague terrors with
which his imagination inspires him, in this respect. If he was to call
them to his assistance, they would reconcile him to an object that only
startles him, because he has no knowledge of it; because it is only
shewn to him with those hideous accompaniments with which it is clothed
by superstition. Let him then, endeavour to despoil death of these vain
illusions, and he will perceive that it is only the sleep of life;
that this sleep will not be disturbed with disagreeable dreams; that an
unpleasant awakening is never likely to follow it. To die is to sleep;
it is to enter into that state of insensibility in which he was previous
to his birth; before he had senses; before he was conscious of his
actual existence. Laws, as necessary as those which gave him birth, will
make him return into the bosom of Nature, from whence he was drawn, in
order to reproduce him afterwards under some new form, which it would be
useless for him to know: without consulting him, Nature places him for
a season in the order of organized beings; without his consent, she will
oblige him to quit it, to occupy some other order.

Let him not complain then, that Nature is callous; she only makes him
undergo a law from which she does not exempt any one being she contains.
Man complains of the short duration of life--of the rapidity with which
time flies away; yet the greater number of men do not know how to employ
either time or life. If all are born and perish--if every thing is
changed and destroyed--if the birth of a being is never more than the
first step towards its end; how is it possible to expect that man, whose
machine is so frail, of which the parts are so complicated, the whole
of which possesses such extreme mobility, should be exempted from the
common law; which decrees, that even the solid earth he inhabits shall
experience change--shall undergo alteration--perhaps be destroyed!
Feeble, frail mortal! Thou pretendest to exist for ever; whit thou,
then, that for thee alone eternal Nature shall change her undeviating
course? Dost thou not behold in those eccentric comets with which thine
eyes are sometimes astonished, that the planets themselves are subject
to death? Live then in peace for the season that Nature permits thee; if
thy mind be enlightened by reason thou wilt die without terror!

Notwithstanding the simplicity of these reflections; nothing is more
rare than the sight of men truly fortified against the fears of death:
the wise man himself turns pale at its approach; he has occasion to
collect the whole force of his mind, to expect it with serenity. It
cannot then, furnish matter for surprise, if the idea of death is so
revolting to the generality of mortals; it terrifies the young--it
redoubles the chagrin of the middle-aged--it even augments the sorrow
of the old, who are worn down with infirmity: indeed the aged, although
enfeebled by time, dread it much more than the young, who are in the
full vigour of life; the man of many lustres is more accustomed to live
years as they roll over his head, confirm his attachment to existence;
nevertheless, long unwearied exertions weaken the powers of his mind;
labour, sickness, and pain, waste his animal strength; he has less
energy; his volition becomes faint, superstitious terrors easily
appal him; at length disease consumes him; sometimes with excruciating
tortures: the unhappy wretch, thus plunged into misfortune, has,
notwithstanding, scarcely ever dared to contemplate death; which he
ought to consider as the period to all his anguish.

If the source of this pusillanimity be sought, it will be found in his
nature, which attaches him to life; in that deficiency of energy in his
soul, which hardly any thing tends to corroborate, but which every
thing strives to enfeeble: which superstition, instead of strengthening,
contributes to bruise. Almost all human institutions, nearly all the
opinions of man, conspire to augment his fears; to render his ideas
of death more terrible; to make them more revolting to his feelings.
Indeed, superstition pleases itself with exhibiting death under the
most frightful traits: it represents it to man under the most disgusting
colours; as a dreadful moment, which not only puts an end to his
pleasures, but gives him up without defence to the strange rigour of
a pitiless decree, which nothing can soften. According to this
superstition, the most virtuous man has reason to tremble for the
severity of his fate; is never certain of being happy; the most dreadful
torments, endless punishments, await the victim to involuntary weakness;
to the necessary faults of a short-lived existence; his infirmities,
his momentary offences, the propensities that have been planted in his
heart, the errors of his mind, the opinions he has imbibed, even in the
society in which he was born without his own consent, the ideas he has
formed, the passions he has indulged above all, his not being able to
comprehend all the extravagant dogmas offered to his acceptance, are to
be implacably avenged with the most severe and never-ending penalties.
Ixion is for ever fastened to his wheel; Sisyphus must to all eternity
roll his stone without ever being able to reach the apex of his
mountain; the vulture must perpetually prey on the liver of the
unfortunate Prometheus: those who dare to think for themselves--those
who have refused to listen to their enthusiastic guides--those who have
not reverenced the oracles--those who have had the audacity to consult
their reason--those who have boldly ventured to detect impostors--those
who have doubted the divine mission of the Phythonissa--those who
believe that Jupiter violated decency in his visit to Danae--those who
look upon Apollo as no better than a strolling musician--those who think
that Mahomet was an arch knave--are to smart everlastingly in flaming
oceans of burning sulpher; are to float to all eternity in the most
excruciating agonies on seas of liquid brimstone, wailing and gnashing
their teeth: what wonder, then, if man dreads to be cast into these
hideous gulfs; if his mind loathes the horrific picture; if he wishes
to defer for a season these dreadful punishments; if he clings to an
existence, painful as it may be, rather than encounter such revolting
cruelties.

Such, then, are the afflicting objects with which superstition occupies
its unhappy, its credulous disciples; such are the fears which the
tyrant of human thoughts points out to them as salutary. In defiance Of
the exility of the effect which these notions produce oil the greater
number, even of those who say they are, or who believe themselves
persuaded, they are held forth as the most powerful rampart that can
be opposed to the irregularities of man. Nevertheless, as will be
seen presently, it will be found that these systems, or rather these
chimeras, so terrible to behold, operate little or nothing on the larger
portion of mankind, who dream of them but seldom, never in the moment
that passion, interest, pleasure, or example, hurries them along. If
these fears act, it is commonly on those, who have but little occasion
to abstain from evil; they make honest hearts tremble, but fail of
effect on the perverse. They torment sensible souls, but leave those
that are hardened in repose; they disturb tractable, gentle minds, but
cause no trouble to rebellious spirits: thus they alarm none but those
who are already sufficiently alarmed; they coerce only those who are
already restrained.

These notions, then, impress nothing on the wicked; when by accident
they do act on them, it is only to redouble the wickedness of their
natural character--to justify them in their own eyes--to furnish them
with pretexts to exercise it without fear--to follow it without scruple.
Indeed, the experience of a great number of ages has shewn to what
excess of wickedness, to what lengths, the passions of man have carried
him, when they have been authorized by the priesthood--when they have
been unchained by superstition--or, at least, when he has been enabled
to cover himself with its mantle. Man has never been more ambitious,
never more covetous, never more crafty, never more cruel, never
more seditious, than when he has persuaded himself that superstition
permitted or commanded him to be so: thus, superstition did nothing more
than lend an invincible force to his natural passions, which under
its sacred auspices he could exercise with impunity, indulge without
remorse; still more, the greatest villains, in giving free vent to the
detestable propensities of their natural wickedness, have under its
influence believed, that, by displaying an over-heated zeal, they
merited well of heaven; that they exempted themselves by new crimes,
from that chastisement which they thought their anterior conduct had
richly merited.

These, then, are the effects which what are called the _salutary_
notions of superstition, produce on mortals. These reflections will
furnish an answer to those who say that, "If heaven was promised equally
to the wicked as to the righteous, there would be found none incredulous
of another life." We reply, that, in point of fact, superstition does
accord heaven to the wicked, since it frequently places in this happy
abode the most useless, the most depraved of men. Is not Mahomet himself
enthroned in the empyrean by this superstition? If the calendar of
the Romish saints was examined, would it be found to contain none but
righteous, none but good men? Does not Mahometanism cut off from all
chance of future existence, consequently from all hope of reaching
heaven, the female part of mankind? Have the Jews exalted no one to the
celestial regions, save the virtuous? When the Jew is condemned to the
devouring flames, do not the men who thus torture an unhappy wretch,
whose only crime is adherence to the religion of his forefathers, expect
to be rewarded for the deed with everlasting happiness? Are they not
promised eternal salvation for their orthodoxy? Was Constantine, was St.
Cyril, was St. Athanasius, was St. Dominic, worthy beatification? Were
Jupiter, Thor, Mercury, Woden, and a thousand others, deserving of
celestial diadems? Is erring, feeble man, with all his imbecilities,
competent to form a judgment of the heavenly deserts of his fellows?
Can be, with his dim optics, with his limited vision, fathom the human
heart? Can he sound its depths, trace its meanderings, dive into its
recesses, with sufficient precision, to determine who amongst his
race is or is not possessed of the requisite merit to enjoy a blessed
eternity? Thus wicked men are held up as models by superstition,
which as we shall see, sharpens the passions of evil-disposed men, by
legitimating those crimes, at which, without this sanction, they would
shudder; which they would fear to commit; or for which, at least, they
would feel shame; for which they would experience remorse. In short, the
ministers of superstition furnish to the most profligate men the power
of indulging their inflamed passions, and then hold forth to them means
of diverting from their own heads the thunderbolt that should strike
their crimes, by spreading before them fresh incentives to intolerant
persecution, with the promise of a never-fading happiness.

With respect to the incredulous, without doubt, there may be amongst
them wicked men, as well as amongst the most credulous; but incredulity
no more supposes wickedness, than credulity supposes righteousness. On
the contrary, the man who thinks, who meditates, knows far better the
true motives to goodness, than he who suffers himself to be blindly
guided by uncertain motives, or by the interest of others. Sensible men
have the greatest advantage in examining opinions, which it is pretended
must have an influence over their eternal happiness: if these are found
false, if they appear injurious to their present life, they will not
therefore conclude, that they have not another life either to fear or to
hope; that they are permitted to deliver themselves up with impunity to
vice, which would do an injury to themselves, that would draw upon them
the contempt of their neighbour, which would subject them to the anger
of society: the man who does not expect another life, is only more
interested in prolonging his existence in this; in rendering himself
dear to his fellows, by cultivating virtue; by performing all his duties
with more strictness, in the only life of which he has any knowledge:
he has made a great stride towards felicity, in disengaging himself
from those terrors which afflict others, which frequently prevent their
acting. Such a man has nothing to fear, but every thing to hope; if,
contrary to what he is able to judge, there should be an hereafter
existence, will not his actions have been so regulated by virtue, will
he not have so comported himself in his present existence, as to stand
a fair chance of enjoying in their fullest extent those felicities
prepared for his species?

_Superstition_, in fact, takes a pride in rendering man slothful,
in moulding him to credulity, in making him pusillanimous. It is its
principle to afflict him without intermission; to redouble in him the
horrors of death: ever ingenious in tormenting him, it has extended
his inquietudes beyond even his own existence; its ministers, the more
securely to dispose of him in this world, invented, in future regions,
a variety of rewards and punishments, reserving to themselves the
privilege of awarding these heavenly recompences to those who yielded
most implicitly to their arbitrary laws; of decreeing punishment
to those refractory beings who rebelled against their power: thus,
according to them, Tantalus for divulging their secrets, must eternally
fear, engulphed in burning sulphur, the stone ready to fall on his
devoted head; whilst Romulus was beatified and worshipped as a god
under the name of Quirinus. The same system of superstition caused the
philosopher Callisthenes to be put to death, for opposing the worship of
Alexander; and elevated the monk Athanasius to be a saint in heaven. Far
from holding forth consolation to mortals, far from cultivating man's
reason, far from teaching him to yield under the hands of necessity,
superstition, in a great many countries, strives to render death still
more bitter to him; to make its yoke sit heavy; to fill up its retinue
with a multitude of hideous phantoms; to paint it in the most frightful
colours; to render its approach terrible: by this means it has crowded
the world with enthusiasts, whom it seduces by vague promises; with
contemptible slaves, whom it coerces with the fear of imaginary evils:
it has at length persuaded man, that his actual existence is only
a journey, by which he will arrive at a more important life: this
doctrine, whether it be rational or irrational, prevents him from
occupying himself with his true happiness; from even dreaming of
ameliorating his institutions, of improving his laws, of advancing the
progress of science, of perfectioning his morals. Vain and gloomy
ideas have absorbed his attention: he consents to groan under fanatical
tyranny--to writhe under political inflictions--to live in error--to
languish in misfortune--in the hope, when he shall be no more, of being
one day happier; in the firm confidence, that after he has disappeared,
his calamities, his patience, will conduct him to a never-ending
felicity: he has believed himself submitted to cruel priests, who are
willing to make him purchase his future welfare at the expence of every
thing most dear to his peace, most valuable to his existence here below:
they have pictured heaven as irritated against him, as disposed to
appease itself by punishing him eternally, for any efforts he should
make to withdraw himself from, their power. It is thus the doctrine of
a future life has been made fatal to the human species: it plunged whole
nations into sloth, made them languid, filled them with indifference to
their present welfare, or else precipitated them, into the most furious
enthusiasm, which hurried them on to such lengths that they tore each
other in pieces in order to merit the promised heaven.

It will be asked, perhaps, by what road has man been conducted to form
to himself these gratuitous ideas of another world? I reply, that it is
a truth man has no idea of a future life, they are the ideas of the past
and the present that furnish his imagination with the materials of which
he constructs the edifice of the regions of futurity. Hobbes says, "We
believe that, that which is will always be, and that the same causes
will have the same effects." Man in his actual state, has two modes
of feeling, one that he approves, another that he disapproves: thus,
persuaded that these two modes of feeling must accompany him, even
beyond his present existence, he placed in the regions of eternity two
distinguished abodes, one destined to felicity, the other to misery: the
one must contain those who obey the calls of superstition, who believe
in its dogmas; the other is a prison, destined to avenge the cause of
heaven, on all those who shall not faithfully believe the doctrines
promulgated by the ministers of a vast variety of superstitions. Has
sufficient attention been paid to the fact that results as a necessary
consequence from this reasoning; which on examination will be found
to have rendered the first place entirely useless, seeing, that by the
number and contradiction of these various systems, let man believe which
ever he may, let him follow it in the most faithful manner, still he
must be ranked as an infidel, as a rebel to the Divinity, because
he cannot believe in all; and those from which he dissents, by a
consequence of their own creed, condemn him to the prison-house?

Such is the origin of the ideas upon a future life, so diffused among
mankind. Every where may be seen an Elysium and a Tartarus; a Paradise
and a Hell; in a word, two distinguished abodes, constructed according
to the imagination of the enthusiasts who have invented them, who have
accommodated them to their own peculiar prejudices, to the hopes, to the
fears, of the people who believe in them. The Indian figures the first
of these abodes as one of in-action, of permanent repose, because, being
the inhabitant of a hot climate, he has learned to contemplate rest
as the extreme of felicity: the Mussulman promises himself corporeal
pleasures, similar to those that actually constitute the object of his
research in this life: each figures to himself, that on which he has
learned to set the greatest value.

Of whatever nature these pleasures may be, man apprehended that a
body was needful, in order that his soul might be enabled to enjoy the
pleasures, or to experience the pains in reserve for him: from hence the
doctrine of the _resurrection_; but as he beheld this body putrify, as
he saw it dissolve, as he witnessed its decomposition, after death, he
was at a loss how to form anew what he conceived so necessary to his
system he therefore had recourse to the Divine Omnipotence, by whose
interposition he now believes it will be effected. This opinion, so
incomprehensible, is said to have originated in Persia, among the Magi,
and finds a great number of adherents, who have never given it a serious
examination: but the doctrine of the resurrection appears perfectly
useless to all those, who believe in the existence of a soul that feels,
thinks, suffers, and enjoys, after a separation from the body: indeed,
there are already sects who begin to maintain, that the body is not
necessary; that therefore it will not be resurrected. Like Berkeley,
they conceive that "the soul has need neither of body nor any exterior
being, either to experience sensations, or to have ideas:" the
Malebranchists, in particular, must suppose that the rejected souls
will see every thing in the Divinity; will feel themselves burn, without
having occasion for bodies for that purpose. Others, incapable of
elevating themselves to these sublime notions, believed, that under
divers forms, man animated successively different animals of various
species; that he never ceased to be an inhabitant of the earth; such was
the opinion of those who adopted the doctrine of Metempsychosis.

As for the miserable abode of souls, the imagination of fanatics, who
were desirous of governing the people, strove to assemble the most
frightful images, to render it still more terrible: fire is of all
beings that which produces in man the most pungent sensation; not
finding any thing more cruel, the enemies to the several dogmas were to
be everlastingly punished with this torturing element: fire, therefore,
was the point at which their imagination was obliged to stop. The
ministers of the various systems agreed pretty generally, that fire
would one day avenge their offended divinities: thus they painted the
victims to the anger of the gods, or rather those who questioned their
own creeds, as confined in fiery dungeons, as perpetually rolling in a
vortex of bituminous flames, as plunged in unfathomable gulphs of
liquid sulphur, making the infernal caverns resound with their useless
groanings, with their unavailing gnashing of teeth.

But it will, perhaps, be enquired, how could man reconcile himself to
the belief of an existence accompanied with eternal torments; above all,
as many according to their own superstitions had reason to fear it for
themselves? Many causes have concurred to make him adopt so revolting
an opinion: in the first place, very few thinking men have ever believed
such an absurdity, when they have deigned to make use of their reason;
or, when they have accredited it, this notion was always counterbalanced
by the idea of the goodness, by a reliance on the mercy, which they
attributed to their respective divinities: in the second place, those
who were blinded by their fears, never rendered to themselves any
account of these strange doctrines, which they either received with
awe from their legislators, or which were transmitted to them by their
fathers: in the third place, each sees the object of his terrors only at
a favourable distance: moreover, superstition promises him the means of
escaping the tortures he believes he has merited. At length, like those
sick people whom we see cling with fondness, even to the most painful
life, man preferred the idea of an unhappy, though unknown existence, to
that of non-existence, which he looked upon as the most frightful evil
that could befal him; either because he could form no idea of it, or
because his imagination painted to him this non-existence this nothing,
as the confused assemblage of all evils. A known evil, of whatever
magnitude, alarmed him less (above all, when there remained the hope
of being able to avoid it), than an evil of which he knew nothing, upon
which, consequently, his imagination was painfully employed, but to
which he knew not how to oppose a remedy.

It will be seen, then, that _superstition_, far from consoling man upon
the necessity of death, only redoubles his terrors, by the evils with
which it pretends his decease will be followed; these terrors are
so strong, that the miserable wretches who believe strictly in these
formidable doctrines, pass their days in affliction, bathed in the
most bitter tears. What shall be said of an opinion so destructive to
society, yet adopted by so many nations, which announces to them, that
a severe fate may at each instant take them unprovided; that at each
moment they are liable to pass under the most rigorous judgment? What
idea can be better suited to terrify man--what more likely to discourage
him--what more calculated to damp the desire of ameliorating his
condition--than the afflicting prospect of a world always on the brink
of dissolution; of a Divinity seated upon the ruins of Nature, ready to
pass judgment on the human species? Such are, nevertheless, the fatal
opinions with which the mind of nations has been fed for thousands of
years: they are so dangerous, that if by a happy want of just inference,
he did not derogate in his conduct from these afflicting ideas, he would
fall into the most abject stupidity. How could man occupy himself with a
perishable world, ready every moment to crumble into atoms? How dream
of rendering himself happy on earth, when it is only the porch to an
eternal kingdom? Is it then, surprising, that the superstitions to which
similar doctrines serve for a basis, have prescribed to their disciples
a total detachment from things below--an entire renunciation of the
most innocent pleasures; have given birth to a sluggishness, to a
pusillanimity, to an abjection of soul, to an insociability, that
renders him useless to himself, dangerous to others? If necessity
did not oblige man to depart in his practice from these irrational
systems--if his wants did not bring him back to reason, in despite of
these superstitious doctrines--the whole world would presently become a
vast desert, inhabited by some few isolated savages, who would not even
have courage to multiply themselves. What are these, but notions which
he must necessarily put aside, in order that human association may
subsist?

Nevertheless, the doctrine of a future life, accompanied with rewards
and punishments, has been regarded for a great number of ages as the
most powerful, or even as the only motive capable of coercing the
passions of man; as the sole means that can oblige him to be virtuous:
by degrees, this doctrine has become the basis of almost all religions
and political systems, so much so, that at this day it is said, this
prejudice cannot be attacked without absolutely rending asunder the
bonds of society. The founders of superstition have made use of it to
attach their credulous disciples; legislators have looked upon it as
the curb best calculated to keep mankind under discipline; religion
considers it necessary to his happiness; many philosophers themselves
have believed with sincerity, that this doctrine was requisite
to terrify man, was the only means to divert him from crime:
notwithstanding, when the doctrine of the immortality of the soul first
came out of the school of Plato; when it first diffused itself among
the Greeks, it caused the greatest ravages; it determined a multitude
of men, who were discontented with their condition, to terminate their
existence: Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt, seeing the effect
this doctrine, which at the present day is looked upon as so salutary,
produced on the brains of his subjects, prohibited the teaching of it
under the penalty of death.

It must, indeed, be allowed that this doctrine has been of the greatest
utility to those who have given superstitions to nations, who at the
same time made themselves its ministers; it was the foundation of
their power, the source of their wealth, the permanent cause of that
blindness, the solid basis of those terrors, which it was their interest
to nourish in the human race. It was by this doctrine the priest became
first the rival, then the master of kings: it is by this dogma that
nations are filled with enthusiasts inebriated with superstition, always
more disposed to listen to its menaces, than to the counsels of reasons,
to the orders of the sovereign, to the cries of Nature, or to the laws
of society. Politics itself was enslaved to the caprice of the priest;
the temporal monarch was obliged to bend under the yoke of the monarch
of superstition; the one only disposed of this perishable world, the
other extended his power into the world to come; much more important
for man than the earth, on which he is only a pilgrim, a mere passenger.
Thus the doctrine of another life placed the government itself in a
state of dependance upon the priest; the monarch was nothing more than
his first subject; he was never obeyed, but when the two were in accord.
Nature in vain cried out to man, to be careful of his present happiness;
the priest ordered him to be unhappy, in the expectation of future
felicity; reason in vain exhorted him to be peaceable; the priest
breathed forth fanaticism, fulminated fury, obliged him to disturb the
public tranquillity, every time there was a question of the supposed
interests of the invisible monarch of another life, and the real
interests of his ministers in this.

Such is the fruit that politics has gathered from the doctrine of
a future life; the regions of the world to come have enabled the
priesthood to conquer the present world. The expectation of celestial
happiness, and the dread of future tortures, only served to prevent man
from seeking after the means to render himself happy here below. Thus
error, under whatever aspect it is considered, will never be more than a
source of evil for mankind. The doctrine of another life, in presenting
to mortals an ideal happiness, will render them enthusiasts; in
overwhelming them with fears, it will make useless beings; generate
cowards; form atrabilarious or furious men; who will lose sight of their
present abode, to occupy themselves with the pictured regions of a world
to come, with those dreadful evils which they must fear after their
death.

If it be insisted that the doctrine of future rewards and punishments is
the most powerful curb to restrain the passions of man, we shall reply
by calling in daily experience. If we only cast our eyes around, if for
a moment we examine what passes in review before us, we shall see this
assertion contradicted; we shall find that these marvellous speculations
do not in any manner diminish the number of the wicked, because they
are incapable of changing the temperament of man, of annihilating those
passions which the vices of society engender in his heart. In those
nations who appear the most thoroughly convinced of this future
punishment, may be seen assassins, thieves, crafty knaves, oppressors,
adulterers, voluptuaries; all these pretend they are firmly persuaded of
the reality of an hereafter; yet in the whirlwind of dissipation, in the
vortex of pleasure, in the fury of their passions, they no longer behold
this formidable future existence, which in those moments has no kind of
influence over their earthly conduct.

In short, in many of those countries where the doctrine of another life
is so firmly established, that each individual irritates himself against
whoever may have the temerity to combat the opinion, or even to doubt
it, we see that it is utterly incapable of impressing any thing on
rulers who are unjust, who are negligent of the welfare of their people,
who are, debauched, on courtezans who are lewd in their habits, on
covetous misers, on flinty extortioners who fatten on the substance of
a nation, on women without modesty, on a vast multitude of drunken,
intemperate, vicious men, on great numbers even amongst those priests,
whose function it is to preach this future state, who are paid to
announce the vengeance of heaven, against vices which they themselves
encourage by their example. If it be enquired of them, how they dare to
give themselves up to such scandalous actions, which they ought to know
are certain to draw upon them eternal punishment? They will reply, that
the madness of their passions, the force of their habits, the contagion
of example, or even the power of circumstances, have hurried them along;
have made them forget the dreadful consequences in which their conduct
is likely to involve them; besides, they will say, that the treasures
of the divine mercy are infinite; that repentance suffices to efface the
foulest transgressions; to cleanse the blackest guilt; to blot out the
most enormous crimes: in this multitude of wretched beings, who each
after his own manner desolates society with his criminal pursuits, you
will find only a small number who are sufficiently intimidated by the
fears of the miserable hereafter, to resist their evil propensities.
What did I say? These propensities are in themselves too weak to carry
them forward without the aid of the doctrine of another life; without
this, the law and the fear of censure would have been motives sufficient
to prevent them from rendering themselves criminal.

It is indeed, fearful, timorous souls, upon whom the terrors of another
life make a profound impression; human beings of this sort come into the
world with moderate passions, are of a weakly organization, possess a
cool imagination; it is not therefore surprising, that in such men, who
are already restrained by their nature, the fear of future punishment
counterbalances the weak efforts of their feeble passions; but it is
by no means the same with those determined sinners, with those hardened
criminals, with those men who are habitually vicious, whose unseemly
excesses nothing can arrest, who in their violence shut their eyes to
the fear of the laws of this world, despising still more those of the
other. Nevertheless, how many persons say they are, and even believe
themselves, restrained by the fears of the life to come? But, either
they deceive us, or they impose upon themselves, by attributing to these
fears, that which is only the effect of motives much nearer at
hand; such as the feebleness of their machine, the mildness of their
temperament, the slender energy of their souls, their natural timidity,
the ideas imbibed in their education, the fear of consequences
immediately resulting from criminal actions, the physical evils
attendant on unbridled irregularities: these are the true motives that
restrain them; not the notions of a future life: which men, who say they
are most firmly persuaded of its existence, forget whenever a powerful
interest solicits them to sin. If for a time man would pay attention to
what passes before his eyes, he would perceive that he ascribes to the
fear of the gods that which is in reality only the effect of peculiar
weakness, of pusillanimity, of the small interest found to commit evil:
these men would not act otherwise than they do, if they had not this
fear before them; if, therefore he reflected, he would feel that it is
always necessity that makes men act as they do.

Man cannot be restrained, when he does not find within himself motives
sufficiently powerful to conduct him back to reason. There is nothing,
either in this world or in the other, that can render him virtuous,
when an untoward organization--a mind badly cultivated--a
violent imagination--inveterate habits--fatal examples--powerful
interests--invite him from every quarter to the commission of crime.
No speculations are capable of restraining the man who braves public
opinion, who despises the law, who is careless of its censure, who turns
a deaf ear to the cries of conscience, whose power in this world places
him out of the reach of punishment; in the violence of his transports,
he will fear still less a distant futurity, of which the idea always
recedes before that which he believes necessary to his immediate
interests, consistent with his present happiness. All lively passions
blind man to every thing that is not its immediate object; the terrors
of a future life, of which his passions always possess the secret to
diminish to him the probability, can effect nothing upon the wicked man,
who does not fear even the much nearer punishment of the law; who sets
at nought the assured hatred of those by whom he is surrounded. Man,
when he delivers himself up to crime, sees nothing certain except the
supposed advantage which attends it; the rest always appear to him
either false or problematical.

If man would but open his eyes, even for a moment, he would clearly
perceive, that to effect any thing upon hearts hardened by crime, he
must not reckon upon the chastisement of an avenging Divinity, which the
self-love natural to man always shews him as pacified in the long run.
He who has arrived at persuading himself he cannot be happy without
crime, will always readily deliver himself up to it, notwithstanding
the menaces of religion. Whoever is sufficiently blind not to read his
infamy in his own heart, to see his own vileness in the countenances of
his associates, his own condemnation in the anger of his fellow-men, his
own unworthiness in the indignation of the judges established to punish
the offences he may commit: such a man, I say, will never feel the
impression his crimes shall make on the features of a judge, that is
either hidden from his view, or that he only contemplates at a distance.
The tyrant who with dry eyes can hear the cries of the distressed, who
with callous heart can behold the tears of a whole people, of whose
misery he is the cause, will not see the angry countenance of a more
powerful master: like another Menippus, he may indeed destroy himself
from desperation, to avoid reiterated reproach; which only proves,
that when a haughty, arrogant despot pretends to be accountable for his
actions to the Divinity alone, it is because he fears his nation more
than he does his God.

On the other hand, does not superstition itself, does not even religion,
annihilate the effects of those fears which it announces as salutary?
Does it not furnish its disciples with the means of extricating
themselves from the punishments with which it has so frequently menaced
them? Does it not tell them, that a steril repentance will, even at the
moment of death, disarm the celestial wrath; that it will purify the
filthy souls of sinners? Do not even the priests, in some superstitions,
arrogate to themselves the right of remitting to the dying the
punishment due to the crimes committed during the course of a disorderly
life? In short, do not the most perverse men, encouraged in iniquity,
countenanced in debauchery, upheld in crime, reckon, even to the last
moment, either upon the assistance of superstition, or upon the aid
of religion, that promises them the infallible means of reconciling
themselves to the Divinity, whom they have irritated; of avoiding the
rigorous punishments pronounced against their enormities?

In consequence of these notions, so favourable to the wicked, so
suitable to tranquillize their fears, we see that the hope of an easy
expiation, far from correcting man, engages him to persist, until death,
in the most crying disorders. Indeed, in despite of the numberless
advantages which he is assured flows from the doctrine of a life to
come, in defiance of its pretended efficacy to repress the passions
of men, do not the priests themselves, although so interested in the
maintenance of this system, every day complain of its insufficiency?
They acknowledge, that mortals, who from their infancy they have
imbued with these ideas, are not less hurried forward by their evil
propensities--less sunk in the vortex of dissipation--less the slaves to
their pleasures--less captivated by bad habits--less driven along by the
torrent of the world--less seduced by their present interest--which
make them forget equally the recompense and the chastisement of a future
existence. In a word, the interpreters of superstition, the ministers of
religion themselves, allow that their disciples, for the greater part,
conduct themselves in this world as if they had nothing either to hope
or fear in another.

In short, let it be supposed for a moment, that the doctrine of eternal
punishments was of some utility; that it really restrained a small
number of individuals; what are these feeble advantages compared to the
numberless evils that flow from it? Against one timid man whom this idea
restrains, there are thousands upon whom it operates nothing; there are
thousands whom it makes irrational; whom it renders savage persecutors;
whom it converts into fanatics; there are thousands whose mind it
disturbs; whom it diverts from their duties towards society; there
are an infinity whom it grievously afflicts, whom it troubles without
producing any real good for their associates.

Notwithstanding so many are inclined to consider those who do not fall
in with this doctrine as the enemies of society; it will be found on
examination that the wisest the most enlightened men of antiquity, as
well as many of the moderns, have believed not only that the soul is
material and perishes with the body, but also that they have attacked
without subterfuge the opinion of future everlasting punishments; it
will also be found that many of the systems, set up to establish the
immortality of the soul, are in themselves the best evidence that can be
adduced of the futility of this doctrine; if for a moment we only follow
up the natural the just inferences that are to be drawn from them. This
sentiment was far from being, as some have supposed, peculiar to
the Epicureans, it has been adopted by philosophers of all sects, by
Pythagoreans, by Stoics, by Peripatetics, by Academics; in short by the
most godly the most virtuous men of Greece and of Rome.

Pythagoras, according to Ovid, speaks strongly to the fact. Timaeus
of Locris, who was a Pythagorean, admits that the doctrine of future
punishments was fabulous, solely destined for the imbecility of the
uninformed; but little calculated for those who cultivate their reason.

Aristotle expressly says, that "man has neither good to hope nor evil to
fear after death."

Zeno, according to Cicero, supposed the soul to be an igneous substance,
from whence he concluded it destroyed itself.

Cicero, the philosophical orator, who was of the sect of Academics,
although he is not on all occasions, in accord with himself, treats
openly as fables the torments of Hell; and looks upon death as the end
of every thing for man.

Seneca, the philosopher, is filled with passages which contemplate death
as a state of total annihilation, particularly in speaking of it to his
brother: and nothing can be more decisive of his holding this opinion,
than what he writes to Marcia, to console him.

Seneca, the tragedian, explains himself in the same manner as the
philosopher.

The Platonists, who made the soul immortal, could not have an idea of
future punishments, because the soul according to them was a portion
of the divinity which after the dissolution of the body it returned to
rejoin.

Epictetus has the same idea. In a passage reported by Arrian, he says,
"but where are you going? It cannot be to a place of suffering: you will
only return to the place from whence you came; you are about to be again
peaceably associated with the elements from which you are derived. That
which in your composition, is of the nature of fire, will return to
the element of fire; that which is of the nature of earth, will rejoin
itself to the earth; that which is air, will re-unite itself with air;
that which is water, will resolve itself into water; there is no Hell,
no Acheron, no Cocytus, no Phlegethon."

In another place he says, "the hour of death approaches; but do not
aggravate your evil, nor render things worse than they are: represent
them to yourself under their true point of view. The time is come when
the materials of which you are composed, go to resolve themselves into
the elements from whence they were originally borrowed. What is there
that is terrible or grievous in that? Is there any thing in the world
that perishes totally?"

The sage and pious Antoninus says, "he who fears death, either fears
to be deprived of all feeling, or dreads to experience different
sensations. If you lose all feeling, you will no longer be subject
either to pain or to misery. If you are provided with other senses of
a different nature, you will become a creature of a different species."
This great emperor further says, "that we must expect death with
tranquillity, seeing, that it is only a dissolution of the elements of
which each animal is composed."

To the evidence of so many great men of _Pagan antiquity_, may be
joined, that of the author of Ecclesiastes, who speaks of death, and of
the condition of the human soul, like an _epicurean_; he says, "for
that which befalleth the sons of men, befalleth beasts; even one thing
befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all
one breath: so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast; for all is
vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust
again." And further, "wherefore I perceive that there is nothing
better than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his
portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him."

In short, how can the utility or the necessity of this doctrine be
reconciled with the fact, that the great _legislator of the Jews_; who
is supposed to have been inspired by the Divinity, should have remained
silent on a subject, that is said to be of so much importance? In the
third chapter of Genesis it, is said, "In the sweat of thy face shalt
thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast
thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."





CHAP. XIV.

_Education, Morals, and the Laws suffice to restrain Man.--Of the desire
of Immortality.--Of Suicide._


It is not then in an ideal world, existing no where perhaps, but in the
imagination of man, that he must seek to collect motives calculated to
make him act properly in this; it is in the visible world that will be
found incitements to divert him from crime; to rouse him to virtue.
It is in Nature,--in experience,--in truth, that he must search out
remedies for the evils of his species; for motives suitable to infuse
into the human heart, propensities truely useful to society; calculated
to promote its advantage; to conduce to the end for which it was
designed.

If attention has been paid to what has been said In the course of this
work, it will be seen that above all it is _education_ that will best
furnish the true means of rectifying the errors, of recalling the
wanderings of mankind. It is this that should scatter the Seeds in
his heart; cultivate the tender shoots; make a profitable use of his
dispositions; turn to account those faculties, which depend on his
organization: which should cherish the fire of his imagination, kindle
it for useful objects; damp it, or extinguish it for others; in short,
it is this which should make sensible souls contract habits which are
advantageous for society and beneficial to the individual. Brought up in
this manner, man would not have occasion for celestial punishments,
to teach him the value of virtue; he would not need to behold burning
gulphs of brimstone under his feet, to induce him to feel horror for
crime; Nature without these fables, would teach much better what he owes
to himself; the law would point out what he owes to the body politic, of
which he is a member. It is thus, that education grounded upon utility,
would form valuable citizens to the state; the depositaries of power
would distinguish those whom education should have thus formed, by
reason of the advantages which they would procure for their country;
they would punish those who should be found injurious to it; it would
make the citizens see, that the promises of reward which education held
forth, the punishments denounced by morals, are by no means vain; that
in a state well constituted, _virtue_ is the true, the only road to
happiness; _talents_ the way to gain respect; that _inutility_ conducts
to misfortune: that _crime_ leads to contempt.

A just, enlightened, virtuous, and vigilant government, who should
honestly propose the public good, would have no occasion either for
fables or for falsehoods, to govern reasonable subjects; it would blush
to make use of imposture, to deceive its citizens; who, instructed in
their duties, would find their interest in submitting to equitable laws;
who would be capable of feeling the benefit these have the power of
conferring on them; it would feel, that habit is sufficient to inspire
them with horror, even for those concealed crimes that escape the eyes
of society; it would understand that the visible punishments of this
world impose much more on the generality of men, than those of an
uncertain and distant futurity: in short, it would ascertain that
the sensible benefits within the compass of the sovereign power to
distribute, touch the imagination of mortals more keenly, than those
vague recompences which are held forth to them in a future existence:
above all, it would discover that those on whom these distant advantages
do operate, would be still more attached to virtue by receiving their
reward both here and hereafter.

Man is almost every where so wicked, so corrupt, so rebellious to
reason, only because he is not governed according to his Nature, nor
properly instructed in her necessary laws: he is almost in every climate
fed with superstitious chimeras; submitted to masters who neglect his
instruction or who seek to deceive him. On the face of this globe, may
be frequently witnessed unjust sovereigns, who, enervated by luxury,
corrupted by flattery, depraved by licentiousness, made wicked by
impunity, devoid of talents, without morals, destitute of virtue, are
incapable of exerting any energy for the benefit of the states they
govern; they are consequently but little occupied with the welfare of
their people; indifferent to their duties; of which indeed they are
often ignorant. Such governors suffer their whole attention to be
absorbed by frivolous amusement; stimulated by the desire of continually
finding means to feed their insatiable ambition they engage in useless
depopulating wars; and never occupy their mind with those objects which
are the most important to the happiness of their nation: yet these weak
men feel interested in maintaining the received prejudices, and visit
with severity those who consider the means of curing them: in short
themselves deprived of that understanding, which teaches man that it is
his interest to be kind, just, and virtuous; they ordinarily reward
only those crimes which their imbecility makes them imagine as useful to
them; they generally punish those virtues which are opposed to their own
imprudent passions, but which reason would point out as truly beneficial
to their interests. Under such masters is it surprising that society
should be ravaged; that weak beings should be willing to imitate them;
that perverse men should emulate each other in oppressing its members;
in sacrificing its dearest interests; in despoiling its happiness?
The state of society in such countries, is a state of hostility of the
sovereign against the whole, of each of its members the one against
the other. Man is wicked, not because he is born so, but because he is
rendered so; the great, the powerful, crush with impunity the indigent
and the unhappy; these, at the risk of their lives seek to retaliate, to
render back the evil they have received: they attack either openly or in
secret a country, who to them is a step-mother, who gives all to some of
her children, and deprives the others of every thing: they punish it for
its partiality, and clearly shew that the motives borrowed from a life
hereafter are impotent against the fury of those passions to which
a corrupt administration has given birth; that the terror of the
punishments in this world are too feeble against necessity; against
criminal habits; against dangerous organization uncorrected by
education.

In many countries the morals of the people are neglected; the government
is occupied only with rendering them timid; with making them miserable.
Man is almost every where a slave; it must then follow of necessity,
that he is base, interested, dissimulating, without honour, in a word
that he has the vices of the state of which he is a citizen. Almost
every where he is deceived; encouraged in ignorance; prevented from
cultivating his reason; of course he must be stupid, irrational, and
wicked almost every where he sees vice applauded, and crime honoured;
thence he concludes vice to be a good; virtue, only a useless sacrifice
of himself: almost every where he is miserable, therefore he injures his
fellow-men in a fruitless attempt to relieve his own anguish: it is in
vain to shew him heaven in order to restrain him; his views presently
descend again to earth; he is willing to be happy at any price;
therefore, the laws which have neither provided for his instruction, for
his morals, nor his happiness, menace him uselessly; he plunges on in
his pursuits, and these ultimately punish him, for the unjust negligence
of his legislators. If politics more enlightened, did seriously occupy
itself with the instruction, with the welfare of the people; if laws
were more equitable; if each society, less partial, bestowed on its
members the care, the education, and the assistance which they have a
right to expect; if governments less covetous, and more vigilant, were
sedulous to render their subjects more happy, there would not be seen
such numbers of malefactors, of robbers, of murderers, who every where
infest society; they would not be obliged to destroy life, in order to
punish wickedness; which is commonly ascribable to the vices of their
own institutions: it would be unnecessary to seek in another life for
fanciful chimeras, which always prove abortive against the infuriate
passions; against the real wants of man. In short, if the people were
instructed, they would be more happy; politics would no longer be
reduced to the exigency of deceiving them, in order to restrain them;
nor to destroy so many unfortunates, for having procured necessaries, at
the expence of their hard-hearted fellow-citizens.

When it shall be desired to enlighten man, let him always have truth
laid before him. Instead of kindling his imagination by the idea of
those punishments that a future state has in reserve for him, let him
be solaced--let him be succoured; or, at least, let him be permitted to
enjoy the fruit of his labour--let not his substance be ravished from
him by cruel imposts--let him not be discouraged from work, by finding
all his labour inadequate to support his existence; let him not be
driven into that idleness, that will surely lead him on to crime: let
him consider his present existence, without carrying his views to that
which may attend him after his death; let his industry be excited--let
his talents be rewarded--let him be rendered active, laborious,
beneficent, and virtuous, in the world he inhabits; let it be shewn
to him, that his actions are capable of having an influence over
his fellow-men. Let him not be menaced with the tortures of a future
existence when he shall be no more; let him behold society armed against
those who disturb its repose; let him see the consequence of the hatred
of his associates; let him learn to feel the value of their affection;
let him be taught to esteem himself; let him understand, that to obtain
it, he must have virtue; above all, that the virtuous man in society has
nothing to fear, but every thing to hope.

If it be desired to form honest, courageous, industrious citizens, who
may be useful to their country, let them beware of inspiring man
from his infancy with an ill-founded dread of death; of amusing his
imagination with marvellous fables; of occupying his mind with his
destiny in a future life, quite useless to be known, which has nothing
in common with his real felicity. Let them speak of immortality to
intrepid, noble souls; let them shew it as the price of their labours
to energetic minds, who are solely occupied with virtue; who springing
forward beyond the boundaries of their actual existence--who, little
satisfied with eliciting the admiration, with gaining the love of
their contemporaries, are will also to wrest the homage, to secure
the affection of future races. Indeed, this is an immortality to which
genius, talents, above all virtue, has a just right to pretend; do not
therefore let them censure--do not let them endeavour to stifle so
noble a passion in man; which is founded upon his nature; which is
so calculated to render him happy; from which society gather the most
advantageous fruits.

The idea of being buried in total oblivion, of having nothing in
common after his death with the beings of his species; of losing all
possibility of again having any influence over them, is a thought
extremely painful to man; it is above all afflicting to those who
possess an ardent imagination. The _desire of immortality_, or of living
in the memory of his fellow men, was always the passion of great souls;
it was the motive to the actions of all those who have played a great
part on the earth. _Heroes_ whether virtuous or criminal, _philosophers_
as well as _conquerors, men of genius_ and _men of talents_, those
sublime personages who have done honor to their species, as well as
those illustrious villains who have debased and ravaged it, have had
an eye to posterity in all their enterprises; have flattered themselves
with the hope of acting upon the souls of men, even when they themselves
should no longer exist. If man in general does not carry his views so
far, he is at least sensible to the idea of seeing himself regenerated
in his children; whom he knows are destined to survive him; to transmit
his name; to preserve his memory; to represent him in society; it is
for them that he rebuilds his cottage; it is for them that he plants the
tree which his eyes will never behold in its vigour; it is that they may
be happy that he labours. The sorrow which embitters the life of those
rich men, frequently so useless to the world, when they have lost the
hope of continuing their race, has its source in the fear of being
entirely forgotten: they feel that the useless man dies entirely. The
idea that his name will be in the mouths of men, the thought that it
will be pronounced with tenderness, that it will be recollected with
kindness, that it will excite in their hearts favourable sentiments, is
an illusion that is useful; is a vision suitable to flatter even those
who know that nothing will result from it. Man pleases himself with
dreaming that he shall have power, that he shall pass for something in
the universe, even after the term of his human existence; he partakes
by imagination in the projects, in the actions, in the discussions
of future ages, and would be extremely unhappy if he believed himself
entirely excluded from their society. The laws in all countries have
entered into these views; they have so far been willing to console
their citizens for the necessity of dying, by giving them the means
of exercising their will, even for a long time after their death: this
condescension goes to that length, that the dead frequently regulate the
condition of the living during a long series of years.

Every thing serves to prove the desire in man of surviving himself.
_Pyramids, mausoleums, monuments, epitaphs,_ all shew that he is willing
to prolong his existence even beyond his decease. He, is not insensible
to the judgment of posterity; it is for him the philosopher writes; it
is to astonish him that the monarch erects sumptuous edifices, gorgeous
palaces; it is his praises, it is his commendations, that the great man
already hears echo in his ears; it is to him that the virtuous citizen
appeals from unjust laws; from prejudiced contemporaries--happy chimera!
generous illusion! mild vision! its power is so consoling, so bland,
that it realizes itself to ardent imaginations; it is calculated to give
birth, to sustain, to nurture, to mature enthusiasm of genius, constancy
of courage, grandeur of soul, transcendency of talent; its force is so
gentle, its influence so pleasing, that it is sometimes able to repress
the vices, to restrain the excesses of the most powerful men; who
are, as experience has shewn, frequently very much disquieted for the
judgment of their posterity; from a conviction that this will sooner or
later avenge the living of the foul injustice which they may be inclined
to make them suffer.

No man, therefore, can consent to be entirely effaced from the
remembrance of his fellows; some men have not the temerity to place
themselves above the judgment of the future human species, to degrade
themselves in his eyes. Where is the being who is insensible to the
pleasure of exciting the tears of those who shall survive him; of again
acting upon their souls; of once more occupying their thoughts; of
exercising upon them his power even from the bottom of his grave? Let
then eternal silence be imposed upon those superstitious beings, upon
those melancholy men, upon those furious bigots, who censure a sentiment
from which society derives so many real advantages; let not mankind
listen to those passionless philosophers who are willing to smother
this great, this noble spring of his soul; let him not be seduced by the
sarcasms of those voluptuaries, who pretend to despise an immortality,
towards which they lack the power to set forward; the desire of pleasing
posterity, of rendering his name agreeable to generations yet to come,
is a respectable, a laudable motive, when it causes him to undertake
those things, of which the utility may be felt, of which the advantages
may have an influence not only over his contemporaries, but also over
nations who have not yet an existence. Let him not treat as irrational,
the enthusiasm of those beneficent beings, of those mighty geniuses, of
those stupendous talents, whose keen, whose penetrating regards, have
foreseen him even in their day; who have occupied themselves for him;
for his welfare; for his happiness; who have desired his suffrage; who
have written for him; who have enriched him by their discoveries; who
have cured him of some of his errors. Let him render them the homage
which they have expected at his hands; let him, at least, reverence
their memory for the benefits he has derived from them; let him treat
their mouldering remains with respect, for the pleasure he receives
from their labours; let him pay to their ashes a tribute of grateful
recollection, for the happiness they have been sedulous to procure
for him. Let him sprinkle with his tears, let him hallow with his
remembrance, let him consecrate with his finest sensibilities, the urns
of Socrates, of Phocion; of Archimedes; of Anaxarchus; let him wash out
the stain that their punishment has made on the human species; let him
expiate by his regret the Athenian ingratitude, the savage barbarity
of Nicocreon; let him learn by their example to dread superstitious
fanaticism; to hold political intolerance in abhorrence; let him fear to
harrass merit; let him be cautious how he insults virtue, in persecuting
those who may happen to differ from him in his prejudices.

Let him strew flowers over the tombs of an Homer--of a Tasso--of a
Shakespeare--of a Milton--of a Goldsmith; let him revere the immortal
shades of those happy geniuses, whose songs yet vibrate on his ears;
whose harmonious lays excite in his soul the most tender sentiments; let
him bless the memory of all those benefactors to the people, who were
the delight of the human race; let him adore the virtues Of a Titus--of
a Trajan--of an Antoninus--of a Julian: let him merit in his sphere, the
eulogies of future ages; let him always remember, that to carry with
him to the grave the regret of his fellow man, he must display talents;
evince integrity; practice virtue. The funeral ceremonies of the most
powerful monarchs, have rarely been wetted with the tears of the people,
they have commonly drained them while living. The names of tyrants
excite the horror of those who bear them pronounced. Tremble then cruel
kings! ye who plunge your subjects into misery; who bathe them with
bitter tears--who ravage nations--who deluge the land with the vital
stream--who change the fruitful earth into a barren cemetery; tremble
for the sanguinary traits under which the future historian will paint
you, to generations yet unborn: neither your splendid monuments--your
imposing victories--your innumerable armies, nor your sycophant
courtiers, can prevent posterity from avenging their grandfathers; from
insulting your odious manes; from treating your execrable memories with
scorn; from showering their contempt on your transcendant crimes.

Not only man sees his dissolution with pain, but again, he wishes his
death may be an interesting event for others. But, as we have already
said, he must have talents--he must have beneficence--he must have
virtue, in order, that those who surround him, may interest themselves
in his condition; that those who survive him, may give regret to his
ashes. Is it, then, surprising if the greater number of men, occupied
entirely with themselves, completely absorbed by their own vanity,
devoted to their own puerile objects, for ever busied with the care of
gratifying their vile passions, at the expence, perhaps, of their family
happiness, unheedful of the wants of a wife, unmindful of the necessity
of their children, careless of the calls of friendship, regardless of
their duty to society, do not by their death excite the sensibilities of
their survivors; or that they should be presently forgotten? There is an
infinity of monarchs of which history does not tell us any thing, save
that they have lived. In despite of the inutility in which men for the
most part pass their existence, maugre the little care they bestow, to
render themselves dear to the beings who environ them; notwithstanding
the numerous actions they commit to displease their associates; the
self love of each individual, persuades him, that his death must be
an interesting occurrence: few men but think themselves an Euryalus in
friendship, all expect to find a Nisus, thus man's over-weening philauty
shews him to say thus the order of things are overturned at his decease.
O mortal! feeble and vain! Dost thou not know the Sesostris's, the
Alexanders, the Caesars are dead? Yet the course of the universe is not
arrested; the demise of those famous conquerors, afflicting to some few
favoured slaves, was a subject of delight for the whole human race.
Dost thou then foolishly believe that thy talents ought to interest thy
species, that they are of sufficient extent to put it into mourning at
thy decease? Alas! The Corneilles, the Lockes, the Newtons, the Boyles,
the Harveys, the Montesquieus, the Sheridans are no more! Regretted by a
small number of friends, who have presently consoled themselves by their
necessary avocations, their death was indifferent to the greater number
of their fellow citizens. Darest thou then flatter thyself, that
thy reputation, thy titles, thy riches, thy sumptuous repasts, thy
diversified pleasures, will make thy funeral a melancholy event! It will
be spoken of by some few for two days, and do not be at all surprised:
learn that there have died in former ages, in Babylon, in Sardis, in
Carthage, in Athens, in Rome, millions of citizens more illustrious,
more powerful, more opulent, more voluptuous, than thou art; of whom,
however, no one has taken care to transmit to thee even the names. Be
then virtuous, O man! in whatever station thy destiny assigns thee, and
thou shalt be happy in thy life time; do thou good and thou shalt be
cherished; acquire talents and thou shalt be respected; posterity
shall admire thee, if those talents, by becoming beneficial to their
interests, shall bring them acquainted with the name under which they
formerly designated thy annihilated being. But the universe will not be
disturbed by thy loss; and when thou comest to die, whilst thy wife, thy
children, thy friends, fondly leaning over thy sickly couch, shall be
occupied with the melancholy task of closing thine eyes, thy nearest
neighbour shall perhaps be exulting with joy!

Let not then man occupy himself with his condition that may be to come,
but let him sedulously endeavour to make himself useful, to those with
whom he lives; let him for his own peculiar happiness render himself
dutiful to his parents--faithful to his wife--attentive to his
children--kind to his relations---true to his friends--lenient to his
servants; let him strive to become estimable in the eyes of his fellow
citizens; let him faithfully serve a country which assures to him his
welfare; let the desire of pleasing posterity, of meriting its applause,
excite him to those labours that shall elicit their eulogies: let a
legitimate self-love, when he shall be worthy of it, make him taste
in advance those commendations which he is willing to deserve; let him
learn to love himself--to esteem himself; but never let him consent that
concealed vices, that sacred crimes, shall degrade him in his own eyes;
shall oblige him to be ashamed of his own conduct.

Thus disposed, let him contemplate his own decease with the same
indifference, that it will be looked upon by the greater number of his
fellows; let him expect death with constancy; wait for it with calm
resignation; let him learn to shake off those vain terrors with which
superstition, would overwhelm him; let him leave to the enthusiast his
vague hopes; to the fanatic his mad-brained speculations; to the bigot
those fears with which he ministers to his own melancholy; but let his
heart, fortified by reason, corroborated by a love of virtue, no longer
dread a dissolution that will destroy all feeling.

Whatever may be the attachment man has to life, whatever may be his
fear of death, it is every day witnessed, that habit, that opinion,
that prejudice, are motives sufficiently powerful to annihilate these
passions in his breast; to make him brave danger; to cause him to hazard
his existence. Ambition, pride, jealousy, love, vanity, avarice, the
desire of glory, that deference of opinion which is decorated with the
sounding title of _a point of honour_, have the efficacy to make him
shut his eyes to danger; to laugh at peril; to push him on to death:
vexation, anxiety of mind, disgrace, want of success, softens to him
its hard features; makes him regard it as a door that will afford him
shelter from the injustice of mankind: indigence, trouble, adversity,
familiarizes him with this death, so terrible to the happy. The poor
man, condemned to labour, inured to privations, deprived of the comforts
of life, views its approach with indifference: the unfortunate, when
he is unhappy, when he is without resource, embraces it in despair; the
wretched accelerates its march as soon as he sees that happiness is no
longer within his grasp.

Man in different ages, in different countries, has formed opinions
extremely various upon the conduct of those, who have had the temerity
to put an end to their own existence. His ideas upon this subject, as
upon all others, have taken their tone from his religion, have been
governed by his superstitious systems, have been modified by his
political institutions. The Greeks, the Romans, and other nations, which
every thing conspired to make intrepid, to render courageous, to lead
to magnanimity, regarded as heroes, contemplated as Gods, those who
voluntarily cut the thread of life. In Hindoostan, the Brahmin yet knows
how to inspire even women with sufficient fortitude to burn themselves
upon the dead bodies of their husbands. The Japanese, upon the most
trifling occasion, takes no kind of difficulty in plunging a dagger into
his bosom.

Among the people of our own country, religion renders man less prodigal
of life; it teaches that it is offensive to the Deity that he should
destroy himself. Some moralists, abstracting the height of religious
ideas, have held that it is never permitted to man to break the
conditions of the covenant that he has made with society. Others
have looked upon suicide as cowardice; they have thought that it was
weakness, that it displayed pusillanimity, to suffer, himself to be
overwhelmed with the shafts of his destiny; and have held that there
would be much more courage, more elevation of soul, in supporting his
afflictions, in resisting the blows of fate.

If nature be consulted upon this point, it will be found that all the
actions of man, that feeble plaything in the hands of necessity, are
indispensable; that they depend on causes which move him in despite of
himself--that without his knowledge, make him accomplish at each moment
of his existence some one of its decrees. If the same power that obliges
all intelligent beings to cherish their existence, renders that of
man so painful, so cruel, that he finds it insupportable he quits his
species; order is destroyed for him, he accomplishes a decree of Nature,
that wills he shall no longer exist. This Nature has laboured during
thousands of years, to form in the bowels of the earth the iron that
must number his days.

If the relation of man with Nature be examined, it will be found that
his engagement was neither voluntary on his part, nor reciprocal on the
part of Nature. The volition of his will had no share in his birth;
it is commonly against his will that he is obliged to finish life; his
actions are, as we have proved, only the necessary effects of unknown
causes which determine his will. He is, in the hands of Nature, that
which a sword is in his own hands; he can fall upon it without its being
able to accuse him with breaking his engagements; or of stamping with
ingratitude the hand that holds it: man can only love his existence on
condition of being happy; as soon as the entire of nature refuses him
this happiness; as soon as all that surrounds him becomes incommodious
to him, as soon as his melancholy ideas offer nothing but afflicting
pictures to his imagination; he already exists no longer; he is
suspended in the void; he quits a rank which no longer suits him; in
which he finds no one interest; which offers him no protection; which
overwhelms him with calamity; in which he can no more be useful either
to himself or to others.

If the covenant which unites man to society be considered, it will be
obvious that every contract is conditional, must be reciprocal; that is
to say, supposes mutual advantages between the contracting parties. The
citizen cannot be bound to his country, to his associates, but by the
bonds of happiness. Are these bonds cut asunder? He is restored to
liberty. Society, or those who represent it, do they use him with
harshness, do they treat him with injustice, do they render his
existence painful? Does disgrace hold him out to the finger of scorn;
does indigence menace him in an obdurate world? Perfidious friends, do
they forsake him in adversity? An unfaithful wife, does she outrage his
heart? Rebellious, ungrateful children, do they afflict his old age?
Has he placed his happiness exclusively on some object which it is
impossible for him to procure? Chagrin, remorse, melancholy, and
despair, have they disfigured to him the spectacle of the universe? In
short, for whatever cause it may be: if he is not able to support
his evils, he quits a world, which from henceforth, is for him only a
frightful desert he removes himself for ever from a country he thinks
no longer willing to reckon him amongst the number of her children--he
quits a house that to his mind is ready to bury him under its ruins--he
renounces a society, to the happiness of which he can no longer
contribute; which his own peculiar felicity alone can render dear to
him: and could the man be blamed, who, finding himself useless; who
being without resources, in the town where destiny gave him birth,
should quit it in chagrin, to plunge himself in solitude? Death appears
to the wretched the only remedy for despair; it is then the sword seems
the only friend, the only comfort that is left to the unhappy: as long
as hope remains the tenant of his bosom--as long as his evils appear to
him at all supportable--as long as he flatters himself with seeing them
brought to a termination--as long as he finds some comfort in existence,
however slender, he will not consent to deprive himself of life: but
when nothing any longer sustains in him the love of this existence, then
to live, is to him the greatest of evils; to die, the only mode by which
he can avoid the excess of despair. This has been the opinion of many
great men: Seneca, the moralist, whom Lactantius calls the divine Pagan,
who has been praised equally by St. Austin and St. Augustine, endeavours
by every kind of argument to make death a matter of indifference to man.
Cato has always been commended, because he would not survive the cause
of liberty; for that he would not live a slave. Curtius, who rode
voluntarily into the gap, to save his country, has always been held
forth as a model of heroic virtue. Is it not evident, that those martyrs
who have delivered themselves up to punishment, have preferred quitting
the world to living in it contrary to their own ideals of happiness?
When Samson wished to be revenged on the Philistines, did he not consent
to die with them as the only means? If our country is attacked, do we
not voluntarily sacrifice our lives in its defence?

That society who has not the ability, or who is not willing to procure
man any one benefit, loses all its rights over him; Nature, when it has
rendered his existence completely miserable, has in fact, ordered him to
quit it: in dying he does no more than fulfil one of her decrees, as
he did when he first drew his breath. To him who is fearless of death,
there is no evil without a remedy; for him who refuses to die, there
yet exists benefits which attach him to the world; in this case let him
rally his powers--let him oppose courage to a destiny that oppresses
him--let him call forth those resources with which Nature yet furnishes
him; she cannot have totally abandoned him, while she yet leaves him the
sensation of pleasure; the hopes of seeing a period to his pains.

Man regulates his judgment on his fellows, only by his own peculiar
mode of feeling; he deems as folly, he calls delirium all those violent
actions which he believes but little commensurate with their causes; or
which appear to him calculated to deprive him of that happiness, towards
which he supposes a being in the enjoyment of his senses, cannot cease
to have a tendency: he treats his associate as a weak creature, when he
sees him affected with that which touches him but lightly; or when he is
incapable of supporting those evils, which his self-love flatters him,
he would himself be able to endure with more fortitude. He accuses with
madness whoever deprives himself of life, for objects that he thinks
unworthy so dear a sacrifice; he taxes him with phrenzy, because he has
himself learned to regard this life as the greatest blessing. It is
thus that he always erects himself into a judge of the happiness of
others--of their mode of seeing--of their manner of feeling: a miser who
destroys himself after the loss of his treasure, appears a fool in
the eyes of him who is less attached to riches; he does not feel, that
without money, life to this miser is only a continued torture; that
nothing in the world is capable of diverting him from his painful
sensations: he will proudly tell you, that in his place he had not done
so much; but to be exactly in the place of another man, it is needful to
have his organization--his temperament--his passions--his ideas; it
is in fact needful to be that other; to be placed exactly in the same
circumstances; to be moved by the same causes; and in this case all men,
like the miser, would sacrifice their life, after being deprived of the
only source of their happiness.

He who deprives himself of his existence, does not adopt this extremity,
so repugnant to his natural tendency; but when nothing in this world has
the faculty of rejoicing him; when no means are left of diverting his
affliction; when reason no longer acts; his misfortune whatever it may
be, for him is real; his organization, be it strong, or be it weak, is
his own, not that of another: a man who is sick only in imagination,
really suffers considerably; even troublesome dreams place him in a very
uncomfortable situation. Thus when a man kills himself, it ought to be
concluded, that life, in the room of being a benefit, had become a very
great evil to him; that existence had lost all its charms in his eyes;
that the entire of nature was to him destitute of attraction; that it
no longer contained any thing that could seduce him; that after the
comparison which his disturbed imagination had made of existence with
non-existence, the latter appeared to him preferable to the first.

Many will consider these maxims as dangerous; they certainly account why
the unhappy cut the thread of life, in a manner not corresponding with
the received prejudices; but, nevertheless, it is a temperament soured
by chagrin, a bilious constitution, a melancholy habit, a defect in the
organization, a derangement in the mind; it is in fact necessity and
not reasonable speculations, that breed in man the design of destroying
himself. Nothing invites him to this step so long as reason remains
with him; or whilst he yet possesses hope, that sovereign balm for every
evil: as for the unfortunate, who cannot lose sight of his sorrows--who
cannot forget his pains--who has his evils always present to his
mind; he is obliged to take counsel from these alone: besides, what
assistance, what advantage can society promise to himself, from a
miserable wretch reduced to despair; from a misanthrope overwhelmed
with grief; from a wretch tormented with remorse, who has no longer
any motive to render himself useful to others--who has abandoned
himself--who finds no more interest in preserving his life? Frequently,
those who destroy themselves are such, that had they lived, the offended
laws must have ultimately been obliged to remove them from a society
which they disgraced; from a country which they had injured.

As life is commonly the greatest blessing for man, it is to be presumed
that he who deprives himself of it, is compelled to it by an invincible
force. It is the excess of misery, the height of despair, the
derangement of his brain, caused by melancholy, that urges man on to
destroy himself. Agitated by contrary impulsions, he is, as we have
before said, obliged to follow a middle course that conducts him to his
death; if man be not a free-agent, in any one instant of his life, he is
again much less so in the act by which it is terminated.

It will be seen then, that he who kills himself, does not, as it is
pretended, commit an outrage on nature. He follows an impulse which
has deprived him of reason; adopts the only means left him to quit his
anguish; he goes out of a door which she leaves open to him; he cannot
offend in accomplishing a law of necessity: the iron hand of this having
broken the spring that renders life desirable to him; which urged him to
self-conservation, shews him he ought to quit a rank or system where he
finds himself too miserable to have the desire of remaining. His country
or his family have no right to complain of a member, whom it has no
means of rendering happy; from whom consequently they have nothing more
to hope: to be useful to either, it is necessary he should cherish his
own peculiar existence; that he should have an interest in conserving
himself--that he should love the bonds by which he is united to
others--that he should be capable of occupying himself with their
felicity--that he should have a sound mind. That the suicide should
repent of his precipitancy, he should outlive himself, he should carry
with him into his future residence, his organs, his senses, his memory,
his ideas, his actual mode of existing, his determinate manner of
thinking.

In short, nothing is more useful for society, than to inspire man with
a contempt for death; to banish from his mind the false ideas he has of
its consequences. The fear of death can never do more than make
cowards; the fear of its consequences will make nothing but fanatics
or melancholy beings, who are useless to themselves, unprofitable to
others. Death is a resource that ought not by any means to be taken away
from oppressed virtue; which the injustice of man frequently reduces
to despair. If man feared death less, he would neither be a slave nor
superstitious; truth would find defenders more zealous; the rights of
mankind would be more hardily sustained; virtue would be intrepidly
upheld: error would be more powerfully opposed; tyranny would be
banished from nations: cowardice nourishes it, fear perpetuates it. In
fact, _man can neither be contented nor happy whilst his opinions shall
oblige him to tremble_.





CHAP. XV.

_Of Man's true Interest, or of the Ideas he forms to himself of
Happiness.--Man cannot be happy without Virtue._


Utility, as has been before observed, ought to be the only standard of
the judgment of man. To be useful, is to contribute to the happiness
of his fellow creatures; to be prejudicial, is to further their
misery. This granted, let us examine if the principles we have hitherto
established be prejudicial or advantageous, useful or useless, to the
human race. If man unceasingly seeks after his happiness, he can only
approve of that which procures for him his object, or furnishes him the
means by which it is to be obtained.

What has been already said will serve in fixing our ideas upon what
constitutes this happiness: it has been already shewn that it is only
continued pleasure: but in order that an object may please, it is
necessary that the impressions it makes, the perceptions it gives,
the ideas which it leaves, in short, that the motion it excites in man
should be analogous to his organization; conformable to his temperament;
assimilated to his individual nature:--modified as it is by habit,
determined as it is by an infinity of circumstances, it is necessary
that the action of the object by which he is moved, or of which the idea
remains with him, far from enfeebling him, far from annihilating his
feelings, should tend to strengthen him; it is necessary, that without
fatiguing his mind, exhausting his faculties, or deranging his organs,
this object should impart to his machine that degree of activity for
which it continually has occasion. What is the object that unites
all these qualities? Where is the man whose organs are susceptible
of continual agitation without being fatigued; without experiencing a
painful sensation; without sinking? Man is always willing to be warned
of his existence in the most lively manner, as long as he can be so
without pain. What do I say? He consents frequently to suffer, rather
than not feel. He accustoms himself to a thousand things which at first
must have affected him in a disagreeable manner; but which frequently
end either by converting themselves into wants, or by no longer
affecting him any way: of this truth tobacco, coffee, and above all
brandy furnish examples: this is the reason he runs to see tragedies;
that he witnesses the execution of criminals. In short, the desire
of feeling, of being powerfully moved, appears to be the principle of
curiosity; of that avidity with which man seizes on the marvellous;
of that earnestness with which he clings to the supernatural; of the
disposition he evinces for the incomprehensible. Where, indeed, can
he always find objects in nature capable of continually supplying
the stimulus requisite to keep him in activity, that shall be ever
proportioned to the state of his own organization; which his extreme
mobility renders subject to perpetual variation? The most lively
pleasures are always the least durable, seeing they are those which
exhaust him most.

That man should be uninterruptedly happy, it would be requisite that his
powers were infinite; it would require that to his mobility he joined
a vigor, attached a solidity, which nothing could change; or else it is
necessary that the objects from which he receives impulse, should either
acquire or lose properties, according to the different states through
which his machine is successively obliged to pass; it would need that
the essences of beings should be changed in the same proportion as
his dispositions; should be submitted to the continual influence of a
thousand causes, which modify him without his knowledge, and in despite
of himself. If, at each moment, his machine undergoes changes more
or less marked, which are ascribable to the different degrees of
elasticity, of density, of serenity of the atmosphere; to the portion
of igneous fluid circulating through his blood; to the harmony of his
organs; to the order that exists between the various parts of his body;
if, at every period of his existence, his nerves have not the same
tensions, his fibres the same elasticity, his mind the same activity,
his imagination the same ardour, &c. it is evident that the same causes
in preserving to him only the same qualities, cannot always affect him
in the same manner. Here is the reason why those objects that please
him in one season displease him in another: these objects have not
themselves sensibly changed; but his organs, his dispositions, his
ideas, his mode of seeing, his manner of feeling, have changed:--such is
the source of man's inconstancy.

If the same objects are not constantly in that state competent to form
the happiness of the same individual, it is easy to perceive that they
are yet less in a capacity to please all men; or that the same happiness
cannot be suitable to all. Beings already various by their temperament,
unlike in their faculties, diversified in their organization, different
in their imagination, dissimilar in their ideas, of distinct opinions,
of contrary habits, which an infinity of circumstances, whether physical
or moral, have variously modified, must necessarily form very different
notions of happiness. Those of a MISER cannot be the same as those of
a PRODIGAL; those of a VOLUPTUARY, the same as those of one who is
PHLEGMATIC; those of an intemperate, the same as those of a rational
man, who husbands his health. The happiness of each, is in consequence
composed of his natural organization, and of those circumstances, of
those habits, of those ideas, whether true or false, that have modified
him: this organization and these circumstances, never being the same
in any two men, it follows, that what is the object of one man's views,
must be indifferent, or even displeasing to another; thus, as we
have before said, no one can be capable of judging of that which may
contribute to the felicity of his fellow man.

_Interest_ is the object to which each individual according to his
temperament and his own peculiar ideas, attaches his welfare; from which
it will be perceived that this interest is never more than that which
each contemplates as necessary to his happiness. It must, therefore, be
concluded, that no man is totally without interest. That of the miser to
amass wealth; that of the prodigal to dissipate it: the interest of the
ambitious is to obtain power; that of the modest philosopher to enjoy
tranquillity; the interest of the debauchee is to give himself up,
without reserve, to all sorts of pleasure; that of the prudent man, to
abstain from those which may injure him: the interest of the wicked is
to gratify his passions at any price: that of the virtuous to merit
by his conduct the love, to elicit by his actions the approbation of
others; to do nothing that can degrade himself in his own eyes.

Thus, when it is said that _Interest is the only motive of human
actions;_ it is meant to indicate that each man labours after his own
manner, to his own peculiar happiness; that he places it in some object
either visible or concealed; either real or imaginary; that the whole
system of his conduct is directed to its attainment. This granted, no
man can be called disinterested; this appellation is only applied to
those of whose motives we are ignorant; or whose interest we approve.
Thus the man who finds a greater pleasure in assisting his friends in
misfortune than preserving in his coffers useless treasure, is called
generous, faithful, and disinterested; in like manner all men are
denominated disinterested, who feel their glory far more precious than
their fortune. In short, all men are designated disinterested who place
their happiness in making sacrifices which man considers costly, because
he does not attach the same value to the object for which the sacrifice
is made.

Man frequently judges very erroneously of the interest of others, either
because the motives that animate them are too complicated for him to
unravel; or because to be enabled to judge of them fairly, it is needful
to have the same eyes, the same organs the same passions, the same
opinions: nevertheless, obliged to form his judgment of the actions
of mankind, by their effect on himself, he approves the interest that
actuates them whenever the result is advantageous for his species:
thus, he admires valour, generosity, the love of liberty, great talents,
virtue, &c. he then only approves of the objects in which the beings
he applauds have placed their happiness; he approves these dispositions
even when he is not in a capacity to feel their effects; but in this
judgment he is not himself disinterested; experience, reflection, habit,
reason, have given him a taste for morals, and he finds as much pleasure
in being witness to a great and generous action, as the man of _virtu_
finds in the sight of a fine picture of which he is not the proprietor.
He who has formed to himself a habit of practising virtue, is a man who
has unceasingly before his eyes the interest that he has in meriting
the affection, in deserving the esteem, in securing the assistance of
others, as well as to love and esteem himself: impressed with these
ideas which have become habitual to him, he abstains even from concealed
crimes, since these would degrade him in his own eyes: he resembles a
man who having from his infancy contracted the habit of cleanliness,
would be painfully affected at seeing himself dirty, even when no one
should witness it. The honest man is he to whom truth has shewn his
interest or his happiness in a mode of acting that others are obliged
to love, are under the necessity to approve for their own peculiar
interest.

These principles, duly developed, are the true basis of morals; nothing
is more chimerical than those which are founded upon imaginary motives
placed out of nature; or upon innate sentiments; which some speculators
have regarded as anterior to man's experience; as wholly independant of
those advantages which result to him from its use: it is the essence of
man to love himself; to tend to his own conservation; to seek to render
his existence happy: thus interest, or the desire of happiness, is the
only real motive of all his actions; this interest depends upon his
natural organization, rests itself upon his wants, is bottomed upon his
acquired ideas, springs from the habits he has contracted: he is without
doubt in error, when either a vitiated organization or false opinions
shew him his welfare in objects either useless or injurious to himself,
as well as to others; he marches steadily in the paths of virtue when
true ideas have made him rest his happiness on a conduct useful to
his species; in that which is approved by others; which renders him an
interesting object to his associates. _Morals_ would be a vain science
if it did not incontestibly prove to man that _his interest consists in
being virtuous._ Obligation of whatever kind, can only be founded upon
the probability or the certitude of either obtaining a good or avoiding
an evil.

Indeed, in no one instant of his duration, can a sensible, an
intelligent being, either lose sight of his own preservation or forget
his own welfare; he owes happiness to himself; but experience quickly
proves to him, that bereaved of assistance, quite alone, left entirely
to himself, he cannot procure all those objects which are requisite to
his felicity: he lives with sensible, with intelligent beings, occupied
like himself with their own peculiar happiness; but capable of assisting
him, in obtaining those objects he most desires; he discovers that these
beings will not be favorable to his views, but when they find their
interest involved; from which he concludes, that his own happiness
demands, that his own wants render it necessary he should conduct
himself at all times in a manner suitable to conciliate the attachment,
to obtain the approbation, to elicit the esteem, to secure the
assistance of those beings who are most capacitated to further his
designs. He perceives, that it is man who is most necessary to the
welfare of man: that to induce him to join in his interests, he ought to
make him find real advantages in recording his projects: but to procure
real advantages to the beings of the human species, is to have virtue;
the reasonable man, therefore, is obliged to feel that it is his
interest to be virtuous. _Virtue is only the art of rendering
himself happy, by the felicity of others_. The virtuous man is he who
communicates happiness to those beings who are capable of rendering his
own condition happy; who are necessary to his conservation; who have the
ability to procure him a felicitous existence.

Such, then, is the true foundation of all morals; merit and virtue are
founded upon the nature of man; have their dependance upon his wants. It
is virtue alone that can render him truly happy: without virtue society
can neither be useful nor indeed subsist; it can only have real utility
when it assembles beings animated with the desire of pleasing each
other, and disposed to labour to their reciprocal advantage: there
exists no comfort in those families whose members are not in the
happy disposition to lend each other mutual succours; who have not a
reciprocity of feeling that stimulates them to assist one another; that
induces them to cling to each other, to support the sorrows of life;
to unite their efforts, to put away those evils to which nature has
subjected them; the conjugal bonds, are sweet only in proportion as they
identify the interest of two beings, united by the want of legitimate
pleasure; from whence results the maintenance of political society, and
the means of furnishing it with citizens. Friendship has charms only
when it more particularly associates two virtuous beings; that is to
say, animated with the sincere desire of conspiring to their reciprocal
happiness. In short, it is only by displaying virtue, that man can merit
the benevolence, can win the confidence, can gain the esteem, of all
those with whom he has relation; in a word, no man can be independently
happy.

Indeed, the happiness of each human individual depends on those
sentiments to which he gives birth, on those feelings which he nourishes
in the beings amongst whom his destiny has placed him; grandeur may
dazzle them; power may wrest from them an involuntary homage; force may
compel an unwilling obedience; opulence may seduce mean, may attract
venal souls; but it is humanity, it is benevolence, it is compassion, it
is equity, that unassisted by these, can without efforts obtain for
him, from those by whom he is surrounded, those delicious sentiments of
attachments, those soothing feelings of tenderness, those sweet ideas of
esteem, of which all reasonable men feel the necessity. To be virtuous
then, is to place his interest in that which accords with the interest
of others; it is to enjoy those benefits, to partake of that pleasure
which he himself diffuses over his fellows. He whom, his nature, his
education, his reflections, his habits, have rendered susceptible of
these dispositions, and to whom his circumstances have given him the
faculty of gratifying them, becomes an interesting object to all those
who approach him: he enjoys every instant, he reads with satisfaction
the contentment, he contemplates with pleasure the joy which he has
diffused over all countenances: his wife, his children, his friends, his
servants greet him with gay, serene faces, indicative of that content,
harbingers of that peace, which he recognizes for his own work: every
thing that environs him is ready to partake his pleasures; to share
his pains; cherished, respected, looked up to by others, every thing
conducts him to agreeable reflections; he knows the rights he has
acquired over their hearts; he applauds himself for being the source
of a felicity that captivates all the world; his own condition, his
sentiments of self-love, become an hundred times more delicious when he
sees them participated by all those with whom his destiny has connected
him. The habit of virtue creates for him no wants but those which virtue
itself suffices to satisfy; it is thus that _virtue is always its own
peculiar reward_, that it remunerates itself with all the advantages
which it incessantly procures for others.

It will be said, and perhaps even proved, that under the present
constitution of things, virtue far from procuring the welfare of those
who practice it frequently plunges man into misfortune; often places
continual obstacles to his felicity; that almost every where it is
without recompence. What do I say? A thousand examples could be adduced
as evidence, that in almost every country it is hated, persecuted,
obliged to lament the ingratitude of human nature. I reply with avowing,
that by a necessary consequence of the errors of his race, virtue
rarely conducts man to those objects in which the uninformed make their
happiness consist. The greater number of societies, too frequently ruled
by those whose ignorance makes them abuse their power,--whose prejudices
render them enemies of virtue,--who flattered by sycophants, secure in
the impunity their actions enjoy, commonly lavish their esteem, bestow
their kindness, on none but the most unworthy objects; reward only the
most frivolous, recompence none but the most prejudicial qualities; and
hardly ever accord that justice to merit which is unquestionably its
due. But the truly honest man, is neither ambitious of renumeration, nor
sedulous of the suffrages of a society thus badly constituted: contented
with domestic happiness, he seeks not to augment relations, which would
do no more than increase his danger; he knows that a vitiated community
is a whirlwind, with which an honest man cannot co-order himself: he
therefore steps aside; quits the beaten path, by continuing in which he
would infallibly be crushed. He does all the good of which he is capable
in his sphere; he leaves the road free to the wicked, who are willing
to wade through its mire; he laments the heavy strokes they inflict on
themselves; he applauds mediocrity that affords him security: he pities
those nations made miserable by their errors,--rendered unhappy by those
passions which are the fatal but necessary consequence; he sees they
contain nothing but wretched citizens, who far from cultivating their
true interest, far from labouring to their mutual felicity, far from
feeling the real value of virtue, unconscious how dear it ought to be
to them, do nothing but either openly attack, or secretly injure it;
in short, who detests a quality which would restrain their disorderly
propensities.

In saying that virtue is its own peculiar reward, it is simply meant to
announce, that in a society whose views were guided by truth, trained
by experience, conducted by reason, each individual would be acquainted
with his real interests; would understand the true end of association;
would have sound motives to perform his duties; find real advantages in
fulfilling them; in fact, it would be convinced, that to render himself
solidly happy, he should occupy his actions with the welfare of his
fellows; by their utility merit their esteem, elicit their kindness, and
secure their assistance. In a well-constituted society, the government,
the laws, education, example, would all conspire to prove to the
citizen, that the nation of which he forms a part, is a whole that
cannot be happy, that cannot subsist without virtue; experience would,
at each step, convince him that the welfare of its parts can only result
from that of the whole body corporate; justice would make him feel, that
no society, can be advantageous to its members, where the volition of
wills in those who act, is not so conformable to the interests of the
whole, as to produce an advantageous re-action.

But, alas! by the confusion which the errors of man have carried into
his ideas: virtue disgraced, banished, and persecuted, finds not one
of those advantages it has a right to expect: man is indeed shewn those
rewards for it in a future life, of which he is almost always deprived
in his actual existence. It is thought necessary to deceive, considered
proper to seduce, right to intimidate him, in order to induce him to
follow that virtue which every thing renders incommodious to him; he
is fed with distant hopes, in order to solicit him to practice virtue,
while contemplation of the world makes it hateful to him; he is
alarmed by remote terrors, to deter him from committing evil, which his
associates paint as amiable; which all conspires to render necessary.
It is thus that politics, thus that superstition, by the formation of
chimeras, by the creation of fictitious interests pretend to supply
those true, those real motives which nature furnishes,--which
experience would point out,--which an enlightened government should
hold forth,--which the law ought to enforce,--which instruction should
sanction,--which example should encourage,-which rational opinions would
render pleasant. Man, blinded by his passions, not less dangerous than
necessary, led away by precedent, authorised by custom, enslaved by
habit, pays no attention to these uncertain promises, is regardless of
the menaces held out; the actual interests of his immediate pleasures,
the force of his passions, the inveteracy of his habits, always rise
superior to the distant interests pointed out in his future welfare,
or the remote evils with which he is threatened; which always appear
doubtful, whenever he compares them with present advantages.

Thus _superstition, far from making man virtuous by principle, does
nothing more than impose upon him a yoke as severe as it is useless_; it
is borne by none but enthusiasts, or by the pusillanimous; who, without
becoming better, tremblingly champ the feeble bit put into their mouth;
who are either rendered unhappy by their opinions, or dangerous by their
tenets; indeed, experience, that faithful monitor, incontestibly
proves, that superstition is a <DW18> inadequate to resist the torrent
of corruption, to which so many accumulated causes give an irresistible
force: nay more, does not this superstition itself augment the public
disorder, by the dangerous passions which it lets loose, by the conduct
which it sanctions, by the actions which it consecrates? Virtue, in
almost every climate, is confined to some few rational souls, who have
sufficient strength of mind to resist the stream of prejudice; who are
contented by remunerating themselves with the benefits they difuse over
society: whose temperate dispositions are gratified with the suffrages
of a small number of virtuous approvers; in short, who are detached
from those frivolous advantages which the injustice of society but too
commonly accords only to baseness, which it rarely bestows, except to
intrigue, with which in general it rewards nothing but crime.

In despite of the injustice that reigns in the world, there are,
however, some virtuous men in the bosom even of the most degenerate
nations; notwithstanding the general depravity, there are some
benevolent beings, still enamoured of virtue; who are fully acquainted
with its true value; who are sufficiently enlightened to know that
it exacts homage even from its enemies; who to use the language of
ECCLESIASTES, "_rejoice in their own works_;" who are, at least, happy in
possessing contented minds, who are satisfied with concealed pleasures,
those internal recompences of which no earthly power is competent to
deprive them. The honest man acquires a right to the esteem, has a just
claim to the veneration, wins the confidence, gains the love, even of
those whose conduct is exposed by a contrast with his own. In short,
vice is obliged to cede to virtue; of which it blushingly, though
unwillingly, acknowledges the superiority. Independent of this
ascendancy so gentle, of this superiority so grand, of this pre-eminence
so infallible, when even the whole universe should be unjust to him,
when even every tongue should cover him with venom, when even every arm
should menace him with hostility, there yet remains to the honest man
the sublime advantage of loving his own conduct; the ineffable pleasure
of esteeming himself; the unalloyed gratification of diving with
satisfaction into the recesses of his own heart; the tranquil delight
of contemplating his own actions with that delicious complacency that
others ought to do, if they were not hood-winked, No power is adequate
to ravish from him the merited esteem of himself; no authority is
sufficiently potent to give it to him when he deserves it not; the
mightiest monarch cannot lend stability to this esteem, when it is
not well founded; it is then a ridiculous sentiment: it ought to be
considered, it really is "_vanity and vexation of spirit_," it is
not wisdom, but folly in the extreme; it ought to be censured when it
displays itself in a mode that is mortifying to its neighbour, in a
manner that is troublesome to others; it is then called ARROGANCE; it
is called VANITY; but when it cannot be condemned, when it is known for
legitimate when it is discovered to have a solid foundation, when it
bottoms itself upon talents, when it rises upon great actions that are
useful to the community, when it erects its edifice upon virtue; even
though society should not set these merits at their just price, it is
NOBLE PRIDE, ELEVATION OF MIND, and GRANDEUR OF SOUL.

Of what consequence then, is it to listen to those superstitious beings,
those enemies to man's happiness, who have been desirous of destroying
it, even in the inmost recesses of his heart; who have prescribed to him
hatred of his follower; who have filled him with contempt for himself;
who pretend to wrest from the honest man that self-respect which is
frequently the only reward that remains to virtue, in a perverse world.
To annihilate in him this sentiment, so full in justice, this love
of himself, is to break the most powerful spring, to weaken the most
efficacious stimulus, that urges him to act right; that spurs him on to
do good to his fellow mortals. What motive, indeed, except it be this,
remains for him in the greater part of human societies? Is not
virtue discouraged? Is not honesty contemned? Is not audacious crime
encouraged? Is not subtle intrigue eulogized? Is not cunning vice
rewarded? Is not love of the public weal taxed as folly; exactitude in
fulfilling duties looked upon as a bubble? Is not compassion laughed
to scorn? ARE NOT TRAITORS DISTINGUISHED BY PUBLIC HONORS? Is not
negligence of morals applauded,--sensibility derided,--tenderness
scoffed,--conjugal fidelity jeered,--sincerity despised,--enviolable
friendship treated with ridicule: while seduction, adultery,
hard-heartedness, punic faith, avarice, and fraud, stalk forth
unabashed, decked in gorgeous array, lauded by the world? Man must have
motives for action: he neither acts well nor ill, but with a view to his
own happiness: that which he judges will conduce to this "_consummation
so devoutly to be wished_," he thinks his interest; he does nothing
gratuitously; when reward for useful actions is withheld from him, he is
reduced either to become as abandoned as others, or else to remunerate
himself with his own applause.

This granted; the honest man can never be completely unhappy; he can
never be entirely deprived of the recompence which is his due; virtue is
competent to repay him for all the benefits he may bestow on others;
can amply make up to him all the happiness denied him by public opinion;
_but nothing can compensate to him the want of virtue_. It does not
follow that the honest man will be exempted from afflictions: like, the
wicked, he is subject to physical evils; he may pine in indigence; he
may be deprived of friendship; he may be worn down with disease; he may
frequently be the subject of calumny; he may be the victim to injustice;
he may be treated with ingratitude; he may be exposed to hatred; but in
the midst of all his misfortunes, in the very bosom of his sorrows,
in the extremity of his vexation, he finds support in himself; he is
contented with his own conduct; he respects himself; he feels his own
dignity; he knows the equity of his rights; he consoles himself with
the confidence inspired by the justness of his cause; he cheers himself
amidst the most sullen circumstances. These supports are not calculated
for the wicked; they avail him nothing: equally liable with the honest
man to infirmities, equally submitted to the caprices of his destiny,
equally the sport of a fluctuating world, he finds the recesses of his
own heart filled with dreadful alarms; diseased with care; cankered
with solitude; corroded with regret; gnawed by remorse; he dies within
himself; his conscience sustains him not but loads him with reproach;
his mind, overwhelmed, sinks beneath its own turpitude; his reflection
is the bitter dregs of hemlock; maddening anguish holds him to the
mirror that shews him his own deformity; that recalls unhallowed deeds;
gloomy thoughts rush on his too faithful memory; despondence benumbs
him; his body, simultaneously assailed on all sides, bends under the
storm of--his own unruly passions; at last despair grapples him to her
filthy bosom, he flies from himself. The honest man is not an insensible
Stoic; virtue does not procure impassibility; honesty gives no exemption
from misfortune, but it enables him to bear cheerly up against it; to
cast off despair, to keep his own company: if he is infirm, if he is
worn with disease, he has less to complain of than the vicious being
who is oppressed with sickness, who is enfeebled by years; if he is
indigent, he is less unhappy in his poverty; if he is in disgrace, he
can endure it with fortitude, he is not overwhelmed by its pressure,
like the wretched slave to crime.

Thus the happiness of each individual depends on the cultivation of his
temperament; nature makes both the happy and the unhappy; it is culture
that gives value to the soil nature has formed; it is instruction that
makes the fruit it produces palatable; It is reflection that makes it
useful. For man to be happily born, is to have received from nature a
sound body, organs that act with precision--a just mind, a heart
whose passions are analogous, whose desires are conformable to the
circumstances in which his destiny has placed him: nature, then, has
done every thing for him, when she has joined to these faculties the
quantum of vigour, the portion of energy, sufficient to enable him to
obtain those Proper things, which his station, his mode of thinking,
his temperament, have rendered desirable. Nature has made him a fatal
present, when she has filled his sanguinary vessels with an over-heated
fluid; when she has given him an imagination too active; when she has
infused into him desires too impetuous; when he has a hankering
after objects either impossible or improper to be obtained under
his circumstances; or which at least he cannot procure without those
incredible efforts, that either place his own welfare in danger or
disturb the repose of society. The most happy man, is commonly he who
possesses a peaceful soul; who only desires those things which he can
procure by labour, suitable to maintain his activity; which he can
obtain without causing those shocks, that are either too violent for
society, or troublesome to his associates. A philosopher whose wants are
easily satisfied, who is a stranger, to ambition, who is contented with
the limited circle of a small number of friends, is, without doubt a
being much more happily constituted than an ambitious conqueror, whose
greedy imagination is reduced to despair by having only one world to
ravage. He who is happily born, or whom nature has rendered susceptible
of being conveniently modified, is not a being injurious to society: it
is generally disturbed by men who are unhappily born, whose organization
renders them turbulent; who are discontented with their destiny; who are
inebriated with their own licentious passions; who are infatuated with
their own vile schemes; who are smitten with difficult enterprises; who
set the world in combustion, to gather imaginary benefits in order to
attain which they must inflict he heaviest curses on mankind, but in
which they make their own happiness consist. An ALEXANDER requires the
destruction of empires, nations to be deluged with blood, cities to
be laid in ashes, its inhabitants to be exterminated, to content that
passion for glory, of which he has formed to himself a false idea;
but which his too ardent imagination, his too vehement mind anxiously
thirsts after: for a DIOGENES there needs only a tub with the liberty
of appearing whimsical; a SOCRATES wants nothing but the pleasure of
forming disciples to virtue.

Man by his organization is a being to whom motion is always necessary;
he must therefore always desire it: this is the reason why too much
facility In procuring the objects of his search, renders them quickly
insipid. To feel happiness, it is necessary to make efforts to obtain
it; to find charms in its enjoyment, it is necessary that the desire
should be whetted by obstacles; he is presently disgusted with those
benefits which have cost him but little pains. The expectation of
happiness, the labour requisite to procure it, the varied prospects it
holds forth, the multiplied pictures which his imagination forms to him,
supply his brain with that motion for which it has occasion; this gives
impulse to his organs, puts his whole machine into activity, exercises
his faculties, sets all his springs in play, in a word, puts him
into that agreeable activity, for the want of which the enjoyment of
happiness itself cannot compensate him. Action is the true element of
the human mind; as soon as it ceases to act, it falls into disgust,
sinks into lassitude. His soul has the same occasion for ideas, his
stomach has for aliment.

Thus the impulse given him by desire, is itself a great benefit; it is
to the mind what exercise is to the body; without it he would not derive
any pleasure in the aliments presented to him; it is thirst that renders
the pleasure of drinking so agreeable; life is a perpetual circle of
regenerated desires and wants satisfied: repose is only a pleasure to
him who labours; it is a source of weariness, the cause of sorrow,
the spring of vice to him who has nothing to do. To enjoy without
interruption is not to enjoy any thing: the man who has nothing to
desire is certainly more unhappy than he who suffers.

These reflections, grounded upon experience, drawn from the fountain of
truth, ought to prove to man, that good as well as evil depends on the
essence of things. Happiness to be felt cannot be continued. Labour
is necessary, to make intervals between his pleasures; his body has
occasion for exercise, to co-order him with the beings who surround him;
his heart must have desires; trouble alone can give him the right
relish of his welfare; it is this which puts in the shadows, this which
furnishes the true perspective to the picture of human life. By an
irrevocable law of his destiny, man is obliged to be discontented with
his present condition; to make efforts to change it; to reciprocally
envy that felicity which no individual enjoys perfectly. Thus the
poor man envies the opulence of his richer neighbour, although this is
frequently more unhappy than his needy maligner; thus the rich man views
with pain the advantages of a poverty, which he sees active, healthy,
and frequently jocund, even in the bosom of penury.

If man was perfectly contented, there would no longer be any activity in
the world; it is necessary that he should desire; it is requisite that
he should act; it is incumbent he should labour, in order that he may
be happy: such is the course of nature of which the life consists in
action. Human societies can only subsist, by the continual exchange of
those things in which man places his happiness. The poor man is obliged
to desire, he is necessitated to labour, that he may procure what he
knows is requisite to the preservation of his existence; the primary
wants given to him by nature, are to nourish himself, clothe himself,
lodge himself, and propagate his species; has he satisfied these? He
is quickly obliged to create others entirely new; or rather, his
imagination only refines upon the first; he seeks to diversify them; he
is willing to give them fresh zest; arrived at opulence, when he has run
over the whole circle of wants, when he has completely exhausted their
combinations, he falls into disgust. Dispensed from labour, his body
amasses humours; destitute of desires, his heart feels a languor;
deprived of activity, he is obliged to participate his riches, with
beings more active, more laborious than himself: these, following their
own peculiar interests, take upon themselves the task of labouring
for his advantage; of procuring for him means to satisfy his want;
of ministering to his caprices, in order to remove the languor that
oppresses him. It is thus the great, the rich excite the energies, give
play to the activity, rouse the faculties, spur on the industry of the
indigent; these labour to their own peculiar welfare by working for
others: thus the desire of ameliorating his condition, renders man
necessary to his fellow man; thus wants, always regenerating, never
satisfied, are the principles of life,--the soul of activity,--the
source of health,--the basis of society. If each individual was
competent to the supply of his own exigencies, there would be no
occasion for him to congregate in society; but it is his wants, his
desires, his whims, that place him in a state of dependence on others:
these are the causes that each individual, in order to further his
own peculiar interest, is obliged to be useful to those, who have the
capability of procuring for him the objects which he himself has not. A
nation is nothing more than the union of a great number of individuals,
connected with each other by the reciprocity of their wants; by their
mutual desire of pleasure. The most happy man is he who has the fewest
wants, and who has the most numerous means of satisfying them. The
man who would be truly rich, has no need to increase his fortune, it
suffices he should diminish his wants.

In the individuals of the human species, as well as in political
society, the progression of wants, is a thing absolutely necessary; it
is founded upon the essence of man, it is requisite that the natural
wants once satisfied, should be replaced by those which he calls
_Imaginary, or wants of the Fancy:_ these become as necessary to his
happiness as the first. Custom, which permits the native American to go
quite naked, obliges the more civilized inhabitant of Europe to clothe
himself; the poor man contents himself with very simple attire, which
equally serve him for winter and for summer, for autumn and for spring;
the rich man desires to have garments suitable to each mutation of
these seasons; he would experience pain if he had not the convenience
of changing his raiment with every variation of his climate; he would be
wretched if he was obliged to wear the same habiliments in the heat of
summer, which he uses in the winter; in short, he would be unhappy
if the expence and variety of his costume did not display to the
surrounding multitude his opulence, mark his rank, announce his
superiority. It is thus habit multiplies, the wants of the wealthy; it
is thus that vanity itself becomes a want which sets a thousand hands
in, motion, a thousand heads to work, who are all eager to gratify its
cravings; in short, this very vanity procures for the necessitous man,
the means of subsisting at the expense of his opulent neighbours He
who is accustomed to pomp, who is used to ostentatious splendour, whose
habits are luxurious, whenever he is deprived of these insignia of
opulence, to which he has attached the idea of happiness, finds himself
just as unhappy as the needy wretch who has not wherewith to cover his
nakedness. The civilized nations of the present day were in their origin
savages composed of erratic tribes,--mere wanderers who were occupied
with war; employed in, the chace; painfully obliged to seek precarious
subsistence by hunting in those woods which the industry of their
successors has cleared; which their labour has covered with yellow
waving ears of nutritious corn; in time they have become stationary:
they first applied themselves to Agriculture, afterwards to commerce:
by degrees they have refined on their primitive wants, extended their
sphere of action, given birth to a thousand new wants, imagined a
thousand new means to satisfy them; this is the natural course, the
necessary progression, the regular march of active beings, who cannot
live without feeling; who to be happy, must of necessity diversify their
sensations. In proportion as man's wants multiply the means to satisfy
them becomes more difficult, he is obliged to depend on a greater
number of his fellow creatures; his interest obliges him to rouse their
activity; to engage them to concur with his views; consequently he is
obliged to procure for them those objects by which they can be excited;
he is under the necessity of contenting their desires, which increase
like his own, by the very food that satisfies them. The savage
needs only put forth his hand to gather the fruit that offers
itself spontaneously to his reach: this he finds sufficient for his
nourishment. The opulent citizen of a flourishing society is obliged to
set innumerable hands to work to produce the sumptuous repast; the four
quarters of the globe are ransacked to procure the far-fetched viands
become necessary to revive his languid appetite; the merchant,
the sailor, the mechanic, leave nothing unattempted to flatter his
inordinate vanity. From this it will appear, that in the same proportion
the wants of man are multiplied, he is obliged to augment the means to
satisfy them. Riches are nothing more than the measure of a convention,
by the assistance of which man is enabled to make a great number of
his fellows concur in the gratification of his desires; by which he
is capacitated to invite them, for their own peculiar interests, to
contribute to his pleasures. What, in fact, does the rich man do,
except announce to the needy, that he can furnish him with the means of
subsistence if he consents to lend himself to his will? What does the
man in power, except shew to others, that he is in a state to supply
the requisites to render them happy? Sovereigns, nobles, men of wealth,
appear to be happy, only because they possess the ability, are masters
of the motives sufficient to determine a great number of individuals to
occupy themselves with their respective felicity.

The more things are considered the more man will be convinced that his
false opinion are the true source of his misery; the clearer it will
appear to him that happiness is so rare, only because he attaches it
to objects either indifferent or useless to his welfare; which, when
enjoyed, convert themselves into real evils; which afflict him; which
become the cause of his misfortune.

_Riches_ are indifferent in themselves, it is only by their application,
by the purposes they compass, that they either become objects of utility
to man, or are rendered prejudicial to his welfare.

_Money_, useless to the savage who understands not its value, is amassed
by the miser, for fear it should be employed uselessly; lest it should
be squandered by the prodigal; or dissipated by the voluptuary; who make
no other use of it than to purchase infirmities; to buy regret.

Pleasures are nothing for the man who is incapable of feeling them;
they become real evils when they are too freely indulged, when they
are destructive to his health,--when they derange the economy of
his machine,--when they entail diseases on himself and on his
posterity,--when they make him neglect his duties,--when they render him
despicable in the eyes of others.

Power is nothing in itself, it is useless to man if he does not avail
himself of it to promote his own peculiar felicity, by augmenting the
happiness of his species; it becomes fatal to him as soon as he abuses
it; it becomes odious whenever he employs it to render others miserable;
it is always the cause of his own misery whenever he stretches it beyond
the due bounds prescribed by nature.

For want of being enlightened on his true interest, the man who enjoys
all the means of rendering himself completely happy, scarcely ever
discovers the secret of making those means truly subservient to his own
peculiar felicity: the art of enjoying, is that which of all others is
least understood; man should learn this art before he begins to desire;
the earth is covered with individuals who only occupy themselves with
the care of procuring the means without ever being acquainted with the
end. All the world desire fortune, solicit power, seek after pleasure,
yet very few, indeed, are those whom objects render truly happy.

It is quite natural in man, it is extremely reasonable, it is absolutely
necessary, to desire those things which can contribute to augment the
sum of his felicity. _Pleasure, riches, power,_ are objects worthy his
ambition, deserving his most strenuous efforts, when he has learned how
to employ them; when he has acquired the faculty of making them render
his existence really more agreeable. It is impossible to censure him who
desires them, to despise him who commands them, but when to obtain them
he employs odious means; or when after he has obtained them he makes a
pernicious use of them, injurious to himself, prejudicial to others; let
him wish for power, let him seek after grandeur, let him be ambitious
of reputation, when he can shew just pretensions to them; when he can
obtain them, without making the purchase at the expence of his own
repose, or that of the beings with whom he lives: let him desire riches,
when he knows how to make a use of them that is truly advantageous for
himself, really beneficial for others; but never let him employ those
means to procure them of which he may be ashamed; with which he may be
obliged to reproach himself; which may draw upon him the hatred of his
associates; or which may render him obnoxious to the castigation of
society: let him always recollect, that his solid happiness should rest
its foundations upon its own esteem,--upon the advantages he procures
for others; above all, never let him for a moment forget, that of all
the objects to which his ambition may point, the most impracticable for
a being who lives in society, is that of _attempting to render himself
exclusively happy_.





CHAP. XVI

_The Errors of Man,--upon what constitutes Happiness.--the true Source
of his Evil.--Remedies that may be applied._


Reason by no means forbids man from forming capacious desires; ambition
is a passion useful to his species when it has for, its object the
happiness of his race. Great minds, elevated souls, are desirous of
acting on an extended sphere; geniuses who are powerful, beings who are
enlightened, men who are beneficent, distribute very widely their benign
influence; they must necessarily, in order to promote their own peculiar
felicity, render great numbers happy. So many princes fail to enjoy true
happiness only, because their feeble, narrow souls, are obliged to act
in a sphere too extensive for their energies: it is thus that by the
supineness, the indolence, the incapacity of their chiefs, nations
frequently pine in misery; are often submitted to masters, whose
exility of mind is as little calculated to promote their own immediate
happiness, as it is to further that of their miserable subjects. On
the other hand, souls too vehement, too much inflamed, too active, are
themselves tormented by the narrow sphere that confines them; their
ardour misplaced, becomes the scourge of the human race. Alexander was
a monarch who was equally injurious to the earth, equally discontented
with his condition, as the indolent despot whom he dethroned. The souls
of neither were by any means commensurate with their sphere of action.

The happiness of man will never be more than the result of the harmony
that subsists between his desires and his circumstances. The sovereign
power to him who knows not how to apply it to the advantage of his
citizens, is as nothing; it cannot even conduce to his own peculiar
happiness. If it renders him miserable, it is a real evil; if it
produces the misfortune of a portion of the human race, it is a
detestable abuse. The most powerful princes are ordinarily such
strangers to happiness, their subjects are commonly so unfortunate, only
because the first possess all the means of rendering themselves happy
without ever giving them activity; or because the only knowledge they
have of them, is their abuse. A wise man seated on a throne, would be
the most happy of mortals. A monarch is a man for whom his power, let
it be of whatever extent, cannot procure other organs, other modes of
feeling, than the meanest of his subjects; if he has an advantage
over them, it is by the grandeur, the variety, the multiplicity of the
objects with which he can occupy himself; which by giving perpetual
activity to his mind, can prevent it from decay; from falling into
sloth. If his soul is virtuous, if his mind is expansive, his ambition
finds continual food in the contemplation of the power he possesses,
to unite by gentleness, to consolidate by kindness, the will of his
subjects with his own; to interest them in his own conservation, to
merit their affections,--to draw forth the respect of strangers,--to
render luminous the page of history--to elicit the eulogies of all
nations--to clothe the orphan,--to dry the widow's tears. Such are
the conquests that reason proposes to all those whose destiny it is to
govern the fate of empires; they are sufficiently grand to satisfy the
most ardent imagination, of a sublimity to gratify the most capacious
ambition: for a monarch they are paramount duties.--KINGS are the most
happy of men, only because they have the power of making others happy;
because they possess the means of multiplying the causes of legitimate
content with themselves.

The advantages of the sovereign power are participated by all those who
contribute to the government of states. Thus grandeur, rank, reputation,
are desirable, are legitimate objects for all who are acquainted with
the means of rendering them subservient to their own peculiar felicity;
they are useless, they are illegitimate to those ordinary men who
have neither the energy nor the capacity to employ them in a mode
advantageous to themselves; they are detestable whenever to obtain them
man compromises his own happiness, when he implicates the welfare of
society: this society itself is in an error every time it respects men
who only employ to its destruction, a power, the exercise of which it
ought never to approve but when it reaps from it substantial benefits.

Riches, useless to the miser, who is no more than their miserable
gaoler; prejudicial to the debauchee, for whom they only procure
infirmities; injurious to the voluptuary, to whom they only bring
disgust--whom they oppress with satiety; can in the hands of the honest
man produce unnumbered means of augmenting the sum of his happiness; but
before man covets wealth it is proper he should know how to employ it;
money is only a token, a representative of happiness; to enjoy it is so
to use it as to make others happy: this is the great secret, this is the
talisman, this is the reality. Money, according to the compact of man,
procures for him all those benefits he can desire; there is only one,
which it will not procure, that is, _the knowledge how to apply it
properly_. For man to have money, without the true secret how to
enjoy it, is to possess the key of a commodious palace to which he is
interdicted entrance; to lavish it, prodigally, is to throw the key
into the river; to make a bad use of it, is only to make it the means of
wounding himself. Give the most ample treasures to the enlightened man,
he will not be overwhelmed with them; if he has a capacious mind, if he
has a noble soul, he will only extend more widely his benevolence; he
will deserve the affection of a greater number of his fellow men; he
will attract the love, he will secure the homage, of all those who
surround him; he will restrain himself in his pleasures, in order that
he may be enabled truly to enjoy them; he will know that money
cannot re-establish a soul worn out with enjoyment; cannot give fresh
elasticity to organs enfeebled by excess; cannot give fresh tension to
nerves grown flaccid by abuse; cannot invigorate a body enervated
by debauchery; cannot corroborate a machine, from thenceforth become
incapable of sustaining him, except by the necessity of privations; he
will know that the licentiousness of the voluptuary stifles pleasure in
its source; that all the treasure in the world cannot renew his senses.

From this, it will be obvious, that nothing is more frivolous than the
declamations of a gloomy philosophy against the desire of power;
nothing more absurd than the rant of superstition against the pursuit
of grandeur; nothing more inconsistent than homilies against the
acquisition of riches; nothing more unreasonable than dogmas that forbid
the enjoyment of pleasure. These objects are desirable for man, whenever
his situation allows him to make pretensions to them; they are useful
to society, conducive to public happiness, whenever he has acquired the
knowledge of making them turn to his own real advantage; reason cannot
censure him, virtue cannot despise him, when in order to obtain them,
he never travels out of the road of truth; when in their acquisition,
he wounds no one's interest; when he pursues only legitimate means: his
associates will applaud him; his contemporaries will esteem him: he will
respect himself, when he only employs their agency to secure his own
happiness, and that of his fellows. Pleasure is a benefit, it is of
the essence of man to love, it is even rational when it renders his
existence really valuable to himself--when it does not injure him in his
own esteem; when its consequences are not grievous to others. _Riches_
are the symbols of the great majority of the benefits of this life; they
become a reality in the hands of the man who has the clew to their just
application. _Power_ is the most sterling of all benefits, when he who
is its depositary has received from nature a soul sufficiently noble, a
mind sufficiently elevated, a heart sufficiently benevolent, faculties
sufficiently energetic, above all, when he has derived from education a
true regard for virtue, that sacred love for truth which enables him to
extend his happy influence over whole nations; which by this means
he places in, a state of legitimate dependence on his will; _man only
acquires the right of commanding men, when he renders them happy._

The right of man over his fellow man can only be founded either upon the
actual happiness he secures to him, or that which he gives him reason to
hope he will procure for him; without this, the power he exercises would
be violence, usurpation, manifest tyranny; it is only upon the faculty
of rendering him happy, that legitimate authority builds its structure;
without this it is the "_baseless fabric of a vision." No man derives
from nature the right of commanding another_; but it is voluntarily
accorded to those, from whom he expects his welfare. _Government_ is the
right of commanding, conferred on the sovereign only for the advantage
of those who are governed. Sovereigns are the defenders of the persons,
the guardians of the property, the protectors of the liberty of their
subjects: this is the price of their obedience; it is only on this
condition these consent to obey; government would not be better than
a robbery whenever it availed itself of the powers confided to it,
to render society unhappy. _The empire of religion_ is founded on the
opinion man entertains of its having power to render nations happy;
government and religion are reasonable institutions; but only so,
inasmuch as they equally contribute to the felicity of man: it would
be folly in him to submit himself to a yoke from which there resulted
nothing but evil. It would be folly to expect that man should bind
himself to misery; it would be rank injustice to oblige him to renounce
his rights without some corresponding advantage!

The authority which a father exercises over his family is only founded
on the advantages which he is supposed to procure for it. Rank, in
political society, has only for its basis the real or imaginary utility
of some citizens for which the others are willing to distinguish
them--agree to respect them--consent to obey them. The rich acquire
rights over the indigent, the wealthy claim the homage of the needy,
only by virtue of the welfare they are conditioned to procure
them. Genius, talents, science, arts, have rights over man, only
in consequence of their utility; of the delight they confer; of the
advantages they procure for society. In a word, it is happiness, it is
the expectation of happiness, it is its image that man cherishes--that
he esteems--that he unceasingly adores. Monarchs, the rich, the great,
may easily impose on him, may dazzle him, may intimidate him, but they
will never be able to obtain the voluntary submission of his heart,
which alone can confer upon them legitimate rights, without they make
him experience real benefits--without they display virtue. Utility is
nothing more than true happiness; to be useful is to be virtuous; to be
virtuous is to make others happy.

The happiness which man derives from them is the invariable, the
necessary standard of his sentiments, for the beings of his species; for
the objects he desires; for the opinions he embrases; for those actions
on which he decides. He is the dupe of his prejudices every time he
ceases to avail himself of this standard to regulate his judgment. He
will never run the risk of deceiving himself, when he shall examine
strictly what is the real utility resulting to his species from the
religion, from the superstition, from the laws, from the institutions,
from the inventions, from the various actions of all mankind.

A superficial view may sometimes seduce him; but experience, aided
by reflection, will reconduct him to reason, which is incapable of
deceiving him. This teaches him that pleasure is a momentary happiness,
which frequently becomes an evil; that evil is a fleeting trouble that
frequently becomes a good: it makes him understand the true nature of
objects, enables him to foresee the effects he may expect; it makes
him distinguish those desires to which his welfare permits him to lend
himself, from those to whose seduction he ought to make resistance. In
short, it will always convince him that the true interest of intelligent
beings, who love happiness, who desire to render their own existence
felicitous, demands that they should root out all those phantoms,
abolish all those chimerical ideas, destroy all those prejudices, which
by traducing virtue, obstruct their felicity in this world.

If he consults experience, he will perceive that it is in illusions, in
false opinions, rendered sacred by time, that he ought to search out the
source of that multitude of evils which almost every where overwhelms
mankind. From ignorance of natural causes, man has created imaginary
causes; not knowing to what cause to attribute thunder, he ascribed it
to an imaginary being whom he called JUPITER; imposture availing itself
of this disposition, rendered these causes terrible to him; these fatal
ideas haunted him without rendering him better; made him tremble without
either benefit to himself or to others; filled his mind with chimeras
that opposed themselves to the progress of his reason; that prevented
him from really seeking after his happiness. His vain fears rendered him
the slave of those who deceived him, under pretence of consulting his
welfare; he committed evil, because they persuaded him his gods demanded
sacrifices; he lived in misfortune, because they made him believe these
gods condemned him to be miserable; the slave of beings, to which his
own imagination had given birth, he never dared to disentangle himself
from his chains; the artful ministers of these divinities gave him to
understand that stupidity, the renunciation of reason, sloth of mind,
abjection of soul, were the sure means of obtaining eternal felicity.

Prejudices, not less dangerous, have blinded man upon the true nature of
government. Nations in general are ignorant of the true foundations
of authority; they dare not demand happiness from those kings who are
charged with the care of procuring it for them: some have believed their
sovereigns were gods disguised, who received with their birth the right
of commanding the rest of mankind; that they could at their pleasure
dispose of the felicity of the people; that they were not accountable
for the misery they engendered. By a necessary consequence of these
erroneous opinions, politics have almost every where degenerated into
the fatal art of sacrificing the interests of the many, either to the
caprice of an individual, or to some few privileged irrational beings.
In despite of the evils which assailed them, nations fell down in
adoration before the idols they themselves had made: foolishly respected
the instruments of their misery; had a stupid veneration for those who
possessed the sovereign power of injuring them; obeyed their unjust
will; lavished their blood; exhausted their treasure; sacrificed their
lives, to glut the ambition, to feed the cupidity to minister to the
regenerated phantasms, to gratify the never-ending caprices of these
men; they bend the knee to established opinion, bowed to rank, yielded
to title, to opulence, to pageantry, to ostentation: at length victims
to their prejudices, they in vain expected their welfare at the hands of
men who were themselves unhappy from their own vices; whose neglect of
virtue, had rendered them incapable of enjoying true felicity; who are
but little disposed to occupy themselves with their prosperity: under
such chiefs their physical and moral happiness were equally neglected or
even annihilated.

The same blindness may be perceived in the science of morals.
Superstition, which never had any thing but ignorance for its basis,
which never had more than a disordered imagination for its guide, did
not found ethics upon man's nature; upon his relations with his fellows;
upon those duties which necessarily flow from these relations; it
preferred, as more in unison with itself, founding them upon imaginary
relations which it pretended subsisted between him and those invisible
powers it had so gratuitously imagined; that were delivered by oracles
which their priests had the address to make him believe spoke the will
of the Divinity: thus, TROPHONIUS, from his cave made affrightened
mortals tremble; shook the stoutest nerves; made them turn pale with
fear; his miserable, deluded supplicants, who were obliged to sacrifice
to him, anointed their bodies with oil, bathed in certain rivers, and
after they had offered their cake of honey and received their destiny,
became so dejected, so wretchedly forlorn, that to this day their
descendants, when they behold a malencholy man, exclaim, "_He has
consulted the oracle of Trophonius_." It was these invisible gods, which
superstition always paints as furious tyrants, who were declared the
arbiters of man's destiny; the models of his conduct: when he was
willing to imitate them, when he was willing to conform himself to
the lessons of their interpreters, he became wicked, was an unsociable
creature, an useless being or else a turbulent maniac--a zealous
fanatic. It was these alone who profited by superstition, who advantaged
themselves by the darkness in which they contrived to involve the human
mind; nations were ignorant of nature; they knew nothing of reason; they
understood not truth; they had only a gloomy superstition, without one
certain idea of either morals or virtue. When man committed evil against
his fellow creature, he believed he had offended these gods; but he also
believed himself forgiven, as soon as he had prostrated himself before
them; as soon as he had by costly presents gained over the priest to his
interest. Thus superstition, far from giving a sure, far from affording
a natural, far from introducing a known basis to morals, only rested it
on an unsteady foundation; made it consist in ideal duties impossible
to be accurately understood. What did I say? It first corrupted him,
and his expiations finished by ruining him. Thus when superstition was
desirous to combat the unruly passions of man it attempted it in vain;
always enthusiastic, ever deprived of experience, it knew nothing of the
true remedies: those which it applied were disgusting, only suitable to
make the sick revolt against them; it made them pass for divine, because
they were not made of man; they were inefficacious, because chimeras
could effectuate nothing against those substantive passions to which
motives more real, impulsions more powerful, concurred to give birth,
which every thing conspired, to flourish in his heart. The voice of
superstition or of the gods, could not make itself heard amidst the
tumult of society--where all was in confusion--where the priest cried
out to man, that he could not render himself happy without injuring his
fellow creatures, who happened to differ from him in opinion: these
vain clamours only made virtue hateful to him, because they always
represented it as the enemy to his happiness; as the bane of human
pleasures: he consequently failed in the observation of his duties,
because real motives were never held forth to induce him to make the
requisite sacrifice; the present prevailed over the future; the visible
over the invisible; the known over the unknown: man became wicked
because every thing informed him he must be so, in order to obtain the
happiness after which he sighed.

Thus the sum of human misery was never diminished; on the contrary, it
was accumulating either by his superstition, by his government, by his
education, by his opinions or by the institutions he adopted under
the idea of rendering his condition more pleasant: it not unfrequently
happened that the whole of these acted upon him simultaneously; he was
then completely wretched. It cannot be too often repeated, _it is in
error that man will find the true spring of those evils with which the
human race is afflicted;_ it is not nature that renders him miserable;
it is not nature that makes him unhappy; it is not an irritated
Divinity who is desirous he should live in tears; it is not hereditary
depravation that has caused him to be wicked; it is to error, to
long cherished, consecrated error, to error identified with his very
existence, that these deplorable effects are to be ascribed.

The sovereign good, so much sought after by some philosophers, announced
with so much emphasis by others, may be considered as a chimera, like
unto that marvellous panacea which some adepts have been willing to pass
upon mankind for an universal remedy. All men are diseased; the moment
of their birth delivers them over to the contagion of error; but
individuals are variously affected by it by a consequence of their
natural organization; of their peculiar circumstances. If there is a
sovereign remedy, which can be indiscriminately applied to the diseases
of man, there is without doubt only ONE, this catholic balsam is TRUTH,
Which he must draw from nature.

At the afflicting sight of those errors which blind the greater number
of mortals--of those delusions which man is doomed to suck in with his
mother's milk; viewing with painful sensations those irregular desires,
those disgusting propensities, by which he is perpetually agitated;
seeing the terrible effect of those licentious passions which torment
him; of those lasting inquietudes which gnaw his repose; of those
stupendous evils, as well physical as moral, which assail him on every
side: the contemplator of humanity would be tempted to believe that
happiness was not made for this world; that any effort to cure those
minds which every thing unites to poison, would be a vain enterprize;
that it was an Augean stable, requiring the strength of another
Hercules. When he considers those numerous superstitions by which man
is kept in a continual state of alarm--that divide him from his
fellow--that render him vindictive, persecuting, and irrational; when he
beholds the many despotic governments that oppress him; when he examines
those multitudinous, unintelligible, contradictory laws that torture
him; the manifold injustice under which he groans; when he turns his
mind to the barbarous ignorance in which he is steeped, almost over the
whole surface of the earth; when he witnesses those enormous crimes that
debase society; when he unmasks those rooted vices that render it so
hateful to almost every individual; he has great difficulty to prevent
his mind from embracing the idea that misfortune is the only appendage
of the human species; that this world is made solely to assemble the
unhappy; that human felicity is a chimera, or at least a point so
fugitive, that it is impossible it can be fixed.

Thus superstitious mortals, atrabilious men, beings nourished in
melancholy, unceasingly see either nature or its author exasperated
against the human race; they suppose that man is the constant object
of heaven's wrath; that he irritates it even by his desires: that he
renders himself criminal by seeking a felicity which is not made for
him: struck with beholding that those objects which he covets in the
most lively manner, are never competent to content his heart, they have
decried them as abominations, as things prejudicial to his interest, as
odious to his gods; they prescribe him abstinence from all search after
them; that he should entirely shun them; they have endeavoured to put to
the rout all his passions, without any distinction even of those which
are the most useful to himself, the most beneficial to those beings with
whom he lives: they have been willing that man should render himself
insensible; should become his own enemy; that he should separate himself
from his fellow creatures; that he should renounce all pleasure; that
he should refuse happiness; in short, _that he should cease to be a man,
that he should become unnatural_. "Mortals!" have they said, "ye were
born to be unhappy; the author of your existence has destined ye for
misfortune; enter then into his views, and render yourselves miserable.
Combat those rebellious desires which have felicity for their object;
renounce those pleasures which it is your essence to love; attach
yourselves to nothing in this world; by a society that only serves to
inflame your imagination, to make you sigh after benefits you ought not
to enjoy; break up the spring of your souls; repress that activity that
seeks to put a period to your sufferings; suffer, afflict yourselves,
groan, be wretched; such is for you the true road to happiness."

Blind physicians! who have mistaken for a disease the natural state
of man! they have not seen that his desires were necessary; that
his passions were essential to him; that to defend him from loving
legitimate pleasures; to interdict him from desiring them, is to deprive
him of that activity which is the vital principle of society; that to
tell him to hate, to desire him to despise himself, is to take from him
the most substantive motive, that can conduct him to virtue. It is thus,
by its supernatural remedies, by its wretched panacea, superstition, far
from curing those evils which render man decrepid, which bend him almost
to the earth, has only increased them; made them more desperate; in the
room of calming his passions, it gives them inveteracy; makes them more
dangerous; renders them more venomous; turns that into a curse which
nature has given him for his preservation; to be the means of his own
happiness. It is not by extinguishing the passions of man that he is
to be rendered happier; it is by turning them into proper channels, by
directing them towards useful objects, which by being truly advantageous
to himself, must of necessity be beneficial to others.

In despite of the errors which blind the human race, in despite of
the extravagance of man's superstition, maugre the imbecility of his
political institutions, notwithstanding the complaints, in defiance of
the murmurs he is continually breathing forth against his destiny, there
are yet happy individuals on the earth. Man has sometimes the felicity
to behold sovereigns animated by the noble passion to render nations
flourishing; full of the laudable ambition to make their people happy;
now and then he encounters an ANTONINUS, a TRAJAN, a JULIAN, an ALFRED,
a WASHINGTON; he meets with elevated minds who place their glory in
encouraging merit--who rest their happiness in succouring indigence--who
think it honourable to lend a helping hand to oppressed virtue: he sees
genius occupied with the desire of meriting the eulogies of posterity;
of eliciting the admiration of his fellow-citizens by serving them
usefully, satisfied with enjoying that happiness he procures for others.

Let it not be believed that the man of poverty himself is excluded
from happiness: mediocrity and indigence frequently procure for him
advantages that opulence and grandeur are obliged to acknowledge; which
title and wealth are constrained to envy: the soul of the needy man,
always in action, never ceases to form desires which his activity places
within his reach; whilst the rich, the powerful, are frequently in the
afflicting embarrassment, of either not knowing what to wish for, or
else of desiring those objects which their listlessness renders it
impossible for them to obtain. The poor man's body, habituated to
labour, knows the sweets of repose; this repose of the body, is the most
troublesome fatigue to him who is wearied with his idleness; exercise,
and frugality, procure for the one vigour, health, and contentment; the
intemperance and sloth of the other, furnish him only with disgust--load
him with infirmities. Indigence sets all the springs of the soul to
work; it is the mother of industry; from its bosom arises genius; it is
the parent of talents, the hot-bed of that merit to which opulence is
obliged to pay tribute; to which grandeur bows its homage. In short the
blows of fate find in the poor man a flexible reed, who bends without
breaking, whilst the storms of adversity tear the rich man like the
sturdy oak in the forest, up by the very roots.

Thus Nature is not a step-mother to the greater number of her children.
He whom fortune has placed in an obscure station is ignorant of that
ambition which devours the courtier; knows nothing of the inquietude
which deprives the intriguer of his rest; is a stranger to the remorse,
an alien to the disgust, is unconscious of the weariness of the man,
who, enriched with the spoils of a nation, does not know how to turn
them to his profit. The more the body labours, the more the imagination
reposes itself; it is the diversity of the objects man runs over that
kindles it; it is the satiety of those objects that causes him disgust;
the imagination of the indigent is circumscribed by necessity: he
receives but few ideas: he is acquainted with but few objects: in
consequence, he has but little to desire; he contents himself with that
little: whilst the entire of nature with difficulty suffices to satisfy
the insatiable desires, to gratify the imaginary wants of the man,
plunged in luxury, who has run over and exhausted all common objects.
Those, whom prejudice contemplates; as the most unhappy of men,
frequently enjoy advantages more real, happiness much greater, than
those who oppress them--who despise them--but who are nevertheless
often reduced to the misery of envying them. Limited desires are a real
benefit: the man of meaner condition, in his humble fortune, desires
only bread: he obtains it by the sweat of his brow; he would eat it with
pleasure if injustice did not sometimes render it bitter to him. By the
delirium of some governments, those who roll in abundance, without
for that reason being more happy, dispute with the cultivator even the
fruits which the earth yields to the labour of his hands. _Princes_
sometimes sacrifice their true happiness, as well as that of their
states, to these passions--to those caprices which discourage the
people; which plunge their provinces in misery: which make millions
unhappy, without any advantage to themselves. _Tyrants_ oblige the
subjects to curse their existence; to abandon labour; take from them
the courage of propagating a progeny who would be as unhappy as their
fathers: the excess of oppression sometimes obliges them to revolt;
makes them avenge themselves by wicked outrages of the injustice it
has heaped on their devoted heads: injustice, by reducing indigence to
despair, obliges it to seek in crime, resources, against its misery. An
unjust government, produces discouragement in the soul: its vexations
depopulate a country; under its influence, the earth remains without
culture; from thence is bred frightful famine, which gives birth to
contagion and plague. The misery of a people produce revolutions;
soured by misfortunes, their minds get into a state of fermentation;
the overthrow of an empire, is the necessary effect. It is thus that
_physics_ and _morals_ are always connected, or rather are the _same
thing_.

If the bad morals of chiefs do not always produce such marked effects,
at least they generate slothfulness, of which their effect is to fill
society with mendicants; to crowd it with malefactors; whose vicious
course neither superstition nor the terror of the laws can arrest; which
nothing can induce to remain the unhappy spectators of a welfare they
are not permitted to participate. They seek a fleeting happiness at the
expence even of their lives, when injustice has shut up to them the road
of labour, those paths of industry which would have rendered them both
useful and honest.

Let it not then be said that no government can render all its subjects
happy; without doubt it cannot flatter itself with contenting the
capricious humours of some idle citizens who are obliged to rack their
imagination, to appease the disgust arising from lassitude: but it can,
and it ought to occupy itself with ministering to the real wants of the
multitude, with giving a useful activity to the whole body politic. A
society enjoys all the happiness of which it is susceptible whenever the
greater number of its members are wholesomely fed, decently cloathed,
comfortably lodged--in short when they can without an excess of toil
beyond their strength, procure wherewith to satisfy those wants which
nature has made necessary to their existence. Their mind rests contented
as soon as they are convinced no power can ravish from them the fruits
of their industry; that they labour for themselves; that the sweat of
their brow is for the immediate comfort of their own families. By a
consequence of human folly in some regions, whole nations are obliged to
toil incessantly, to waste their strength, to sweat under their burdens
to undulate the air with their sighs, to drench the earth with their
tears, in order to maintain the luxury, to gratify the whims, to support
the corruption of a small number of irrational beings; of some few
useless men to whom happiness has become impossible, because their
bewildered imaginations no longer know any bounds. It is thus that
superstitious, thus that political errors have changed the fair face of
nature into a valley of tears.

For want of consulting reason, for want of knowing the value of virtue,
for want of being instructed in their true interest, for want of being
acquainted with what constitutes solid happiness, in what consists real
felicity, the prince and the people, the rich and the poor, the great
and the little, are unquestionably, frequently very far removed from
content; nevertheless if an impartial eye be glanced over the human
race, it will be found to comprise a greater number of benefits than of
evils. No man is entirely happy, but he is so in detail; those who make
the most bitter complaints of the rigour of their fate, are however,
held in existence by threads frequently imperceptible; are prevented
from the desire of quitting it by circumstances of which they are not
aware. In short, habit lightens to man the burden of his troubles; grief
suspended becomes true enjoyment; every want is a pleasure in the moment
when it is satisfied; freedom from chagrin, the absence of disease, is a
happy state which he enjoys secretly, without even perceiving it; hope,
which rarely abandons him entirely, helps him to support the most
cruel disasters. The PRISONER laughs in his irons. The wearied VILLAGER
returns singing to his cottage. In short, the man who calls himself the
most unfortunate, never sees death approach without dismay, at least, if
despair has not totally disfigured nature in his eyes.

As long as man desires the continuation of his being, he has no right
to call himself completely unhappy; whilst hope sustains him, he still
enjoys a great benefit. If man was more just, in rendering to himself an
account of his pleasures, in estimating his pains, he would acknowledge
that the sum of the first exceeds by much the amount of the last; he
would perceive that he keeps a very exact ledger of the evil, but a very
unfaithful journal of the good: indeed he would avow, that there are but
few days entirely unhappy during the whole course of his existence. His
periodical wants procure for him the pleasure of satisfying them; his
soul is perpetually moved by a thousand objects, of which, the variety,
the multiplicity, the novelty, rejoices him, suspends his sorrows,
diverts his chagrin. His physical evils, are they violent? They are not
of long duration; they conduct him quickly to his end: the sorrows of
his mind, when too powerful, conduct him to it equally. At the same time
nature refuses him every happiness, she opens to him a door by which he
quits life; does he refuse to enter it? It is that he yet finds pleasure
in existence. Are nations reduced to despair? Are they completely
miserable? They have recourse to arms; at the risque of perishing, they
make the most violent efforts to terminate there sufferings.

Thus because he sees so many of his fellows cling to life, man ought
to conclude they are not so unhappy as he thinks. Then let him not
exaggerate the evils of the human race, but let him impose silence on
that gloomy humour that persuades him these evils are without remedy;
let him only diminish by degrees the number of his errors, his
calamities will vanish in the same proportion; he is not to conclude
himself infelicitous because his heart never ceases to form new desires,
which he finds it difficult, sometimes impossible to gratify. Since his
body daily requires nourishment, let him infer that it is sound, that it
fulfils its functions. As long as he has desires, the proper deduction
ought to be, that his mind is kept in the necessary activity; he should
gather from all this that passions are essential to him, that they
constitute the happiness of a being who feels; are indispensable to a
man who thinks; are requisite to furnish him with ideas; that they are
a vital principle with a creature who must necessarily love that which
procures him comfort, who must equally desire that which promises him
a mode of existence analogous to his natural energies. As long as he
exists, as long as the spring of his soul maintains its elasticity, this
soul desires; as long as it desires, he experiences the activity which
is necessary to him; as long as he acts, so long he lives. Human life
may be compared to a river, of which the waters succeed each other,
drive each other forward, and flow on without interruption; these
waters, obliged to roll over an unequal bed, encounter at intervals
those obstacles which prevent their stagnation; they never cease
to undulate; sometimes they recoil, then again rush forward, thus
continuing to run with more or less velocity, until they are restored to
_the ocean of nature_.





CHAP. XVII.

_Those Ideas which are true, or founded upon Nature, are the only
Remedies for the Evils of Man.--Recapitulation.--Conclusion of the first
Part._


Whenever man ceases to take experience for his guide, he falls into
error. His errors become yet more dangerous, assume a more determined
inveteracy, when they are clothed with the sanction of superstition; it
is then that he hardly ever consents to return into the paths of truth;
he believes himself deeply interested in no longer seeing clearly that
which lies before him; he fancies he has an essential advantage in no
longer understanding himself; he supposes his happiness exacts that he
should shut his eyes to truth. If the majority of moral philosophers
have mistaken the human heart--if they have deceived themselves upon its
diseases--if they have miscalculated the remedies that are suitable--if
the remedies they have administered have been inefficacious or even
dangerous--it is because they have abandoned nature--because they have
resisted experience--because they have not had sufficient steadiness to
consult their reason--because they have renounced the evidence of their
senses--because they have only followed the caprices of an imagination
either dazzled by enthusiasm or disturbed by fear; because they have
preferred the illusions it has held forth to the realities of nature,
_who never deceives_.

It is for want of having felt that an intelligent being cannot for an
instant lose sight of his own peculiar conservation--of his particular
interests, either real or fictitious--of his own welfare, whether
permanent or transitory; in short, of his happiness, either true or
false. It is for want of having considered that desires are natural,
that passions are essential, that both the one and the other are motions
necessary to the soul of man,--that the physicians of the, human mind
have supposed supernatural causes for his wanderings; have only applied
to his evils topical remedies, either useless or dangerous. Indeed,
in desiring him to stifle his desires, to combat his propensities, to
annihilate his passions, they have done no more than give him sterile
precepts, at once vague and impracticable; these vain lessons have
influenced no one; they have at most restrained some few mortals whom a
quiet imagination but feebly solicited to evil; the terrors with which
they have accompanied them have disturbed the tranquillity of those
persons who were moderate by their nature, without ever arresting the
ungovernable temperament of those who were inebriated by their passions,
or hurried along; by the torrent of habit. In short, the promises of
superstition, as well as the menaces it holds forth, have only formed
fanatics, given birth to enthusiasts, who are either dangerous or
useless to society, without ever making man truly virtuous; that is to
say, useful to his fellow creatures.

These, empirics guided by a blind routine have, not seen that man as
long as he exists, is obliged to feel, to desire, to have passions,
to satisfy them in proportion to the energy which his organization has
given him; they have not perceived that education planted these desires
in his heart--that habit rooted them--that his government, frequently
vicious, corroborated their growth--that public opinion stamped them
with its approbation--that--experience render them necessary--that
to tell men thus constituted to destroy their passions, was either to
plunge them into despair or else to order them remedies too revolting
for their temperament. In the actual state of opulent societies, to say
to a man who knows by experience that riches procure every pleasure,
that he must not desire them; that he must not make any efforts to
obtain them; that he ought to detach himself from them: is to persuade
him to render himself miserable. To tell an ambitious man not to desire
grandeur, not to covet power, which every thing conspires to point out
to him as the height of felicity, is to order him to overturn at one
blow the habitual system of his ideas; it is to speak, to a deaf man. To
tell a lover of an impetuous temperament to stifle his passions for the
object that enchants him, is to make him understand, that he ought to
renounce his happiness. To oppose superstition to such substantive, such
puissant interests is to combat realities by chimerical speculations.

Indeed, if things were examined without prepossession, it would be found
that the greater part of the precepts inculcated by superstition, which
fanatical dogmas hold forth, which, supernatural mortals give to man,
are as ridiculous as they are impossible to be put into practice.
To interdict passion to man, is to desire of him not to be a human
creature; to counsel an individual of a violent imagination to moderate
his desires, is to advise him to change his temperament--is to request
his blood to flow more sluggishly. To tell a man to renounce his habits,
is to be willing that a citizen, accustomed to clothe himself, should
consent to walk quite naked; it would avail as much, to desire him
to change the lineament of his face, to destroy his configuration, to
extinguish his imagination, to alter the course of his fluids, as to
command him not to have passions which excite an activity analogous with
his natural energy; or to lay aside those which confirmed habit has made
him contract; which his circumstances, by a long succession of causes
and effects, have converted into wants. Such are, however, the so much
boasted remedies which the greater number of moral philosophers apply to
human depravity. Is it, then surprising they do not produce the desired
effect, or that they only reduce man to a state of despair by the
effervescence that results from the continual conflict which they excite
between the passions of his heart and these fanciful doctrines; between
his vices and his virtues; between his habits and those chimerical fears
with which superstition is at all times ready to overwhelm him? The
vices of society, aided by the objects of which it avails itself to what
the desires of man, the pleasures, the riches, the grandeur which
his government holds forth to him as so many seductive magnets, the
advantage which education, the benefits which example, the interests
which public opinion render dear to him, attract him on one side; whilst
a gloomy morality, founded upon superstitious illusions, vainly solicit
him on the other; thus, superstition plunges him into misery; holds
a violent struggle with his heart, without scarcely ever gaining the
victory; when by accident it does prevail against so many united forces,
it renders him unhappy; it completely destroys the spring of his soul.

Passions are the true counterpoise to passions; then let him not seek
to destroy them; but let him endeavour to direct them; let him balance
those which are prejudicial, by those which are useful to society.
_Reason_, the fruit of experience, is only the art of choosing those
passions to which for his own peculiar happiness he ought to listen.
_Education_ is the true art of disseminating the proper method of
cultivating advantageous passions in the heart of man. _Legislation_ is
the art of restraining dangerous passions; of exciting those which may
be conducive to the public welfare. _Superstition_ is only the miserable
art of planting the unproductive labour--of nourishing in the soul
of man those chimeras, those illusions, those impostures, those
incertitudes from whence spring passions fatal to himself as well as to
others: it is only by bearing up with fortitude against these that he
can securely place himself on the road to happiness. _True religion_
is the art of advocating truth--of renouncing error--of contemplating
reality--of drawing wisdom from experience--of cultivating man's nature
to his own felicity, by teaching him to contribute to that of his
associates; in short it is _reason, education_, and _legislation_,
united to further the great end of human existence, by causing the
passions of man to flow in a current genial to his own happiness.

_Reason_ and _morals_ cannot effect any thing on mankind if they do not
point out to each individual that his true interest is attached to a
conduct that is either useful to others or beneficial to himself; this
conduct to be useful must conciliate for him the benevolence, gain for
him the favor of these beings who are necessary to his happiness: it is
then for the interest of mankind, for the happiness of the human race,
it is for the esteem of himself, for the love of his fellows, for the
advantages which ensue, that education in early life should kindle the
imagination of the citizen; this is the true means of obtaining those
happy results with which habit should familiarize him; which public
opinion should render dear to his heart; for which example ought
continually to rouse his faculties; after which he should be taught to
search with unceasing attention. _Government_ by the aid of recompences,
ought to encourage him to follow this plan; by visiting crime with
punishment it ought to deter those who are willing to interrupt it.
Thus the hope of a true welfare, the fear of real evil, will be passions
suitable to countervail those which by their impetuosity would injure
society; these last will at least become very rare, if instead of
feeding man's mind with unintelligible speculations, in lieu of
vibrating on his ears words void of sense, he is only spoken to of
realities, only shewn those interests which are in unison with truth.

Man is frequently so wicked, only, because he almost always feels
himself interested in being so; let him be more enlightened, more
familiarized with truth, more accustomed to virtue, he will be made more
happy; he will necessarily become better. An equitable government,
a vigilant administration, will presently fill the state with honest
citizens; it will hold forth to them present reasons for benevolence;
real advantages in truth; palpable motives to be virtuous; it will
instruct them in their duties; it will foster them with its cares; it
will allure them by the assurance of their own peculiar happiness; its
promises faithfully fulfilled--its menaces regularly executed,
will unquestionably have much more weight than those of a gloomy
superstition, which never exhibits to their view other than illusory
benefits, fallacious punishments, which the man hardened in wickedness
will doubt every time he finds an interest in questioning them: present
motives will tell more home to his heart than those which are distant
and at best uncertain. The vicious and the wicked are so common upon
the earth, so pertinacious in their evil courses, so attached to their
irregularities, only because there are but few governments that make
man feel the advantage of being just, the pleasure of being honest, the
happiness of being benevolent on the contrary, there is hardly any
place where the most powerful interests do not solicit him to crime, by
favouring the propensities of a vicious organization; by countenancing
those appetencies which nothing has attempted to rectify or lead
towards virtue. A savage, who in his horde knows not the value of money,
certainly would not commit a crime, if when transplanted into civilized
society, he should presently learn to desire it, should make efforts to
obtain it, and if he could without danger finish by stealing it; above
all, if he had not been taught to respect the property of the beings who
environ him. The savages and the child are precisely in the same
state; it is the negligence of society, of those entrusted with their
education, that renders both the one and the other wicked. The son of
a noble, from his infancy learns to desire power, at a riper age he
becomes ambitious; if he has the address to insinuate himself into
favor, he perhaps becomes wicked, because in some societies he has been
taught to know he may be so with impunity when he can command the ear
of his sovereign. It is not therefore nature that makes man wicked, they
are his institutions which determine him to vice. The infant brought up
amongst robbers, can generally become nothing but a malefactor; if he
had been reared with honest people, the chance is he would have been a
virtuous man.

If the source be traced of that profound ignorance in which man is with
respect to his morals, to the motives that can give volition to his
will, it will be found in those false ideas which the greater number of
speculators have formed to themselves, of human nature. The science of
morals has become an enigma which it is impossible to unrevel; because
man has made himself double; has distinguished his soul from his body;
supposed it of a nature different from all known beings, with modes of
action, with properties distinct from all other bodies, because he
has emancipated this soul from physical laws, in order to submit it to
capricious laws emanating from men who have pretended they are derived
from imaginary regions, placed at very remote distances: metaphysicians
seized upon these gratuitous suppositions, and by dint of subtilizing
them, have rendered them completely unintelligible. These moralists have
not perceived that motion is essential to the soul as well as to the
living body; that both the one and the other are never moved but
by material, by physical objects; that the want of each regenerate
themselves unceasingly; that the wants of the soul, as well as those of
the body are purely physical; that the most intimate, the most constant
connection subsists between the soul and the body; or rather they have
been unwilling to allow that they ate only the same thing considered
under different points of view. Obstinate in their supernatural,
unintelligible opinions, they have refused to open their eyes, which
would have convinced them that the body in suffering rendered the soul
miserable; that the soul afflicted undermined the body and brought it to
decay; that both the pleasures and agonies of the mind have an influence
over the body, either plunge it into sloth or give it activity: they
have rather chosen to believe, that the soul draws its thoughts, whether
pleasant or gloomy, from its own peculiar sources, while the fact is,
that it derives its ideas only from material objects that strike on the
physical organs; that it is neither determined to gaiety nor led on to
sorrow, but by the actual state, whether permanent or transitory, in
which the fluids and solids of the body are found. In short, they have
been loath to acknowledge that the soul, purely passive, undergoes
the same changes which the body experiences; is only moved by its
intervention; acts only by its assistance, receives its sensations, its
perceptions, forms its ideas, derives either its happiness or its misery
from physical objects, through the medium of the organs of which the
body is composed; frequently without its own cognizance, often in
despite of itself.

By a consequence of these opinions, connected with marvellous systems,
or systems invented to justify them, they have supposed the human soul
to be a free agent; that is to say, that it has the faculty of moving
itself; that it enjoys the privilege of acting independent of the
impulse received from exterior objects, through the organs of the body;
that regardless of these impulsions it can even resist them, and follow
its own directions by its own energies; that it is not only different in
its nature from all other beings, but has a separate mode of action; in
other words, that it is an insolated point which is, not submitted to
that uninterrupted chain of motion which bodies communicate to each
other in a nature, whose parts are always in action. Smitten with
their sublime notions, these speculators were not aware that in thus
distinguishing the soul from the body and from all known beings, they
rendered it an impossibility to form any true ideas of it, either to
themselves or to others: they were unwilling to perceive the perfect
analogy which is found between the manner of the soul's action and that
by which the body is afflicted; they shut their eyes to the necessary
and continual correspondence which is found between the soul and the
body; they perhaps did not perceive that like the body it is subjected
to the motion of attraction and repulsion; has an aptitude to be
attracted, a disposition to repel, which is ascribable to qualities
inherent in those physical subsistances, which give play to the
organs of the body; that the volition of its will, the activity of its
passions, the continual regeneration of its desires, are never more than
consequences of that activity which is produced in the body by material
objects which are not under its controul; that these objects render
it either happy or miserable, active or languishing, contented or
discontented, in despite of itself,--in defiance of all the efforts it
is capable of making to render it otherwise; they have rather chosen to
seek in the heavens for unknown powers to set it in motion; they have
held forth to man distant, imaginary interests: under the pretext of
procuring for him future happiness, he has been prevented from labouring
to his present felicity, which has been studiously withheld from his
knowledge: his regards have been fixed upon the heavens, that he might
lose sight of the earth: truth has been concealed from him; and it has
been pretended he would be rendered happy by dint of terrors, always at
an immense distance; by means of shadows, with whose substances he
could never come in contact; of chimeras formed by his own bewildered
imagination, which changed nearly as often as the governments to which
he was submitted. In short, hoodwinked by his fears, blinded by his own
credulity, _he was only guided through the flexuous paths of life, by
men blind as himself, where both the one and the other were frequently
lost in the maze_.





CONCLUSION.


From every thing which has been hitherto said, it evidently results that
all the errors of mankind, of whatever nature they may be, arise from
man's having renounced reason, quitted experience, and refused
the evidence of his senses that he might be guided by imagination,
frequently deceitful; by authority, always suspicious. Man will ever
mistake his true happiness as long as he neglects to study nature, to
investigate her laws, to seek in her alone the remedies for those
evils which are the consequence of his errors: he will be an enigma to
himself, as long as he shall believe himself double; that he is moved by
an inconceivable spiritual power, of the laws and nature of which he is
ignorant; his intellectual, as well as his moral faculties, will remain
unintelligible to him if he does not contemplate them with the same
eyes as he does his corporeal qualities; if he does not view them as
submitted in every thing to the same impulse, as governed by the same
regulations. The system of his pretended free agency is without support;
experience contradicts it every instant, and proves that he never ceases
to be under the influence of necessity in all his actions; this truth,
far from being dangerous to man, far from being destructive of his
morals, furnishes him with their true basis by making him feel the
necessity of those relations which subsists between sensible beings
united in society: who have congregated with a view of uniting their
common efforts for their reciprocal felicity. From the necessity of
these relations, spring the necessity of his duties; these point out to
him the sentiments of love, which he should accord to virtuous conduct;
that aversion he should have for what is vicious; the horror he should
feel for every thing criminal. From hence the true foundation of _Moral
Obligation_ will be obvious, which is only the necessity of talking
means to obtain the end man proposes to himself by uniting in society;
in which each individual for his own peculiar interest, his own
particular happiness, his own personal security, is obliged to display
dispositions requisite to conciliate the affections of his associates;
to hold a conduct suitable to the preservation of the community; to
contribute by his actions to the happiness of the whole. In a word, it
is upon the necessary action and re-action of the human will upon the
necessary attraction and repulsion of man's soul, that all his morals
are bottomed: it is the unison of his will, the concert of his actions,
that maintains society; it is rendered miserable by his discordance; it
is dissolved by his want of union.

From what has been said, it may be concluded that the names under which
man has designated the concealed causes acting in nature, and their
various effects, are never more than _necessity_ considered under
different points of view, with the original cause of which--the great
_cause of causes_--he must ever remain ignorant. It will be found that
what he calls _order_, is a necessary consequence of causes and effects,
of which he sees, or believes he sees, the entire connection, the
complete routine, which pleases him as a whole, when he finds it
conformable to his existence. In like manner it will be seen that what
he calls _confusion_, is a consequence of like necessary causes and
effects, of which he loses the concatenation, which he therefore thinks
unfavourable to himself, or but little suitable to his being. That he
has designated by the names of--

_Intelligence_, those necessary causes that necessarily operate the
chain of events which he comprises under the term _order_:

_Divinity_, those necessary but invisible causes which give play to
nature, in which every thing acts according to immutable and necessary
laws:

_Destiny_ or _fatality_, the necessary connection of those unknown
causes and, effects which he beholds in the world:

_Chance_, those effects which he is not able to foresee, or of which he
is ignorant of the necessary connection, with their causes:

_Intellectual_ and _moral faculties_, those effects and those
modifications necessary to an organized being, whom he has supposed to
be moved by an inconceivable agent; who he has believed distinguished
from his body, of a nature totally different from it, and which he has
designated by the word SOUL. In consequence, he has believed this agent
immortal; not dissoluble like the body. It has been shewn that the
marvellous doctrine of another life, is founded upon gratuitous
suppositions, contradicted by reflections, unsupported by experience,
that may or may not be, without man's knowing any thing on the subject.
It has been proved, that the hypothesis is not only useless to man's
morals, but again, that it is calculated to palsy his exertions; to
divert him from actively pursuing the true road to his own happiness;
to fill him with romantic caprices; to inebriate him with opinions
prejudicial to his tranquillity; in short, to lull to slumber the
vigilance of legislators; by dispensing them from giving to education,
to the institutions, to the laws of society, all that attention, which
it is the duty and for his interest they should bestow. It must have
been felt, that _politics_ has unaccountably rested itself upon wrong
opinions; upon ideas little capable of satisfying those passions, which
every thing conspires to kindle in the heart of man; who ceases to view
the future, while the present seduces and hurries him along. It has been
shewn, that contempt of death is an advantageous sentiment, calculated
to inspire man's mind with courage; to render him intrepid; to induce
him to undertake that which may be truly useful to society; in short,
from what has preceded, it will be obvious, what is competent to conduct
man to happiness, and also what are the obstacles that error opposes to
his felicity.

Let us not then, be accused of demolishing prejudice, without edifying
the mind; with combating error without substituting truth; with
underrating the power of the great _cause of causes_; with sapping
at one and the same time the foundations of superstition and of sound
morals. The last is necessary to man; it is founded upon his nature; its
duties are certain, they must last as long as the human race remains; it
imposes obligations on him, because, without it, neither individuals
nor society could be able to subsist, either obtain or enjoy those
advantages which nature obliges them to desire.

Listen then, O man! to those morals which are established upon,
experience; which are grounded upon the necessity of things; do not
lend thine ear to those superstitions founded upon reveries; rested upon
imposture; built upon the capricious whims of a disordered imagination.
Follow the lessons of those humane, those gentle morals, which conduct
man to virtue, by the voice of happiness: turn a deaf ear to the
inefficacious cries of superstition, which renders man really unhappy;
which can never make him reverence VIRTUE; which renders truth hateful;
which paints veracity in hideous colours; in short, let him see if
REASON, without the assistance of a rival, who prohibits its use, will
not more surely conduct him towards that great end, which is the object
of his research, which is the natural tendency of all his views.

Indeed, what benefit has the human race hitherto drawn from those
sublime, those supernatural notions with which superstition has
fed mortals during so many ages? All those phantoms conjured--up by
ignorance--brooded by imagination; all those hypothesis, subtile as
they are irrational; from which experience is banished, all those
words devoid of meaning with which languages are crowded; all those
fantastical hopes; those panic terrors which have been brought to
operate on the will of man; what have they done? Has any or the whole of
them rendered him better, more enlightened to his duties, more
faithful in their performance? Have those marvellous systems, or those
sophistical inventions, by which they have been supported, carried
conviction to his mind, reason into his conduct, virtue into his heart?
Have they led him to the least acquaintance with the great _Cause
of Causes?_ Alas! it is a lamentable fact, that cannot be too often
exposed, that all these things have done nothing more than plunge the
human understanding into that darkness from which it is difficult to be
withdrawn; sown in man's heart the most dangerous errors; of which it is
scarcely possible to divest him; given birth to those fatal passions,
in which may be found the true source of those evils, with which his
species is afflicted: but have never enlightened his mind with truth,
nor led him to that right healthy worship, which man best pays by a
rational enjoyment of the faculties with which he is gifted.

Cease then, O mortal! to let thyself he disturbed with chimeras, to
let thy mind be troubled with phantoms which thine own imagination has
created, or to which arch imposture has given birth. Renounce thy vague
hopes, disengage thyself from thine overwhelming fears, follow without
inquietude the necessary routine which nature has marked out for thee;
strew the road with flowers if thy destiny permits; remove, if thou art
able, the thorns scattered over it. Do not attempt to plunge thy views
into an impenetrable futurity; its obscurity ought to be sufficient to
prove to thee, that it is either useless or dangerous to fathom. Think
of making thyself happy in that existence which is known to thee: if
thou wouldst preserve thyself, be temperate, be moderate, be reasonable:
if thou seekest to render thy existence durable, be not prodigal of
pleasure; abstain from every thing that can be hurtful to thyself,
injurious to others: be truly intelligent; that is to say, learn to
esteem thyself, to preserve thy being, to fulfil that end which at each
moment thou proposest to thyself. Be virtuous, to the end that thou
mayest render thyself solidly happy, that thou mayest enjoy the
affections, secure the esteem, partake of the assistance of those by
whom thou art surrounded; of those beings whom nature has made necessary
to thine own peculiar felicity. Even when they should be unjust, render
thyself worthy of their applause, of thine own love, and thou shalt
live content, thy serenity shall not be disturbed, the end of thy career
shall not slander thy life; which will be exempted from remorse: death
will be to thee the door to a new existence, a new order, in which
thou wilt be submitted, as thou art at present, to the eternal laws of
nature, which ordains, that to LIVE HAPPY HERE BELOW, THOU MUST MAKE
OTHERS HAPPY. Suffer thyself then, to be drawn gently along thy journey,
until thou shalt sleep peaceable on that bosom which has given thee
birth: if contrary to thine expectation, there should be another life of
eternal felicity, thou canst not fail being a partaker.

For thou, wicked unfortunate! who art found in continual contradiction
with thyself; thou whose disorderly machine can neither accord with
thine own peculiar nature, nor with that of thine associates, whatever
may be thy crimes, whatever may be thy fears of punishment in another
life, thou art at least already cruelly punished in this? Do not thy
follies, thy shameful habits, thy debaucheries, damage thine health?
Dost thou not linger out life in disgust, fatigued with thine own
excesses? Does not listlessness punish thee for thy satiated passions?
Has not thy vigour, thy gaiety, thy content, already yielded to
feebleness, crouched under infirmities, given place to regret? Do not
thy vices every day dig thy grave? Every time thou hast stained thyself
with crime, hast thou dared without horror to return into thyself, to
examine thine own conscience? Hast thou not found remorse, error, shame,
established in thine heart? Hast thou not dreaded the scrutiny of thy
fellow man? Hast thou not trembled when alone; unceasingly feared, that
truth, so terrible for thee, should unveil thy dark transgressions,
throw into light thine enormous iniquities? Do not then any longer
fear to part with thine existence, it will at least put an end to those
richly merited torments thou hast inflicted on thyself; _Death, in
delivering the earth from an incommodious burthen, will also deliver
thee from thy most cruel enemy, thyself_.


END OF PART I.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The System of Nature, Volume 1, by
Paul Henri Thiery (Baron D'Holbach)

*** 