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A PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAY ON MAN.

BEING AN ATTEMPT TO INVESTIGATE THE PRINCIPLES AND LAWS OF THE RECIPROCAL INFLUENCE OF SOUL AND BODY.

VOL. II.

Unde animi conſtet natura, videndum. LUCR. DE NAT. RER.

LONDON: Printed for J. RIDLEY, in St. James's Street; and T. PAYNE, at the Mews Gate.

MDCCLXXIII.

THE CONTENTS.

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BOOK III.
  • ON the reciprocal influence of the ſoul and body, — page 1
SECTION I.
  • Of the power of the body on the ſoul,
  • Of ſleeping, — page 7
  • Of waking, — page 10
SECTION II.
  • Of the power of the ſoul over the body, page 36
BOOK IV.
  • Wherein the influence of the ſoul on the body, and of the body on the ſoul is accounted for, — page 62
SECTION I.
  • Influence of the ſoul on the body, — page 66
  • How the different effects of joy and ſadneſs on the body are produced, from page 66 to page 67
  • [ii]How thoſe of fear, — p. 78
  • How thoſe of love, — p. 80
  • How thoſe of friendſhip, — p. 81
  • How thoſe of hatred, — p. 81
  • How thoſe of the compound paſſions, p. 82
  • How the paſſions are expreſſed on the phyſiognomy, — p. 86
  • How the power of the underſtanding is exerciſed on the body, — p. 88
  • How the power of the imagination, p. 89
  • How the ſentiments of the ſoul are rendered durable by the influence of the body, p. 92
SECTION II.
  • Influence of the body on the ſoul, — p. 95
CHAP. I.
  • The influence of organization on the affections, — p. 100
  • The ſenſibility of the ſoul ever proportionate to that of the organs, — p. 100
  • Why the ſenſibility of the ſoul appears more powerful than the ſenſibility of the body, — p. 102
  • Why Man is more ſenſible to pain than pleaſure, — p. 103
  • [iii]Why the character of the ſoul is ever congrous to the ſtate of the body, p. 104
  • In what manner the diſpoſition of the body varies the proſpect of Nature, — p. 115
  • Organization renders the temper conſtant, p. 116
  • Organization renders man volatile or thoughtful, talkative or ſilent, p. 117
  • Organization renders man moroſe, cruel, communicative or benign, p. 218
  • Organization renders man ſuſpicious and miſtruſtful, — p. 121
  • Organization characteriſes the affections, p. 123
  • How organization renders man open-hearted, p. 140
  • Obſervations on the manner in which organization renders man obdurate and cruel, or compaſſionate and humane, — — p. 142
  • Organization characteriſes the manners, p. 147
  • Further obſervations on the manner in which organization renders man frank and haſty, or timid and deceitful, p. 148
  • Organization determines the force of the ſoul, — p. 149
CHAP. II.
  • Influence of organization on the mind, p. 150
  • Organization determines the capacity of the mind, — p. 153
  • [iv]Organization characteriſes the mind, p. 167
  • Organization aſſiſtant or an hindrance to the unfolding of the mental faculties p. 169
  • Organization renders the underſtanding either juſt, extenſive, celicate, profound; or ſuperficial, confined, erroneous and greſs, — p. 175
  • Organization renders man rational or inſane, p. 190
  • Organization renders imaglnation the predominant character of the mind, p. 225
  • Organization characteriſes the thoughts, p. 229
  • Remembrance and recollection depend on organization, — p. 235
  • Organization renders man intelligent or ſtupid, — p. 241
  • Organization renders man ſagacious or dull, ſedate or volatile, and the judgment clear or confuſed, — p. 347
  • Organization contributes to render man either prudent or inconſiderate, — p. 253
  • Why man appears to loſe ſome of his mental faculties without loſing the others, p. 254

BOOK III. ON THE RECIPROCAL INFLUENCE OF THE SOUL AND BODY.

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HITHERTO we have examined the different functions and mechaniſm of the body; we have conſidered the ſoul in its faculties; we have followed theſe faculties in their unfolding and exerciſe: in a word, we have endeavoured to diſcover the nature of the ſoul and body by their effects.

Although this does not convey the full ſcience of Man, it is yet its proper ground work; and without it, we ſhould in vain attempt to explain the arcana of human nature; ſo that the greateſt philoſophers, without this guide, may be ſaid to wander amidſt thick darkneſs. A philoſophic enquirer will indeed at times perceive ſome feeble glimmerings of light, but will never acquire a perfect knowledge of the ſubject; he will only collect ſome ſcattered ideas, and unconnected truths, without [4]any relation the one to the other. Having therefore conſidered Man in the different ſubſtances of which he is compoſed; let us now conſider Man properly ſo called, try to diſcover the reciprocal influence of theſe two ſubſtances, and endeavour to inveſtigate the cauſes of their wonderful relations. But before we attempt to reaſon on the cauſes, we muſt firſt aſcertain the effects. We ſhall therefore confine ourſelves to a preciſe and ſimple expoſition, and reduce our obſervations to thoſe facts which are clear and well ſupported.

All the parts of nature are connected; air, water, earth, plants, minerals, animated and inanimate ſubſtances, are all linked together by ſome correſpondence between cauſes and effects: every being in the univerſe is related to ſome other, and even the great Author of nature himſelf. But in no poſſible union of beings have any two been joined of more oppoſite natures, or whoſe connexion is more intimate, than the ſoul and body; neither have any two beings a greater or more extraordinary reciprocal influence.

All beings act one upon the other, not by a blind and fortuitous energy, but by [5]conſtant and immutable laws; of this nature is the action of the ſoul on the body, and of the body on the ſoul, in all animals.

How plainly ſoever this influence may appear, it has not been examined with ſufficient care and attention: although on ſuch an enquiry depends the knowledge of the principles and laws of this myſterious influence. I ſhall therefore apply myſelf to a cateful examination of theſe relations; and as neither the ſoul nor the body is a ſimple being, as each of theſe ſubſtances is in itſelf compound* and as their conſtituent parts do not all act together, that I may not proceed without a plan, I ſhall diſtinguiſh their particular influence, and treat them as diſtinct objects. In the prodigious multitude of obſervations which may be made on this [6]ſubject, I ſhall range, in the ſame claſs, all thoſe which have one common object, connect particular obſervations with thoſe which are general, and, collecting them into one whole, endeavour to give a conciſe yet complete hiſtory of the reciprocal influence of theſe two very different ſubſtances.

SECTION I. Of the Power of the BODY on the SOUL.

Man has two modes of exiſtence, viz. ſleeping and waking.

Sleep is properly only a mode of the exiſtence of the body, in which every function of its organs is ſuſpended, except that of the organs of life: in waking, every ſpring of the machine is, or may be in action. In both theſe ſtates the ſoul perceives, thinks, recollects, and all its faculties are in exerciſe; but their exerciſe is performed differently in each of theſe ſtates. Let us therefore examine the relations of the ſoul to the body, and of the body to the ſoul, both when ſleeping and waking.

Of SLEEPING.

[7]

Obſervation I. As ſleep approaches, the vivacity of our motions decays, the weary limbs relax and yield to their own weight, the head gradually declines on the ſhoulder, a ſentiment of pleaſure ſteals on evety organ, and we ſeem to feel the gentle motion of the blood as it flows through the veins. The ſenſes are now inactive, but no part is yet aſleep; ſenſibility gradually leaves the organs, at length the eyes yield to the pleaſing influence of the God, and a refreſhing calm reigns throughout the body. The ſoul likewiſe partakes in this enchanting ſtillneſs, forgets every thing, even itſelf, and imperceptibly ſinks into inſenſibility. But in this univerſal repoſe, the mind is not inactive, its operations are only leſs ſenſible; the ſenſations are weak, ſo likewiſe are the ſentiments and ideas, and the more ſo in proportion as the ſleep is deep.

Freed from the power of the ſenſes, the ſoul now enjoys its liberty; it thinks, but its thoughts are irregular, incoherent, unconnected; and from their aſſemblage are formed thoſe phantaſtic images, thoſe [8]whimſical repreſentations, thoſe phantoms, and flitting ſhades, which conſtitute our nocturnal illuſions.

II. In ſleep, thought freely rambles over all kinds of objects, and imagination appears to be the only acting power. Although the ſoul at that time appears to be entirely freed from all ſubjection to the body, the diſpoſition of the corporeal organs always determine the nature of the dream. If the ſenſation then felt by the body be agreeable, there is a continual ſeries of pleaſing illuſions and flattering images. On the contrary, if the ſenſation be painful, a ſucceſſion of frightful ideas and hideous objects, haunt us during ſleep; monſtrous phantoms, ſcenes of blood and death appear; ghoſts, goblins, and horrible ſpectres terrify us.

The influence of the body is not confined to the nature of the objects of our dreams; it likewiſe regulates their continuance. If the body is afflicted with any languiſhing diſorder, theſe ſpectres and theſe phantoms ſeldom diſappear, and ſeem to haunt us continually. On the contrary, if the body is affected by any acute diſorder, the illuſions are tranſient, the [9]phantoms aſſume many different forms, and ſucceed each other very rapidly.

There is ſomething yet more wonderful in the analogy between the dream and the then preſent ſenſation.

If we at any time experience, during ſleep, thoſe pleaſing titillations, which the ſemen, when redundant, produces on the organs of pleaſure, we fancy we ſee agreeable objects; that we hold converſe with beautiful fair ones, in inchanted groves; they that expoſe all their virgin charms to our fight, and withhold nothing from our deſires. In painful ſenſations, appear phenomena equally ſurpriſing, whereof every one doubtleſs has had experience, againſt his will.

When we lie in an uneaſy poſture, whereby reſpiration is oppreſſed, and the circulation of the fluids obſtructed, we dream of being purſued by enemies, ſpectres, ſorcerers, devils, whilſt we have not the power to fly.

In the heat of a fever, we dream that we are periſhing with thirſt, that we traverſe immenſe regions in ſearch of fountains, without finding any, and that when we have found one, we apply our [10]parched lips to it, but the water flies back, and all our efforts to allay our thirſt are in vain; ſo that like Tantalus, we periſh through want amidſt the greateſt abundance.

III. In dreams, we think much, feel more, and reflect little; the ſenſations and images ſucceed each other with rapidity, but the ſoul neither compares nor remembers them.

IV. Although in general the ſoul reflects but very little during ſleep, the degree of reflection is not the ſame in every individual. The ideas, which ſtrongly affect us whilſt awake, are retraced in the mind during ſleep, and we continue to combine them. Thus geometricians form and combine figures, poets make verſes, and philoſophers reaſon.

Of WAKING.

V. When the body has been refreſhed by reſt, the organs of ſenſe inſenſibly reſume their functions, the pulſe gradually quickens, the face regains its colour, and by degrees all thoſe vain images, enchanted regions, and ideal objects diſappear; [11]in fine, Man opens his eyes, and is conſcious where he is.

I have ſaid, that the exerciſe of the faculties of the ſoul is not performed during ſleep, as when we are awake; and even when we are awake, it is not always performed invariably in the ſame manner.

VI. The ſoul grows weary juſt as the body does. When fatigued with too intenſe or too long application, it loſes in ſome degree the faculty of applying itſelf to one ſubject; the ideas become weak and languid, there are no more ſallies of wit, no more flights of genius. In this ſtate, ſhould we force attention, immediately every thing in the mind is effaced, we no longer think, we fall into a kind of lethargy, and a kind of inſenſibility.

When the body is fatigued, its motions no longer retain their vigor, all its functions are weakly performed, external objects produce only weak impreſſions on its organs, and the ſenſations have neither force nor vivacity.

VII. The mind not only becomes fatigued like the body, but what is moſt ſingular, they become both fatigued at the ſame time. [12]The fatigue of the body is always accompanied by the fatigue of the ſoul, and the fatigue of the ſoul, by that of the body: the one is never unattended by the other; and what is no leſs ſtrange, the wearineſs of theſe two ſubſtances is equal in its extreme degree only.

Is the body fatigued to exceſs, the mind cannot give attention to any object, its perceptions are weak, and as if paſſive to the objects which are preſented, it no longer thinks nor reflects; it recollects nothing, and frequently remembers not the impreſſion received but the moment before; the deſires of the ſoul are weak, it wills nothing ſtrongly, and ſeems not to retain the power of determining itſelf; in ſhort, the ſoul is in a kind of drowſineſs, and, as it were, in a reverie which wears outwardly the appearance of meditation. Is the mind fatigued to exceſs, external objects produce only weak impreſſions on the ſenſes, and theſe impreſſions produce only weak ſenſations on the ſoul; motion is painful, and all the organs are in a ſtupor.

VIII. In diſeaſes of the body, we frequently obſerve reaſon loſt, and a delirium [13]overtakes the ſoul; this is evident in the hyſteric affection, that terrible diſorder which afflicts the fair ſex, and is ſo ſingular in its ſymptoms.

Often when the ſoul is engroſſed by pleaſure, their gaiety gradually diſappears, and a profound ſadneſs ſucceeds; the ſight grows dim, involuntary tears flow, the mouth is half open, every part of the face is convulſed, the limbs loſe their flexibility, are violently diſtended, and the body is ſtrongly contorted: when theſe violent agitations, which are of no long continuance, ceaſe, an extreme ſtupor enſues, and the countenance wears the livid hue of death: when the complexion has recovered its colour, inſenſibly the other extreme ſucceeds, and the countenance appears inflamed; the pulſation of the temporal arteries is very great, reſpiration is no longer oppreſſed, the unhappy patient fetches deep ſighs, opens her eyes, and ſtares wildly round her. She at laſt recovers her voice; and the diſagreeable ſcene ſometimes concludes in immoderate fits of laughter, often in ſhedding tears and in ſhrieks, and always with incoherent talk.

[14]IX. Another proof of the diſorder of the mind in diſeaſes of the body, is ſeen in a caſe which at preſent offers itſelf to my obſervation.

The gay, the agreeable D—, bleſſed with the gifts of fortune, the beloved huſband of a moſt amiable woman, was ſuddenly affected with extreme ſadneſs, the conſequence of immoderate venery. Diſguſted at every thing as if by enchantment, his ſoul receives no pleaſure from the moſt agreeable objects; nothing can engage his attention; what he formerly eagerly ſought after, he now as eagerly avoids; he ſhuns company, and betakes himſelf to ſolitude, ſhutting himſelf up alone in his chamber; ſometimes from a penſive ſilence he ſtarts with terror; at others, he mutters ſome extravagant diſcourſe to himſelf; laſtly, when ſleep has cloſed his eyes wearied with watching, he enjoys no reſt; then hideous ſpectres appear, he cries out for help, and awakes in extreme terror.

For ever either quite ſilent or raving, his complexion at times is of a very lively colour, his eyes protuberant, as if ready to ſtart from their ſockets, his looks wild, his limbs violently agitated, he vents his [15]rage on himſelf, and is ready to tear himſelf in pieces; his eyes afterwards appear ſad, his head reclines on his breaſt, his arms hang down, his whole body is affected with a ſtupor, again he falls into a ſullen ſilence and melancholy, burſts into involuntary tears, and fetches deep ſighs.

But how many inſtances have we of this ſad truth in thoſe evils to which nature has ſubjected us? How ſlight a cauſe is ſufficient to deprive man of reaſon!

X. A ſimple wound ſhall ſometimes render the ſoul delirious.

The unhappy perſon, who has been run through the body with a ſword, feels an acute pain in the wounded part, the pain increaſes, and is inſenſibly extended to every part. The body is at firſt ſlightly convulſed, by degrees reſpiration is oppreſſed, the countenance is inflamed, the eyes are ſwoln, he ſtares wildly round him, and his limbs are violently convulſed. This diſorder of the corporeal organs is inſtantly communicated to the ſoul, every idea is diſturbed; in this unverſal confuſion, the unfortunate ſufferer knows neither the voice of his friends, nor the features of his parents, [16]who ſtand round his bed, attempting to awaken ſentiment, and recall life.

In theſe diſorders, a foreign power preſſes on the ſoul and ſubdues it, the limbs are in an involuntary agitation, nor can the ſoul keep down its unruly emotions, or reſtrain its tranſports.

XI. To behold the manner in which the ſoul partakes of the affections of the body, we ſhould almoſt be induced to believe it material.

In our recovery after a long and high fever, which has conſumed the principle of ſtrength, the ſoul is as weak as the body; the ſenſations have no vivacity, ſentiment is dull, deſire languid, and we receive no pleaſure from the moſt agreeable objects; recollection is likewiſe decayed, and we ſcarcely remember an action done the moment before: the underſtanding is principally affected with this languor: with difficulty we compare the moſt ſimple objects, we cannot reflect, all the faculties of the ſoul are in a ſtupor. The more this diſorder of the body prevails, the weaker is the ſoul; as the organs regain their force, conception gradually [17]returns, and is not in its vigour till the body is perfectly recovered.

XII. Acute diſeaſes are always attended with weak conception, weak remembrance, and weak recollection; chronical diſeaſes are accompanied with the ſame ſymptoms; but this decay of recollection, conception, and remembrance, is more ſenſible in that affection of the ductus medullae ſpinalis, called the ſpina bifida, when the tumor is opened, and yet more in lethargies.

A conſiderable loſs of the ſpermatic fluid produces the ſame phenomena. Hard drinkers commonly become ſtupid in length of time, and loſe all ſentiment, remembrance, and recollection.

The unhappy perſons who have been obliged to undergo the operation of the trepan, apoplectics, and thoſe who have been reſtored to life after hanging, remain for a long time ſtupid, without remembrance, without conception, and ſometimes continue for ever after of a dull underſtanding, and unfaithful memory; not even remembring the pain they felt when they ſuffered.

[18]XIII. The ſame effects, which are produced by diſeaſes on the ſoul, are ſometimes produced by violent paſſions, and ſometimes by extreme application. How many are rendered inſenſible by fear! How many by too great attention to ſome particular object!

Taſſo, the celebrated Italian poet, became inſane by extreme application to ſtudy; in ſome meaſure ſurviving himſelf, forgetting both his name and his works.

Gallus Vibius, the famous mimic mentioned by Seneca*, loſt his reaſon, by too earneſtly applying himſelf to the imitation of folly.

XIV. Finally, by a kind of prodigy, we obſerve ſome perſons to loſe one part of the powers of the ſoul, and retain the other: ſome loſe the faculties of meditation, and reflection, without loſing the judgment; others loſe the recollection, yet retain the remembrance, as if theſe different powers of the mind depended on particular organs of the body.

XV. The Microcephali have leſs memory, leſs brilliancy of wit, leſs penetration [19]than common perſons: whilſt Macrocephali poſſeſs theſe qualities in a very eminent degree; as if the ſoul were too much confined in the heads of the former, and that the ſpiritual faculties were ever proportionate to the volume of the organs, in which they reſide.

XVI. It is frequently obſerved, on the relations between the body and the ſoul, that very corpulent perſons have commonly no imagination, no ſagacity, no delicacy of wit, they have only good ſenſe. When the degree of corpulency is prodigious, dulneſs nearly approaches ſtupidity; the ſoul then appears to be oppreſſed by the redundancy of matter.

XVII. The following ſingular relations between the ſoul and body, have been conſtantly verified by experience.

A quick and penetrating mind is ever united to a* ſenſible and vigorous body; and vice verſa.

[20]A profound and ſublime mind is united to a body vigorous and ſtrong*. There will certainly appear ſome ſigns of a vigorous mind in a man, whoſe body is ſenſible and vigorous; none but thoſe perſons only, who, together with vigour, enjoy ſtrength of conſtitution, know how to deliver their ideas with energy and continued force. Only ſuch could compoſe the Pharſalia of Lucan, the Dramas of Shakeſpear, and the energetic writings of the author of Emilius.

XVIII. If delicate and feeble perſons have no vivacity either of body or mind, and if this vivacity of mind ever accompany vigour of body, it is likewiſe certain, that a body extremely delicate and ſenſible, is ever united to an erroneous and inconſiſtent mind; whilſt we ſee that, on the contrary, a body, which is robuſt and leſs ſenſible, ever contains a mind that is proportionably the reverſe.

The body influences the ſoul ſeveral ways; we not only obſerve ſtriking relations [21]between it and our ſolids, we obſerve very ſingular ones between the mind and the circulation of our fluids'.

XIX. Whiliſt the blood circulates with great velocity, man is agitated with a kind of phrenzy, raves, loſes his remembrance and reaſon; his ideas are confounded, and in the univerſal diſorder which prevails in his ſoul he forgets his friends, wife, children, and even his name.

In proportion as the circulation is leſs quick, ſo much the weaker are the motions of the ſoul; a gentle calm ſucceeds theſe furious tranſports, it recovers recollection and reaſon, and the thoughts fall again into their natural order.

XX. Whenever the operations of the ſoul are well performed, and the ſoul acts with entire liberty, the blood flows with moderate velocity; on the contrary, it circulates with great rapidity in frenzies, in ſtrong agitations of the mind, and when the lamp of wiſdom is extinct.

XXI. When the body is violently agitated, it drives reſt from the ſoul; perſons in fevers continue ſleepleſs many days; in vain they ſeek for repoſe, their firmneſs [22]is exhauſted, and their ſouls ſoon yield to a mortal languor.

The relations obſerved between the ſtate of the body, and the character of the mind, are likewiſe obſerved between the ſtate of the body, and the character of the paſſions.

XXII. A body ſenſible and ſtrong is united to a ſoul, ſuſceptible of violent and moſt durable paſſions.

A body robuſt and but little ſenſible is united to a ſoul, ſuſceptible of moderate, yet durable paſſions.

A body delicate and ſenſible is joined to a ſoul ſubject to paſſions, ſtrong, but of ſhort duration.

A perſon delicate and of ſtrong ſenſations is eaſily kindled into rage, but this is of very ſhort continuance. A vigorous and robuſt perſon is not eaſily inflamed, but his paſſion when excited is of long duration: the rage of the firſt is a fire which blazes, and is ſoon extinguiſhed; that of the other is like the waters of the ocean, which at firſt oppoſe great reſiſtance to the fury of the winds, but retain their motion a conſiderable time when once excited.

[23]Finally, a body feeble, and but of weak ſenſations, is united to a peaceful ſoul, entirely exempt from ardor, which experiences only the weak impulſes of an indetermined will, and knows no more of the paſſions than their name; and vice verſa.

XXIII. An impetuous ſoul is ever united to a ſenſible and vigorous body: a peaceful ſoul to a body robuſt, or endued with little ſenſibility.

But there are obſerved yet other relations between the ſtate of the body, and the character of the ſoul.

XXIV. In chronic diſorders, and during a ſtate of convaleſcence after acute* diſeaſes, the ſoul is languid like the body, nor can any thing give it pleaſure; objects, which delighted before, no longer excite any emotion, the mind is melancholy, thoughtful, and ſullen; whilſt Man, in vigorous health, is gay, lively and fickle. Exceſſive loſs of ſemen in the male likewiſe affects the ſoul with ſadneſs and languor.

[24]You can hardly know, under that dejected, that penſive and melancholy air, effects of immoderate venery, the man who before was ſo ſprightly and ſo gay.

The fire which ſparkled in his eyes is extinguiſhed; the livelineſs of his complexion is gone, and his countenance demonſtrates the languor of his ſoul; the days paſs unperceived, nothing engages his attention, his drooping ſoul finks into that forlorn ſtate, which is the type of death. Whence does this metamorphoſis proceed? From the loſs of a ſmall quantity of the nervous fluid.

XXV. Diſeaſes not only render man thoughtful and ſad, they ſometimes ſteel the heart and beget inhumanity; for you frequently ſee perſons, who are by nature amiable and gay, rendered by ſome diſtemper, reſtleſs, ſuſpicious, diſtruſtful, ill natured and peeviſh; they grieve for the moſt trifling cauſe, and are diſpleaſed with every thing ſaid or done.

XXVI. The gay ſeek after agreeable, diverting and comic amuſements; the ſad, thoſe which are mournful, and of a tragic nature; to theſe joy is diſpleaſing; they would have every thing wear a face of [25]mourning* about them, they tell and hear told, with a kind of pleaſure, tragic adventures; they ſhun the company of the gay, and retire to foreſts, woods, caves, rocks, deſerts, and to ſavage nature, like thoſe reptiles which feed on herbs which are poiſon to others.

XXVII. Whilſt all the functions of our organs are well performed, whilſt the fluids circulate within us eaſily, and with a moderate velocity, the body is in health; in this ſtate the ſoul enjoys all the vigour it is capable of. Are the functions of the body changed? Is the circulation of our fluids languid or difficult? The body is diſeaſed, man is then ſubject to great weakneſs, his powers are inactive, his ſoul is incapable of any great undertaking, he fears every thing, and attempts nothing.

Man in health is intrepid, without it, he is puſillanimous.

XXVIII. Immoderate coition is attended with the ſame effects with diſeaſe; [26]we moreover obſerve that males, who have been deprived of the parts characteriſtic of the ſex before they were perfectly developed, ever retain an effeminate diſpoſition, are leſs vivacious, leſs brave, and leſs fierce, than thoſe who have not been mutilated in this manner.

They, who have one teſticle only, are leſs lively, leſs intrepid than thoſe who have two; they, who have three, are proportionably more lively.

XXIX. But the manner, in which the affections of the ſoul follow the ſtate of the body, is yet more ſurpriſing. When a ſoldier, in the heat of an engagement, receives a mortal wound, he becomes the more impetuous; at the ſight of his blood, he is inſpired with a violent paſſion, and with new force; but he ſoon perceives his ſtrength to fail, a freezing cold ſhoots through his veins, all his powers decay, a mortal languor ſucceeds; his courage fails, and his rage declines as the blood ſlows from his wound.

There are other relations between the conſtitution of the organs and the mental character.

[27]XXX. Boldneſs and openneſs of temper ever accompany ſtrength and vigour of body. To obtain their deſires, the weak uſe ſtratagem; the ſtrong, open force. This may be obſerved even among brute animals; the weak practice cunning, whilſt the lion goes ſtraight to his prey and attacks it openly.

But between firmneſs and conſtitution, we obſerve relations oppoſite to thoſe obſerved between conſtitution and boldneſs. A delicate, yet vigorous body, never contains a ſoul endued with fortitude. Thoſe fine gentlemen, who are ſo brave at the head of their company, have no firmneſs when they ſuffer any acute pain. Women are more courageous, but leſs firm than men. How many heroes have confronted all the dangers of undaunted war, and yet have ſhed tears through extreme pain?

XXXI. A very apparent relation between the conſtitution and mental character is, that weakneſs of mind always accompanies weakneſs of body.

Age, infancy and diſeaſe, are credulous; women, more than men: they believe in witchcraft, reading of dreams, [28]palmeſtry, old wives tales, ſpirits, phantoms; in a word, all the extravagancies of human reaſon.

XXXII. To an attentive examiner, there appears a conſtant relation between the organization of the body and the affections of the ſoul.

The ſoul united to groſs organs, delights in very lively amuſements and noiſy pleaſures: united to delicate organs, it loves calm refined amuſements. Lively colours are moſt agreeable to robuſt men; ſuch delight in warlike muſick, pungent odours, and ſtrong liquors: delicate perſons on the contrary love light colours, ſoft muſick, the gentle perſumes of the roſe and jaſmin. The ſame obſervation may be made with regard to the pleaſures of the mind; delicate perſons are averſe to the noiſy amuſements of the robuſt; they are fond of the ſofter pleaſures, the ſweet overflowings of the ſoul, têtes à têtes, and all the enjoyments which ariſe from the tender emotions of the heart.

XXXIII. If a great loſs of ſemen involve the ſoul in ſadneſs, and ſometimes in a kind of ſtupid inſenſibility, the loſs of a ſmall quantity of the nervous fluid weakens [29]the motions of the ſoul, and turns ſentiment into tenderneſs. After the firſt enjoyments the lover is without any lively emotion, though in the full poſſeſſion of that felicity, with which he was inebriated a few moments before. To his former violent tranſports ſucceeds a pleaſing ſtillneſs; his love for his miſtreſs continues, but his paſſion has loſt its ardour; he ſtill preſſes her to his boſom, but no longer devours her charms; his careſſes are more tender, more affectionate, and his mind being entirely engaged by pleaſure, views, with delight, thoſe beauties which had ſo violently enchanted his ſenſes.

XXXIV. If the body ſtrongly influence the ſoul, the aliments affect it in a manner no leſs ſurprizing.

What a power has wine over this immaterial ſubſtance! By this beneficent liquor, a calm is reſtored to our troubled minds, it drives away pain, fear, ſuſpicion, and introduces hope and joy in their ſtead. By wine, misfortune forgets its evils, and conſuming cares give place to pleaſing illuſions and agreable ideas. By wine, joy preſides at banquets, [30]gets poſſeſſion of the hearts of the gueſts, and breaks out in ſongs and merriment.

XXXV. The power of wine is not confined to the inſpiring hope and joy; it likewiſe inſpires love, and renders the mind bold and free. The ſoldier, whom water could not have kept from flight, having drank wine, boldly meets death, and bravely fights. By wine, are begotten witty ſallies, and happy turns of expreſſion ſpontaneouſly come from the lips; thus wine has been eſteemed the pegaſus of poets, and fable has combined Bacchus with the Paphian queen, regarding wine as a principal ſupport of love's empire.

XXXVI. But if this beneficent liquor, when drank with moderation, relieves our inquietudes, inſpires bravery, gaiety and candour; what terrible effects are produced by its exceſs! Convulſive motions, palpitation of the heart, contortion of the whole body, violent agitations of the ſoul, fury, alienation of mind, loſs of ſentiment, of remembrance and wiſdom, theſe are its too common effects.

XXXVII. What power have other aliments likewiſe on the ſoul! Let the Man, who burns for amorous embraces, and [31]whoſe imagination is buſied with the charms of the fair ſex, be fed for twenty days only with aliments impregnated with acid or nitrous particles; and you will obſerve his paſſion to decay with his ſtrength. Give him afterwards gelatinous and ſpirituous aliments, immediately his imagination is revived and his paſſion renewed with its former force.

XXXVIII. Aliments affect not the ſoul by their quality only, but by their quantity likewiſe.

On riſing from a plentiful table, Man is not the ſame as when he firſt ſat down thereto.

After eating, the pulſe becomes quicker, we feel a preſſure at the region of the ſtomach, the body is dull and liſtleſs, the mind becomes ſad and heavy, it is no longer adapted for meditation, or ſallies of wit; we yawn, and at laſt fall faſt aſleep.

XXXIX. The effect produced on the ſoul by exceſs of wine, is occaſioned likewiſe by a ſmall quantity of the ſolanum verum.

Scarce is it diſſolved in the ſtomach, when the members become convulſed, the [32]geſtures wild and the looks full of fury; the Riſus Sardonicus ſucceeds and tears begin to flow; in the mean time, the wretched ſufferer ſtammers out many extravagant expreſſions, is furious, and endeavours to bite or tear any object that happens to be near him.

The ſemina hyoſciami & aturae indicae, deprive the perſon that eats them of the uſe of his ſenſes: he ſees not, even though his eyes are open; he hears not, is ſtupid, without ideas, without ſentiment; he is not even ſenſible of his own exiſtence.

Were I to recount the different virtues of other plants and flowers, which produce ſimilar effects in the ſoul, and which render the wiſeſt furious, and the moſt ingenious ſtupid; I ſhould never have done.

The proſpect of nature produces on the ſoul impreſſions very different, according to the objects which offer themſelves to the ſight.

XL. Who can be inſenſible to the pleaſing ſentiments which ariſe in the ſoul from the proſpect of a beautiful landſcape, from the view of a fine country, enlightened with the parting rays of the ſun in the evening [33]of a ſerene day? We feel a ſudden joy, a ſatisfaction which cannot be expreſſed. The rich foliage of the trees, the enamel and perſumes of the flowers, the harmonious chant of birds, and the coolneſs of the evening breeze, inſenſibly beget gaiety in the heart, we feel a ſweet ſerenity ſteal upon the mind, we undergo a kind of enchantment, which it is impoſſible to reſiſt*.

XLI. As the proſpect of a fine country, of a pleaſing rural receſs, is adapted to inſpire us with joy; ſo the proſpect of a diſmal deſert, is adapted to inſpire us with ſadneſs.

Plains without flowers, without herbage, covered with arid ſand; trees blaſted or obſcured with gloomy foliage; enormous maſſes of rocks diveſted of verdure and grown black with age; the noiſe of torrents ruſhing from the ſummit of mountains, together with the croaking of ravens and mournful cries of eagles, are hideous [34]objects, which convey ſadneſs to the heart though all the ſenſes.

XLII. As the proſpect of nature, ſo the air affects the ſoul in different manners, according to its different temperature.

Is the atmoſphere thick and heavy? We feel a ſadneſs at the heart, which vaniſhes as ſoon as the air is reſtored to its wonted ſerenity. In the moſt delightful retirement, we are obnoxious to the influence of the atmoſphere, and are gay or ſad, according as the heavens are cloudy or ſerene. The air even affects our ſenſibility and underſtanding: in cold and dry weather, the mind is much more active, more penetrating than when it is hot or humid*.

Thus ſeeing that the ſoul is ſubject to phyſical laws, and is under the influence of the heavens and earth, we might be induced to believe that Man is wholly material. Feeble ſport of the air, and ſeaſons! The ſun and clouds, heat and cold, dry and humid: theſe regulate his character, the complexion [35]of his mind and his genius; and he is gay or ſad, ſagacious or ſtupid, according to the influence of the winds and meteors.

XLIII. Agreeable ſenſations not only generate a ſentiment of love or of joy in our hearts, they likewiſe produce a pleaſing calm.

If fatigued during the heat of ſummer, we repoſe ourſelves beneath the branches of a tree, which, by its thick foliage, defends us from the rays of the ſun; employed in viewing the enamel of the meadows and a variety of delightful objects which then preſent themſelves to our ſight, the gentle zephyrs with their cooling breezes refreſh us, the murmur of brooks, the ſweet perfume of flowers, the amorous chant of birds delight the ear, and the whoſe ſoul is drowned in pleaſure: engroſſed by ſweet ſenſations, the mind gradually ceaſes to contemplate the objects of its delights; already thought has abandoned it, the other faculties are ſuſpended, and, by an unknown charm, we ſink into a voluptuous repoſe: the body partakes in this enchanting calm; and, as if it were incapable of watching one moment without its companion, the head [36]reclines, the eyes cloſe, and ſleep creeps on all the ſenſes.

Let this examination of the influence of the body on the ſoul ſuffice; I ſhall now proceed to examine the influence of the ſoul on the body.

SECTION II. Power of the SOUL over the BODY.

If the power of the body over the ſoul be very great, the power of the ſoul over the body is very great likewiſe. By a ſimple act of volition, the ſoul moves the limbs either ſeparately or all together. In paſſions, it affects the body in a thouſand different manners; at one time, it contracts either every part at once, or ſome particular parts only; at another, it relaxes them, and deprives them of their tone, and ſometimes it ſo far agitates our organs, diſturbing and varying their oeconomy, as wholly to deſtroy it.

The power of the ſoul over the body, is as immediate as that of the body over the ſoul, but not as complete. It has, indeed, a direct power on the organs of voluntary motion, but not on thoſe of [37]life; if at any time it affect theſe, it is only indirectly by their connexion with the organs ſubject to the will, or by the correſpondence of the nervous ſyſtem.

Neither is the power of the ſoul over the body as continual as that of the body over the ſoul; the influence of the body on the ſoul is permanent; the influence of the ſoul on the body only momentary; and what is ſurpriſing, the body is never ſubordinate to the whole ſoul, but only to ſome one of its faculties excluſively.

I ſhall therefore examine the influence of the ſoul on our organs in its different points of view, neglecting that of the will, of which I have already treated when diſcourſing of the mechaniſm of the human body.

The paſſions cannot continue confined within the heart: they manifeſt themſelves outwardly in the ſound of the voice, in the rapidity of the ſpeech, in the geſture, in the poſture of the body, in the ſtate of its functions; and always differently, according to the nature of the motions agitating the ſoul.

XLIV. Love, whoſe empire extends over univerſal nature; that violent and [38]tender ſentiment, ſo celebrated by the poets, ſo well known to lovers, produces ſtrong emotions in the organs of pleaſure, excites a gentle heat in the region of the diaphragm*, tender looks, quick pulſation, adds luſtre to the eyes, envilens the complexion, embelliſhes the countenance, animates the features, and communicates a grace to all our motions.

XLV. In friendſhip, the ſoul affects the body in the ſame manner, the ſymptoms of the organs of pleaſure excepted; nor is it ſtrange it ſhould, friendſhip and love being the ſame affection of the ſoul, and differing only in their object.

XLVI. Joy produces nearly the ſame effects with happy love. Whilſt the ſoul [39]is under the influence of this agreeable ſentiment, the countenance wears a gracious ſmile, the complexion is lively, the eyes ſhine with redoubled luſtre, reſpiration is more free, the body receives new vigour, ſenſibility is increaſed, and we feel a voluptuous emotion about the heart. Joy, in the ſame manner with love, embelliſhes the countenance, animates its features, gives expreſſion to its graces, and vivacity to all our actions; it appears likewiſe in our motions, the legs, the arms, the head, are diverſely agitated, as if the body and ſoul were not ſufficiently capacious to contain its tranſports.

Such are the effects of moderate joy; when the paſſion is extreme, they are terrible: an exceſs of pleaſure affects us with languor, ſtupifies the ſenſes, diſorders the motion of our organs, and nearly deprives us of all ſentiment; for Man faints through exceſs of joy, as he does through extreme pain.

XLVII. How different are the effects of moderate joy from thoſe of ſadneſs! Is the ſoul overwhelmed with ſadneſs? The countenance is pallid, the eyes loſe their vivacity, the muſcles of the face relax; [40]we feel a tenſion in the region of the heart, a weight on the diaphragm; the circulation is impeded and becomes languid, our ſtrength fails us, and all the body is affected with a ſtupor.

XLVIII. The effects of fear on the body are analogous to thoſe of ſadneſs. In fear, the limbs are affected with a violent tremor, the blood congeals in its veſſels, our ſtrength fails us, the uſe of the ſenſes is ſuſpended, the voice dies away on the lips, languor arreſts our motions, our organs are in a ſtupor, and all their oeconomy is diſordered.

When fear is extreme, it gives youth the marks of decrepitude*; it extinguiſhes the lamp of life. In ſome, this paſſion has anticipated the executioner and the enemy. The Man who has had his irons knocked off after condemnation to receive a pardon, has been found dead through exceſs of fear. Another falls lifeleſs at the ſight of an enemy, whom he is going to encounter.

XLIX. If, when the body is extremely agitated, the ſoul enjoys no repoſe; ſo [41]neither does the body enjoy any when the ſoul is ſtrongly affected.

When night has wrapped all things in her ſable mantle, Man is not always ſure of reſt. Whilſt all other creatures enjoy the bleſſings of repoſe, or ſeek the gratification of preſent wants, Man is the only one to whom care denies ſleep. The black deſpair and heart-corroding remorſe, which agitate his ſoul during the day, accompany him amidſt the obſcurity of the night, will not ſuffer him to cloſe his eyes, and harraſs his body continually.

When the ſoul is ſtrongly affected, want of ſleep exhauſts the laſt remains of bodily ſtrength. Thus the tender mother, when her only ſon languiſhes on the bed of ſickneſs, paſſes whole nights and days watching her beloved child, and will admit of no conſolation. A prey to grief, ſhe enjoys no repoſe; her body is exhauſted by fatigue, and a mortal languor ſucceeds.

If every paſſion makes different impreſſions on the body; the ſoul, at once agitated by different emotions, produces likewiſe on our organs particular impreſſions, as may be remarked in terror, fear, [42]hopeleſs love, and in the other compound paſſions.

L. The tender virgin who ſees her lover ſtruck dead at her feet, at once ſeized by fear and ſadneſs, continues immoveable; a cold ſweat flows down her face, her diſcoloured lips are affected with an involuntary tremor, her cheeks loſe their colour, her arms are extended, her tearleſs eyes are immoveably fixed on the lifeleſs body; ſhe ſtands ſpeechleſs, aſtoniſhed, immoveable, as if contemplating the greatneſs of her miſery. To ſee her mournful looks, and to view her in this extremity of grief, who would not imagine her inſenſible? Soon her organs become leſs tenſe, her pulſe concentrated gradually becomes more free, her breaſt heaves with frequent ſighs, ſhe flings herſelf on the dead corps, bedews it with her tears, kiſſes thoſe eyes which are now cloſed in the ſleep of death, claſps within her arms his cold remains, and fills the air with her lamentation.

There are caſes, wherein the effects of this paſſion on the body are yet more ſtrong.

[43]In the war which Ferdinand made on the queen of Hungary, a young warrior, who had greatly diſtinguiſhed himſelf in an engagement near Buda, was carried dead from the field; Raſciac, an officer in the ſame army, on viewing the body, perceives it to be his own ſon, grows pale and expires*.

LI. In attention, that is, in curioſity mixed with hope or fear, we are agitated, we hear, we obſerve every circumſtance. At the leaſt noiſe the heart beats, the eyes are ſometimes fixed, and ſometimes wandering. Should the object appear, we are ſeized with a palpitation of heart yet more violent, reſpiration is obſtructed, the voice faulters, and the functions of the ſenſes are interrupted.

LII. Anger, that ſingular affection wherein grief, hatred and deſire of revenge are confounded, produces very different effects on the organs, according to the ſentiments then affecting the ſoul. At one time, it ſpreads a death-like paleneſs over the countenance, and agitates the body with convulſive motions and involuntary [44]tremors. At others, it gives elaſticity to our muſcles, lends us new force, and for ſome moments raiſes us above ourſelves. Theſe impetuous motions of the ſoul are moſt ſtrongly expreſſed in the countenance, the looks are wild and furious, the mouth foams, the voice is interrupted and hoarſe, the brow ſevere, the whole face is inflamed and wears a menacing air.

In rage or exceſſive anger Man becomes frantic, his motions impetuous, his limbs loſe their flexibility, and his body is violently contorted: the ſoul at that time raiſes a ferment in the blood, juſt as impetuous winds rouſe the waves of the ſea.

LIII. Terror, that painful emotion excited in the ſoul by fearful exclamations, the cries of fury or the ſight of imminent danger, and always compounded of dread of the object terrifying us, and an unconquerable deſire to avoid it, produces likewiſe very different effects on the ſoul. At times, we feel an univerſal tremor, an extreme weakneſs, a general ſtupor, which diſable the body from obeying the ſoul, and ſuſpend the uſe of our ſenſations; the voice faulters and dies on the lips, we [45]make many ineffectual efforts to fly, languor prevents us from moving, and this ſtupor of the organs ſometimes, though but ſeldom, deſtroys their mechaniſm. At other times, inſtead of being thus diſordered, this paſſion gives us vigor, renders us more alert, and endues us with a more than common force.

LIV. And here let us obſerve, that every violent paſſion, which begins by increaſing the ſtrength of the body, in the end affects it with languor: rage at firſt makes a ſurprizing addition to our ſtrength; but this force ſoon fails us, we experience a weakneſs, which deprives us both of the will and of the power of making new efforts; at that time, being incapable of any vigorous act, we become languid and dejected.

LV. How different is happy and unhappy love! The hapleſs fair one, at once poſſeſſed with love and filled with deſpair, conſumed with eager deſires, and deprived of him who alone can make her happy, abandoned to her melancholy thoughts, condemned to ſpend her life in bewailing her hopeleſs paſſion, and in [46]feeding on her own afflictions, at firſt perceives a tenſion about the diaphragm, a violent heat in the region of the heart, and a fever is kindled up in her veins. When the heat of her paſſion ſubſides, her ſoul ſuccumbs under its miſery, a conſuming fire rages within, and deprives her of the ſweets of repoſe, her ſtrength fails her, grief preys upon her bloom and impairs her health. The fire which once ſparkled in her eyes is now extinguiſhed, grown heavy and dim, the light ſeems odious and painful, her limbs tremble and ſink under her weight, and ſhe can hardly ſupport herſelf; the roſes and lillies leave her wan cheeks, her forehead is covered with wrinkles, and her face wears the marks of age. Sometimes her whole countenance is fluſtered with a glowing red, involuntary tears trickle down her cheeks; and ſo exceſſive is her miſery, that ſhe is wholly engroſſed by the ſenſe of her ſufferings, and is inſenſible to every thing beſides.

LVI. The violent paſſions not only affect the oeconomy of our organs; they appear outwardly in involuntary motions, and mechanical impreſſions. The arms, [47]legs, head, and even the whole body take different poſitions, according to the different motions which actuate us. In ſhame, the head inclines forward; in ſadneſs on one ſide; in pride it is erect, it is drawn back in aſtoniſhment, and in hatred and indignation it moves from ſide to ſide in different ways. In anger, as in joy, the whole body is agitated with various precipitate motions.

LVII. The paſſions do not always act in concert; they ſometimes act in oppoſition to each other; accordingly, in theſe conflicts, they affect the body in different ways.

Obſerve that man, under ſome affliction of mind, which he would fain ſmother within his own breaſt. In this ſtate, the violence of the motions which actuate him, and the efforts he makes to conceal his trouble, occaſion a burning heat, a ſenſation of heavineſs in the head, and a kind of ebriety which makes hi ſcarcely know himſelf. His eyes ſparkle with rage, his countenance is inflamed, he feels an oppreſſion at his breaſt, which obſtructs reſpiration. Should he, during this inward ſtruggle, meet with any thing which aggravates [48]his trouble; unable to reſiſt the emotions of his ſoul, his limbs are variouſly agitated, he gives way to his fury, and utters terrible cries with a broken and faultering voice. This frenzy is frequently ſucceeded by more violent ſymptoms; whilſt the paroxyſm laſts, he reels, falls, remains motionleſs, becomes inſenſible, and has not even any ſenſe of what he ſuffers.

LVIII. Although in theſe different paſſions the ſoul affects differently every part of the body, yet in none are they more viſible than in the countenance, in none they diſplay themſelves with greater energy.

When the ſoul is calm, all the parts of the countenance are in a ſtate of reſt; their union then produces a pleaſing harmony, which correſponds with the calm within. But when the ſoul is agitated, the face becomes a living table, whereon every paſſion is delineated in the different features with equal exactneſs and expreſſion.

In joy, the eyes acquire new luſtre, the complexion brightens, the brows become more arched, the noſtrils expand, the corners of the mouth ſomewhat recede [49]from each other, the cheeks are gently contracted, and the lips formed into a gracious ſmile.

In ſadneſs, the eyes become dead and fixed, the pupil is half raiſed and half hid by the eye-lid, which is a little depreſſed, the cheeks are pale, the corners of the mouth fall, the lower lip is protruded upwards, the other muſcles of the face are relaxed, the viſage is lengthened, the eyes are ſwoln, and dimmed by a copious moiſture which is afterwards diſcharged in tears.

In ſhame and in modeſty, the muſcles of the face are contracted, the eyes are turned downwards, and covered with the eye-lids, the mouth is ſomewhat open, and the complexion of a deeper red.

If every paſſion is expreſſed on the countenance by different lineaments, the concourſe of theſe different lineaments is properly adapted to expreſs the mixed paſſions.

In terror and affright, the forehead becomes wrinkled, the eye-brows are elevated in the parts towards the temples, and are depreſſed at the other extremity; the eye-lids are wide open, leaving the [50]pupil and half the white bare, the lips are drawn back at their extremities, the mouth is open, and all the muſcles of the face appear contracted and ſtrongly marked. In contempt and deriſion, the upper lip is drawn ſomewhat on one ſide, ſo that the teeth appear; in the other is obſerved a ſmall motion, faintly reſembling a ſmile, the noſe is drawn to the ſame ſide with the upper lip, the eye on that ſide is half ſhut; whilſt the other continues unchanged, the pupil of both being depreſſed as when we look downwards.

Of all the parts of the face, the eye is the moſt expreſſive. This is the only organ wherein Man cannot conceal the paſſion in his breaſt. The different paſſions are expreſſed by a ſudden alteration in the eyes; in theſe appear complacency, envy, rage, fury, contempt, trouble, anxiety, deſpair, in all their various gradations*. In theſe too we may read vexation, and diſcouragement; in a word, every affection of the ſoul is reflected by theſe admirable organs, as the images of objects [51]by a well poliſhed mirror; even the moſt ſecret emotions of the heart are manifeſted by them.

Every one muſt have obſerved the reſtraint of two lovers on the intruſion of a third perſon. When they cannot freely indulge the mutual emotion of their hearts, what expreſſion! What eloquence in the eye; at that time the ſole interpreter of their ſentiments! How inſtantaneouſly does the ſoul diſplay itſelf in the motions of theſe organs? Their paſſions, their deſigns, their hopes, their fears are expreſſed in a ſingle glance.

But it is time to leave the conſideration of the influence of the ſenſibility of the ſoul on the body, and to examine that of the underſtanding thereon.

LIX. Reflection fatigues the mind incomparably more, and much ſooner than muſing or revery. The exerciſe of reaſon is to the ſoul, what voluntary motion is to the body, a ſtate of contention and conſtraint.

LX. When the ſoul is concentrated within itſelf, and wrapped in profound thought, we perceive a tenſion in the plexus cordiacus, in the membranes of the [52]brain, but eſpecially in the parts ſurrounding the eyes. This tenſion is accompapanied with a ſenſation of heat, which may be removed by the action of the cold air; the pulſe is quicker than common, the countenance becomes more florid, and the breaſt heaves with ſtrong reſpiration, as may be remarked in ſtudious perſons, or in men of ſtrong ſenſations, when under any violent affection of the mind, and when they are obliged to retire within themſelves, to enjoy ſome ſecret pleaſure or to feaſt upon their ſorrow.

In a more continual application, the mind is affected with a ſtupor, or a kind of ebriety, the power of the ſoul on the organs of voluntary motion is diminiſhed, and the will loſes its empire over the body.

LXI. How great is the power likewiſe which the imagination has over the body! How ſingular the relation between this faculty of the ſoul and our organs!

It is by this that a good mimic affects the ſuſceptible ſpectator, and makes him follow his motions, his geſtures, his actions mechanically, juſt as if his body were ſubject to be moved by the motions of the other.

[53]It is by this the idea of delicate meats ſets the organs of taſte in motion, and, as it is commonly expreſſed, makes the mouth water. It is by this we experience that inſupportable ſenſation, which we feel when we are touched even on thoſe parts which are the leaſt ſenſible, with deſign to excite titillation. It is the imagination, which, inflamed by voluptuous ideas and images, or by the ſight of beauty, quickens the pulſe, increaſes the luſtre of the eye, excites ſtrong emotions in the organs of pleaſure*, and cauſes palpitation of the heart.

It is this, which in love kindles our deſires, produces on the lips of lovers that ſenſation of a lambent flame, which accompanies their kiſſes, and renders their touch ſimilar to that of fire.

It is this, which cauſes that tremor the lover experiences at the approaching enjoyment of his miſtreſs.

It is this which, in the ardour of youth, [54]gratiſies the voluptuouſneſs of deſire, in our dreams.

But the power of the imagination is not confined to any particular organ, it is extended over the whole body. There have been convulſioniſts, who, by the help of a warm imagination, have raiſed themſelves by degrees to fury: their eyes were inflamed, the face disfigured by a violent contraction of its muſcles, the mouth foaming, and all their members convulſed.

However great this power which imagination has over the body may be, philoſophers have fancied it much greater than it really is. Not content with the prodigies of nature, they have attributed to it others, which are merely ideal.

Led aſide, on one hand, by appearances; on the other, by the love of the marvellous, like the ſtupid vulgar, they have adopted ridiculous prejudices, and employed their pens in defending them.

We are told of a pregnant woman in Germany, who being ſtruck with the ſight of a picture of John Baptiſt, which hung in her bed-chamber, was afterwards delivered of an infant with its whole body hairy, and ſome phyſiologiſts, treating [55]this abſurdity as an aſſured fact, concluded, that the imagination could change the form of the ſolids, the features of the countenance, and the colour of the ſkin.

This opinion was implicitly believed, and is at preſent univerſally received. From thence it is pretended, that whatever affects the mother, affects the foetus likewiſe; that the affections of the ſoul of the one, act on the body of the other; to this energy are atributed the reſemblance of children to their parents, thoſe blemiſhes on the ſkin, and all thoſe monſtrous productions wherein nature appears to have forgotten the wiſdom of her own laws. They even carry their love of the marvellous ſo far as to aſſert, that the foetus bears the real marks and repreſentation of the longings of the mother, as of fruits and the like which ſhe may have eagerly deſired. But if we attentively examine theſe marks and blemiſhes, theſe pretended ſigns of the mother's diſtempered imagination, we ſhall perceive them to be only ſanguineſtains, and yellow or reddiſh ſpots*, [56]more or leſs ſtrongly expreſſed, produced by ſome change in the texture of the ſkin. ‘Theſe ſpots have aſſuredly ſome figure; becauſe every ſpot muſt have one, and this figure muſt neceſſarily bear a reſemblance to ſomething: but they have neither the form of any fruit, nor that of any object which the mother could deſire.’ I have ſeen many ſuch pretended repreſentations of the mother's longings, but could never obſerve in them any thing more.

By inveſtigating the cauſes of theſe prejudices, we ſhall find, as I have already remarked, that erroneous obſervations only could have given birth thereto. Not only the facts are falſe, but even ſuppoſing they were true, they cannot be produced by the cauſes to which they have been attributed.

I will not ſay, to prove this, that as our ſenſations reſemble not their objects, it is impoſſible that deſire can produce phyſical [57]repreſentations of thoſe objects; I have more convincing proofs to adduce.

The ſoul affects the body undoubtedly in every paſſion, and always differently, according to the diverſity of its emotions; but it has been evidently demonſtrated, that the ſoul has no influence on the body, but by the nervous fluid; that this power over the body is reduced to the dilating or contracting our ſolids, to the accelerating or retarding the oſcillatory motion of the organs of circulation in different degrees, ſometimes even ſo as to deſtroy the motion of the whole machine; and that it has no other power over the fluid of the nerves, but to alter its quality and deprave it, that is, to render it cauſtic or deſtroy its energy. Now the empire of the ſoul over the body which it inhabits, being thus limited, can it be more extenſive over a body to which it is not ſo cloſely united? For it is well known, that the foetus has no direct or immediate communication with the mother; whilſt it is in the womb, it is incloſed within membranes, which adhere not to the uterus in the firſt months of pregnancy, nor is their adheſion very great when pregnancy is farther advanced. [58]The placenta being connected to the uterus by papillae on the external part of the membranes inſerted into the ſmall foramina of this organ and joined by a mucilaginous matter, which poſſeſſes ſo ſmall a degree of adheſion, that it ſcarcely appends to the matrix; the foetus therefore, in ſome reſpects, is intirely independent of the mother.

It has been for a long time believed, that the blood of the mother paſſes into the body of the foetus, by means of the placenta and funis umbilicalis; it has been ſuppoſed likewiſe, that the blood veſſels of the uterus open into theſe foramina, and the veſſels of the placenta into theſe papillae, and that their veſſels communicate with each other. But experience has convinced us of the error of this opinion; for, by injecting the arteries of the funis umbilicalis, the liquor injected wholly returns by the veins, nor does the leaſt part of it eſcape into thoſe parts, with which they are ſuppoſed to communicate. Beſides, we may eaſily detract theſe papillae from their foramina, without producing any efflux of blood, either from the uterus or the placenta, there being diſcharged [59]from one to the other a lacteal fluid only, which ſerves for nouriſhment to the foetus.

The foetus therefore has nothing in common with the mother but this nutritive lymph. They have diſtinct and ſeparate organs and functions; nor has the mother any influence over the foetus, but by means of this liquor. Every alteration of this nutritive, received from the mother, is therefore communicated to the foetus: if it be corrupt, the ſolids and fluids of the foetus are ſo likewiſe; but the fluids of the mother cannot otherwiſe affect it, It is not therefore to the imagination of the mother that we muſt attribute thoſe reſemblances, thoſe mutilations, thoſe duplicities of part, thoſe cutaneous blemiſhes which infants bring with them into the world, and which have been commonly regarded as true repreſentations of the depraved appetites of women, during pregnancy.

LXII. Let us conclude with one important obſervation. If we compare the power of the different faculties of the ſoul over the body, we ſhall be convinced, that this power is not equal in every one: [60]that of ſenſibility is much greater than that of the underſtanding, and this much greater than that of the will. If the powers of theſe faculties be not equally great, ſo neither are they equally extenſive. Thoſe of ſenſibility and underſtanding are univerſal; they extend not only to the nervous fibres, but alſo to the fibrillae of which they are compoſed, that is, to the organs of ſenſe and thoſe of motion: the empire of the will, on the contrary, is confined to this latter, ſince thoſe two faculties can augment or extinguiſh our vigour, whilſt the will can only extend our organs and contract our muſcles.

Such is in general the influence of the ſoul on the body, and of the body on the ſoul; ſuch the reciprocal relations of thoſe two ſubſtances.

Although theſe relations are very evident, many of them have eſcaped obſervation; and of thoſe who have obſerved any, the greater number have been content with only obſerving them. Some philoſophers have attempted in vain to account for theſe phenomena: others, diſguſted at the ill ſucceſs of the former, have regarded them as impenetrable myſteries, [61]ſo that every one is ſatisfied at preſent, with ſimply obſerving and admiring this influence; they cry it up as prodigy, as if we were prohibited to paſs beyond the line which thoſe ſages have drawn; they likewiſe attribute their ill ſucceſs to the nature of the diſcovery, rather than to the erroneous methods which they have employed in purſuit of it.

After the vain efforts of ſo many great geniuſes, notwithſtanding ſo great a combination of prejudices, and the ridicule inſeparable from ſuch an undertaking, I will venture to attempt the explanation of theſe myſteries, enter this dark labyrinth, ſound this immenſe abyſs, and carry light into thoſe regions of darkneſs: I ſhall aſſign the reaſons of this prodigious influence of the ſoul on the body, and of the body on the ſoul, diſplay the unknown principles of their relations, and determine the laws of theſe phenomena; in a word, reduce to fixed principles a ſcience, wherein every thing is yet hypothetic, obſcure and myſterious.

BOOK IV. WHEREIN THE INFLUENCE OF THE SOUL ON THE BODY, AND OF THE BODY ON THE SOUL, IS ACCOUNTED FOR.

THE union of the ſoul with the body is ſubject of much admiration; for in what manner can two ſubſtances, ſo different from each other, be united? How can matter act upon the mind, or the mind upon matter? This is a myſtery impenetrable to human underſtanding. Who is ſo preſumptuous as to undertake the explanation? Human reaſon can never conceive the firſt principles of this intimate union, of this primitive correſpondence of the ſoul with the body: let us not ſeek to know after what manner two beings, ſo different in their nature and properties, can act on each other; we muſt admit the fact ſimply, ſince it is unqueſtionable, but the cauſe is wholly unknown.

[63]Yet theſe different ſubſtances have ſingular reciprocal relations, and theſe relations themſelves muſt needs have cauſes and principles. Theſe principles, hitherto unknown, I endeavour to diſcover and demonſtrate; thoſe relations, hitherto obſcure and incomprehenſible, I attempt to account for.

This ſubject appears at firſt ſight incomparably more difficult than thoſe we have treated of already: in theſe we arrive at truth, by a direct and ſhort way; in the other, on the contrary, concerning which we have hitherto only vague and abſurd conjectures, and where demonſtration appears to be impoſſible, we may paſs from hypotheſis to hypotheſis, and blindly purſue truth in the ocean of opinions, without ever attaining it. Yet this is not ſo difficult a taſk as it appears. The influence of the ſoul on the body, and of the body on the ſoul, being invariably the ſame, in the ſame circumſtances, in every individual, and the relations of theſe two ſubſtances being ſimilar, they are therefore the effects of cauſes which operate in a fixed and invariable manner. As the phenomena are ſubordinate to certain [64]laws, to diſcover thoſe laws we muſt aſcend from the effects to the cauſe, following the chain of the principal phenomena, collecting ſimilar facts, comparing and examining them, ſelecting the properties they poſſeſs in common, from thoſe peculiar to each. Only by this method we can arrive at thoſe cauſes; without it, the mind wanders in darkneſs, perpetually fluctuating between prejudice and probability, ignorant of the principles of things, and ever confounding the opinions of men with the laws of nature. Such is the method I ſhall purſue in the inveſtigation of the cauſes of the reciprocal influence of the ſoul and body. I ſhall therefore collect the chief phenomena, compare them, ſelect thoſe which are ſimilar, and endeavour to preſent to the mind a certain number of analogous facts in a ſingle point of view. I ſhall likewiſe attempt to diſcover their identity, and the cauſe of their analogy; and finally, draw from the aſſemblage of theſe different combinations, light ſufficient to inveſtigate the cauſes and laws of the admirable harmony ſubſiſting betwixt the ſoul and the body, [65]ſo as to conduct us to the important knowledge of Man.

Theſe topics being ſo complicated and ſo different in their nature, I ſhall be under a kind of neceſſity to pay my principal attention to the great and leading objects, reducing the phenomena to ſome general heads, avoiding to deſcend into minute particulars, a labour as troubleſome to a writer as it is unprofitable to his readers, who are thus continually put to the trouble of collecting them, whilſt, after all, they receive only confuſed and imperfect ideas of the ſubject. Beſides, the mind fatigued with a multitude of objects, loſes itſelf in the perplexity of its own thoughts, and throws a darkneſs on that which it endeavours to elucidate. I ſhall therefore confine myſelf to the ſolution of the phenomena, collecting them into one general point of view, diſregarding thoſe minutiae or particular queſtions, which might cauſe me to loſe ſight of the main ſcope, interrupt the thread of the ſubject, and rob demonſtration of its evidence.

I ſhall likewiſe endeavour to preſent my ideas in an order equally eaſy to comprehend, and intereſting to purſue.

[66]I am ſenſible how much my ſyſtem would be improved by an abler pen; but if, notwithſtanding the mediocrity of my talents, I can render it acceptable to the reader, by the mere force of that evidence which attends it, I ſhall both think the opinion I have endeavoured to eſtabliſh better grounded, and my ſatisfaction will be the more complete.

SECTION I. Influence of the SOUL on the BODY.

WHEN the ſoul is affected by any ſentiment, it inſtantly affects the body, always in the ſame manner in every individual, and ever differently according to the nature of its emotions.

The ſoul has no direct power over our corporeal organs; the ſoul and body are diſtinct beings, without any neceſſary connexion, and are united by the nervous fluid only*. Thus, in whatſoever manner theſe ſubſtances reciprocally affect each other, the ſoul never acts on the body, nor the body on the ſoul, without the [67]intervention of this fluid, and never without ſome impulſe being communicated by one to the other*. On the impulſe communicated to this fluid, on its different degrees of force, combined with the elaſticity of the fibres, and the different organs affected, depend the different phenomena obſerved in the influence of the ſoul on the body. Let us apply this principle to the effects of the paſſions on our organs.

In joy, the countenance acquires a more lively colour, the eyes ſparkle with an unuſual luſtre, and the face wears a perpetual ſmile; a gentle emotion is felt in the regions of the heart and plexus nervoſi; reſpiration is more free, circulation more eaſy and quick; we receive freſh vigour, all the functions are more perfectly performed, and the whole body is full of life.

As the joy is more violent, theſe effects are more ſtrong; the arms, legs, head, every member is ſtrongly agitated; the body can ſcarcely contain itſelf.

The vivacity of the complexion, the luſtre of the eyes, the liberty and force of [68]the circulation, the freedom of reſpiration, and the vigour of the whole body, clearly evince, that in joy the ſoul forcibly impels a large quantity of the nervous fluid into the organs of motion. This impulſe of the fluid of the nerves into theſe organs, occaſioning a ſmall intumeſcence of the muſcular fibres*, and ſlightly compreſſing the fluid which is contained in the fibrillae whereof they are compoſed, gives them the whole of their organic elaſticity; yet cauſes not the leaſt degree of rigidity. Hence the muſcular motion is ample and ſtrong, the heart and the arteries forcibly impel the blood into the ſmalleſt capillaries, and thus communicate to the ſkin that ſlight intumeſcence, which then ſo greatly conduces to beauty, and to that clear and lively colour, which is ſo greatly ornamental. The humours of the eye receive a freſh ſupply of ſpirits, and their tunics are more fully diſtended, whereby they reflect a greater quantity of rays, and acquire greater luſtre. In the muſcles of [69]the cheeks, this impulſe is principally to be ſeen; being them ſupplied with a larger quantity of the nervous fluid, they gently contract, and with the help of the lips expreſs an agreeable ſmile.

But if the fluid of the nerves, inſtead of cauſing a ſlight intumeſcence of the muſcular fibres, ſhould violently precipitate itſelf in great quantity, as it happens in extreme joy; the fibres, being then too greatly diſtended, cannot re-act, but they oppoſe a too great reſiſtance to the elaſticity of the fluid contained in their fibrillae. Theſe fibrillae are therefore in a ſtate of rigidity, their fluid is inactive, and the entire organ without organic elaſticity.

Hence the reaſon why exceſs of pleaſure ſtupifies the ſenſes, affects the body with languor, and even deſtroys the action of our organs, when this ſtate of rigidity is extreme.

But in moderate joy, although the ſoul is not affected with ſufficient force to occaſion a rigidity of the fibres, theſe emotions of the ſoul produce no durable impreſſions on the body; this ſingular vigour, this flouriſhing ſtate of the machine is of no long continuance, and languor immediately [70]ſucceeds. This is eaſy to be conceived, however ſtrange theſe phenomena may appear: for the vigour we experience whilſt affected with joy, ſprings only from the ſtrong influx of the nervous fluid into the organs of motion; this fluid ceaſes to be determined thereto, when the ſoul ceaſes to experience theſe agreeable emotions; the fibres thus diſtended, decreaſe and collapſe when the fluid with which they were diſtended is diſſipated, and our muſcles are without either tone or elaſticity.

It is by a ſimilar mechaniſm that the handling of the breaſts of females deprives them of their globular ſwell; it excites a voluptuous emotion in the ſoul, and inflames the imagination, which determines the ſpirits thither in great abundance, diſtends their fibres, increaſes their volume, and gives them greater firmneſs; but as this determination of ſpirits is not continual, if the handling be repeated, when this ſupply has ceaſed, the breaſts preſently collapſe and loſe their ſolidity.

When the ſoul is overwhelmed with ſadneſs, the complexion becomes wan and pallid, the eyes dull, a tenſion is felt [71]about the diaphragm, the head inclines forwards, the arms hang down, unable to ſupport their own weight, the whole body is affected with languor, we ſigh, the eyes are ſuffuſed with tears, ſighs are repeated, and tears flow in abundance.

The greater the affliction, the more evident are theſe its effects; there is a point to which this paſſion is capable of arriving, and where its violence ſometimes extinguiſhes the lamp of life.

If in joy the ſoul gives a greater elaſticity to the muſcles, by determining thereto the fluid of the nerves with impetuoſity and in abundance; on the contrary, in ſadneſs it appears to relax the ſame organs, cauſing them to collapſe, by withdrawing the energetic fluid.

But this is nothing but appearance only; all effects of the ſoul on the body in this paſſion, as in all the others, are produced by the influx of the nervous fluid, determined into different ducts. In joy, the fluid is impelled from the brain into the cavities of the muſcular fibres. In ſadneſs, it is impelled into the fibrillae of which theſe fibres are formed, and which we have ſhewn to be the proper organs of [72]ſenſe. In this caſe the nervous fluid diſtends the fibrillae, increaſes their diameter, compreſſes that of the fibres, and deſtroys the equilibrium, cauſing it to incline to the fibrillae: hence only a ſmall quantity flows at that time into the organs of motion, and even that can have but little action.

Hence proceeds the weakneſs of the muſcles, the languid action of the organs, the paleneſs of the countenance, the diminiſhed vivacity of the eyes, and the ſtupor then affecting the whole body.

Theſe are however only the effects of a moderate impulſe; when this impulſe is violent, it occaſions an extreme rigidity of the muſcular fibres*; this rigidity inſtantly produces a total ceſſation of the functions of the body, and conſequently death.

But to conceive the effects of ſadneſs properly, we muſt diſtinguiſh thoſe which [73]accompany the impulſe of the nervous fluid into our organs, from thoſe which ſucceed it.

The rigidity of the muſcular fibres is the immediate effect of this impulſe, but to this rigidity immediately ſucceeds an equal degree of relaxation. The univerſal tremor affecting us upon hearing of any miſfortune, the paleneſs of countenance, the difficulty of reſpiration, the oppreſſion of the diaphragm, concentrated circulation, and the general ſtupor of the whole body, are evidently the effects of a ſlight rigidity of the fibres. The feebleneſs of the motions, the decayed luſtre of the eyes, the relaxation of the muſcles, the lax ſtate of the ſkin, and the languor of all the functions of the body, are the conſequences of that inelaſticity which neceſſary ſucceeds this rigidity. Hence it appears, that rigidity and relaxation are the cauſes of all the phenomena produced by the influence of the ſoul on the body in ſadneſs.

Hence Man, in violent affliction, is ſubject to extreme weakneſs; hence ſilence and conſternation are the language of the ſoul when ſtrongly, affected; as are cries and tears, when moderately worked upon.

[74]Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes ſtupent.

Hence extreme pain deprives us of ſenſe, of motion, and of life itſelf.

Although the ſoul affect the whole body in different paſſions, yet it affects not all its organs equally: at one time it acts moſt upon theſe, at another upon thoſe; but the ſoul principally exerciſes its power on the plexus cardiaci.

Theſe plexus are united to the moſt conſiderable blood veſſels, ſuch as the trunks of the veſſels of the ſtomach, liver, ſpleen, heart, and meſentery, which they line with their ramifications. They have likewiſe a direct connexion with the brain and organs of ſenſe.

In ſadneſs, when theſe plexus are violently contracted, they forcibly compreſs the trunks of the blood veſſels which they ſurround, cauſing the blood to be collected in them, and even occaſioning a total ſtoppage of the circulation.

Hence that compreſſion of the heart, that preſſure about the diaphragm, thoſe ſyncopes accompanying the paroxyſms of extreme ſadneſs, and hence even death, which ſometimes enſues.

[75]But when theſe ramifications of the nervous plexus are only ſlightly contracted, as in moderate joy, they ſlightly compreſs the veſſels round which they are wound, but principally the veins, whoſe coats oppoſe the leaſt reſiſtance; hereby the blood in circulation is ſomewhat reſtrained, particularly in its return to the heart.

Hence the emotions we experience in joy in the region of the diaphragm, and that livelineſs of complexion which always accompanies it.

When the emotions produced on the plexus nervoſi have a certain degree of force, they communicate to the diaphragm, to which theſe plexus are united by the diaphragmatic nerve, a tranſient convulſive motion which produces burſts of laughter: for laughter, which is a ſound ſuddenly interrupted, and frequently reſumed, is always produced by a tremor of the diaphragm. This motion of the diaphragm affects the lungs, which it precipitately elevates and depreſſes; every time the lungs are depreſſed, the air is expelled through the mouth, with a certain noiſe; [76]this is that ſound of the voice, which is ſo often repeated in laughter.

That ſudden ſtarting likewiſe, and internal conſtriction, which we experience when we firſt begin to think of ſome evil affecting us, is produced by the contraction of the diaphragm, which participates of the nature of the ſpaſm affecting the plexus nervoſi. This conſtriction of the diaphragm raiſes the lungs, and occaſions that ſtrong expiration, called a ſigh. Whilſt the ſoul continues to think upon any ſorrowful ſubject, it communicates different motions to the plexus, and ſighs are frequently repeated. But when new impulſes ſucceed immediately one after the other, the air ruſhes ſuddenly, and by intervals, into the lungs, produces frequent expirations, and every expiration occaſions a ſound ſtronger than ſighing: this ſound frequently repeated is what is commonly termed ſobbing.

When the ſpaſms begin gradually to diminiſh, the air is not expelled ſo readily from the lungs, expiration is repeated at greater intervals, and produces a louder ſound, called groaning; for a groan is only a continued ſob. Finally, when relaxation [77]ſucceeds to theſe ſpaſms, tears begin to flow.

Tears are lymph, diſtilled from the lachrymal glands, ſituated in the orbit above the leſſer canthus of the eye.

Each gland has ſix or ſeven ducts, which paſs between the membranes of the eyelids, and open into one common orifice near the cilia. From this orifice diſtills a ſaline lymph, which is abſorbed by the puncta lachrymalia, and diſcharged by its proper duct into the noſe. But theſe glands expreſs not this liquor till they begin to relax after contraction: hence is the reaſon why moderate grief cauſes tears to flow, and why exceſſive grief ſuſpends them.

We commonly regard tears as a ſign of ſadneſs, but without reaſon. They are the effects of every paſſion which contracts our fibres; fear, anger, and even joy excite them, as well as ſadneſs and pity.

In fear, as in ſadneſs, there is an univerſal tremor, a conſtriction of the heart, pallor of the countenance, ſinking of the muſcles, relaxation of the ſkin, imbecility [78]and ſtupor. Theſe ſimilar effects are produced by the ſame mechaniſm.

Hence lovers, overpowered by their good fortune, remain inactive during the night of their marriage, and recover not their vigour till their aſtoniſhment is diſſipated.

Hence extreme fear ſuſpends tears, and moderate grief abundantly excites them.

Hence fear chills us, ſtupifies our organs, and arreſts our motion.

When fear is extreme, the nervous fluid, being violently precipitated into the fibrillae which form the muſcular fibres, deſtroys the equilibrium between the reſiſtance of theſe fibres and its action, interrupts the regularity of the organs of motion, and even at times diſorders all their functions.

Hence that tremor and numbneſs, which deprives us of the uſe of our limbs: hence the reaſon why a rope-dancer cannot perform thoſe feats at the heighth of thirty yards, which he performs with eaſe at the heighth of fifteen feet: why ſome perſons walk without danger over the roofs of houſes, whilſt aſleep; whereas they [79]would have fallen had they been awake, and ſenſible of their danger.

Hence the bird, which with its warbling chears the night in the ſpring ſeaſon, when it perceives the viper beneath, attentively watching to devour it, an extreme tremor ſeizes its feeble organs, a languor deprives them of motion, till at length it can no longer ſupport itſelf, but falls, as if by enchantment, into the open jaws of that deadly reptile.

I have ſaid, that the effects of ſadneſs on the body are ſimilar to thoſe of fear; there is however this difference between them. In fear we almoſt always perceive a palpitation of heart, which is not perceived in ſadneſs. This difference is wholly to be attributed to the greater or leſs interval, which paſſes in theſe paſſions, between the different impulſes of the nervous fluid into our organs, and to the greater or leſs impetuoſity of theſe impulſes.

When fear is moderate, the ſoul is ſucceſſively affected by the ſame ſentiment at very ſhort intervals, and at every reproduction of this ſentiment it impels into the nerves (particularly into the plexus nervoſi) [80]a freſh ſupply of fluid, which produces a ſlight ſpaſm; the blood veſſels are likewiſe ſucceſſively obſtructed by the ramifications of the plexus which ſurround them, and the circulation is at intervals interrupted. When the ſpaſm ceaſes, the blood is violently impelled into the heart, which then becomes overcharged; whereby the circulation is rendered irregular, and the pulſe feeble and intermitting. Hence proceeds the cauſe of this tenſion at the region of the diaphragm, and of this palpitation of the heart.

In love the eyes gliſter, the complexion is more lively, we feel ſtrong agitations in the organs of pleaſure, a heat in the region of the heart, and an increaſe of vigour in the whole body.

From the analogy between the effects of love and thoſe of joy, it is evident, that in love the ſoul abundantly ſupplies the organs of motion, and principally the plexus nervoſi with the nervous fluid, and more eſpecially the plexus with which the arteries are interwoven: for the heat, which we then experience about the heart, is produced by the arterial blood collected in this part, by the ſlight contraction of the [81]ramifications of the plexus which invelope theſe veſſels.

The ſoul very ſingularly affects the organs of pleaſure, in love; it even appears, that theſe organs are the principal ſcene of the effects of this paſſion.

Theſe parts have, it is well known, an intimate corre ſpondence with the ſemilunar plexus, one of the plexus cardiaci, by means of the ſpermatic veſſels; the nervous fluid is abundantly ſupplied thereto, animates the muſculi erectores penis, produces ſtrong agitations in theſe parts, and gives the whole organ that tenſion, that turgidneſs, ſo neceſſary to the deſign of nature, and to the pleaſures of love.

In friendſhip the ſoul affects the body in the ſame manner as in love; the organs of pleaſure however experience no particular emotion; except this, the ſtate of the body is equal, and its mechaniſm is the ſame.

Hatred produces effects contrary to thoſe of love. When that paſſion is extreme, at the ſight of the object of our averſion we feel a ſudden tremor of the whole body, a weight on the diaphragm, a ſtupor of all our organs, and a tenſion of [82]the muſcles of the face, paleneſs covers the countenance and the eyes wander.

Theſe effects are analogous to thoſe of fear, and are produced by the ſame cauſes.

Hence uglineſs renders us impotent; whilſt beauty, on the contrary, inſpires new vigour in the combats of love.

In the compound paſſions, the influence of the ſoul on the body is the ſame as in the ſimple. This may alſo be affirmed of its mechaniſm. Hence the effect of theſe paſſions is the ſum of the particular effects of the different ſentiments which unite and are confounded therein.

But theſe paſſions muſt produce different effects, according to the relative force of theſe different ſentiments.

Hence in terror, when fear predominates, we experience all the effects of this paſſion, that numbneſs which deprives us of the uſe of our ſenſes, that languor which brings us back to the ſtate of infancy, that ſtupor which diſorders the action of our organs, and ſometimes prevails ſo far as to deſtroy it. When it is moderate, its impreſſions on the body are very ſlight, nor can we diſtinguiſh them from thoſe of the deſire of ſelf-preſervation: [83]the ſoul at that time impels the fluid of the nerves into the organs of motion, as in joy, increaſes their vigour, and augments their elaſticity.

Hence that force which is produced by the ſight of danger, the laſt efforts of a ſenſible and intelligent being, who endeavours to defend life, or aſſure his own happineſs.

Rage produces likewiſe different effects on the body, according to the nature of the ſentiment then reigning in the ſoul.

In ſentiments of hatred and ſadneſs, which are the moſt early in their effects on the body, the ſoul forcibly impels the nervous fluid into the fibrillae of the muſcular fibres, extremely dilates their tube, contracts that of the fibres, and renders them ſomewhat rigid. Hence the diameter of the veſſels is diminiſhed, and the circulation ſo imperfect, that the blood is not impelled to the arterial capillaries; hence the pallor of countenance and ſtupor of the limbs. The plexus nervoſi are likewiſe violently contracted, and particularly the diaphragmatic nerve; hence that preſſure at the region of the heart, that weight which then ſo grievouſly affects [84]the ſtomach, and nearly deſtroys reſpiration.

But theſe effects are not of a long continuance; to the ſentiments of ſadneſs and of hatred preſently ſucceeds a ſtrong deſire of revenge, which afterwards reigns ſingly in the ſoul; the nervous fluid is then forcibly impelled into the muſcular fibres, whereby their diameter is greatly enlarged; this influx likewiſe compreſſes the fluid of the fibrillae, augments their elaſticity and envigorates the muſcles.

By the ſame principle, the nervous fluid produces in the vaſcular ſyſtem an aptitude to the moſt powerful oſcillation; the blood is thereby impelled to the extremities of the cutaneous capillaries, and into the organs of motion, which it renders ſuſceptible of vigorous action: hence the impetuous motions of rage, and the prodigious force of phrenetics. Such is the manner in which nature, who has eſtabliſhed between individuals different degrees of power, ſometimes renders weakneſs equal to ſtrength by means of deſpair.

This influx of the fluid of the nerves into the fibres produces in the [85]plexus nervoſi, eſpecially in the ramifications wound round the trunks of the veins, a ſmall degree of rigidity; theſe veſſels are thereby ſomewhat obſtructed, and the return of the blood to the heart is attended with difficulty, whilſt it is carried from the centre to the circumference with its uſual freedom: the veſſels are thereby greatly diſtended at the ſurface of the body; whence ſprings that redneſs of countenance, that fire of the eyes which ever accompany rage.

As this influx of the nervous fluid into the organs of motion is inſtantaneous, theſe organs are not affected with a degree of tenſion equally violent or equally durable; the eaſe and perfection of their motion is thereby neceſſarily deſtroyed: hence the tremor of the whole body, the hoarſe, loud and interrupted ſpeech, ever obſerved in anger.

The paſſions, which are founded on hatred, add force to the natural ſtrength of Man; but this additional vigour is only momentary, and rage, as the other violent paſſion, having elevated Man for a few moments above himſelf, reduces him to an equal degree in the oppoſite extreme. [86]On one part, weakening the fibres by violent diſtenſion and contraction, it diminiſhes their primitive elaſticity; on the other, exhauſting by reiterated efforts that fluid which is the principle of vigour, it affects the body with extreme weakneſs, which deſtroys both the power and the will to make any future effort.

I leave to the curious the examination of the effects of the ſoul on the body in the other paſſions, the explanation is ſimple and eaſy, by purſuing the principles here eſtabliſhed.

The paſſions produce very ſingular effects on the body, and diſplay themſelves by ſome outward mark or other to the attentive obſerver; but they are no where ſo apparent as in the countenance. In the paſſions, the face is the living tablet whereon every emotion of the ſoul is repreſented with equal energy and force.

By removing the teguments of the face, we obſerve it to be compoſed of a great number of ſmall muſcles, which adjoin to and unite every part by their tendons. Theſe muſcles form all the expreſſions of phyſiognomy, and diſplay every affection of the ſoul. The repoſe of all the muſcles [87]expreſſes ſerenity of mind, and their different motions, its different paſſions.

In the ſame paſſion, the ſame muſcles are always contracted, and that in the ſame manner in every individual. When the ſoul paſſes rapidly from one ſentiment to another, the features they form by their contraction are ſucceſſively effaced; but when the ſoul is habitually reſigned to any one paſſion, the features are conſtant, and become the characteriſtics of the phyſiognomy.

Every part of the face contributes to the beauty of the whole, but every part contributes not to its expreſſion. Beauty conſiſts in harmony and regularity of parts; phyſiognomy in their motion. The noſe, though the moſt protuberant feature of the face, contributes the leaſt to phyſiognomy, it having very little motion. For the ſame reaſon the ears, the chin and the temples contribute leſs to phyſiognomy than to beauty. On the contrary, the lips, the mouth, the cheeks, the eye-lids and the eye brows, conduce much to expreſſion, by the different appearances they aſſume. But no part is more expreſſive than the eyes; in theſe admirable organs, [88]the ſoul principally appears; in theſe it expreſſes the moſt tumultuous emotions, and the moſt agreeable ſentiments; in theſe it expreſſes them in all their force, in all their purity, and diſplays, by the moſt energetic lineaments, the image of its ſecret agitations. The cauſe of this phenomenon may, without difficulty, be diſcovered.

As the eye is formed of many nerves, or rather, as it is only a large nerve expanded, and as it abounds with nervous fluid, to this organ therefore the impreſſions of the ſoul muſt be principally determined. It being likewiſe very contiguous to the brain, and moreover diaphanous, the power of the ſoul muſt be there leſs weak and more apparent: hence it is evident, that the paſſions will be repreſented in this organ with the greateſt energy.

The power of the underſtanding over the body is exerciſed by the ſame mechaniſm as that of ſenſibility; that is, ever by an impulſe communicated to the nervous fluid. By determining a greater quantity of this fluid to the nervous fibres, it produces a greater degree of tenſion; [89]thus it happens to all our muſcles, to the plexus cardiaci, and eſpecially to the meninges during meditation. This increaſe of the organic elaſticity of the fibres ſtrengthens the oſcillatory motion of the veſſels, and renders the circulation more rapid. When meditation is deep in the extreme, this tenſion of the fibres is extreme likewiſe, and the circulation becomes vehement; the contraction of the nervous plexus enveloping the blood veſſels, at that time arreſts the arterial and venous blood: whence ariſes that heat and thoſe anxieties, which ever accompany profound application.

By impelling a greater quantity of fluid into the nervous fibres, the ſoul renders them more ſenſible, and prepares our organs to contract at the ſlighteſt impreſſion. Such is the method imagination uſes to ſtrengthen our ſenſations.

Hence ariſes that intolerable ſenſation which is produced by the touch of others, with a view to excite titillation. Hence is the cauſe of that tenſion of the organs of pleaſure, which ariſes from the ſight or idea of laſcivious objects, and of thoſe emiſſions which are experienced when the [90]influx of the nervous fluid into the muſculi erectores penis, and the veſiculoe ſeminales is very rapid.

This fluid, when determined to the organs of digeſtion and ſalival glands, by contracting them, excites the ſecretion of ſaliva and gaſtric lymph. Such is the method by which the imagination, from the ſight of delicate meats, occaſions the ſame motion in the organ of digeſtion, as when they are ſupplied with the aliments themſelves.

But if at any time the imagination impel this fluid into the muſcular fibres, it at other times determines it to their fibrillae, produces there a degree of rigidity, which deſtroys the action of the muſcles and diſorders the whole body.

Hence thoſe ſhiverings, that imbecility, which ſometimes render us unable to conſummate the work of love.

The paſſions not only diſplay themſelves in the countenance, not only dilate and contract the fibres; but the arms, the legs, the head, nay, the whole body, aſſume different poſtures, according to the different ſentiments affecting us. By exciting the ſame ſentiments, actors and mimics [91]communicate to us their port, their geſture, and their action.

The influx of the nervous fluid into the fibres of the nerves and muſcles or into their fibrilloe, a ſmall degree of tenſion, rigidity or relaxation of theſe fibres or of theſe fibrilloe, are therefore the true and ſole cauſes of all the phenomena of the influence of the ſoul on the body.

But for what reaſon does the ſoul impel the nervous fluid into the muſcular fibres, rather than into their fibrillae? Why into one organ or muſcle rather than into another? Why in ſhame does the head incline forwards, in ſadneſs and in languor, on either ſide? Why in love do the organs of pleaſure experience ſtrong emotions excluſively of others? Why does imagination, excited by the ideas of exquiſite meats, affect the organs of digeſtion rather than thoſe of love? By what means does the ſoul, in the different paſſions, impel the nervous fluid into any particular nerve, any particular muſcle, or any particular organ excluſively; whilſt every part of the body partakes of nerves, which are common to all, whoſe fibres are ever expoſed to the influence of this [92]fluid which inceſſantly pervades them? Theſe ſingular relations between particular faculties of the ſoul and certain organs of the body; this ſurpriſing correſpondence*, which has been ſo little attended to, is to me an enigma, an incomprehenſible myſtery, which I relinquiſh entirely to any one who is willing to undertake the ſolution of it, if it can be accompliſhed by the human mind.

Let us here conclude with ſome important obſervations on the influence of the ſoul on the body.

Every different emotion of the ſoul affects the plexus nervoſi, which appear to be the principal organ wherein the paſſions exerciſe their power. There we feel that inexpreſſible anguiſh, which pity excites in the heart, when we hear the groans of the unfortunate, or the cries of the oppreſſed; there fear and terror intrude their terrible anxieties; there joy introduces its [93]ſweet tranſports, and there the ſoul leaves its moſt durable impreſſions*.

All the paſſions domineer in the ſoul; but the body, particularly the plexus nervoſi, is the wretched theatre of their conflict.

Sentiment is only a tranſient emotion of the ſoul, which endures only whilſt the underſtanding is fixed on the object by which it was produced; ſentiment, when produced, is ſometimes ſo early extinguiſhed that it eſcapes attention.

The ſoul poſſeſſes the power of fixing our ſentiments at pleaſure, it ſometimes preſerves them in oppoſition to the will. When a paſſion is agreeable to us, we entertain its object excluſively, and the ſoul is delighted in its contemplation; let us then be ever ſo willing to attend to other objects, pleaſure conſtantly attaches us to this only; the love of happineſs, ever preſent to the mind, always determines it to that which adminiſters delight.

[94]Thus the unhappy lover, ſeparated from his miſtreſs, looks languiſhingly around him, and inceſſantly engroſſed by the beloved object, takes no intereſt in others: ſweetly melancholy, he ſeeks ſilence and ſolitude, where, without interruption and free from importunate cares, he indulges his delightful revery, and reſigns himſelf wholly to the contemplation of the object he loves.

The will and the love of pleaſure, can fix any particular ſentiment in the ſoul; but when they fix none therein, when the mind chooſes to loſe ſight of importunate objects, and begins to neglect them, it is the phyſical cauſe which detains us with that upon which we are then engaged. It is the ſenſe of the impreſſion produced on our organs, and principally on the plexus nervoſi, which recalls us thereto. It is this which, amidſt ſports and entertainments, calls back the unfortunate to their grief and tears.

It is therefore only by aid of the impreſſions produced on theſe plexus, that th [...] tranſient emotions of the ſoul become permanent, that they acquire any duration in our hearts after their cauſes have ceaſed, [95]that they conſume us, and continually prey on the mind, even in deſpite of ourſelves.

It is likewiſe by aid of the different impreſſions of ſentiments on the body, that contrary paſſions appear to be co-exiſtent in the ſoul.

Let us however obſerve, that as theſe impreſſions are produced in contrary paſſions by oppoſite cauſes, they are commonly deſtroyed one by another; when, of the ſeries of different ſentiments to which the ſoul is reſigned, the laſt becomes the moſt powerful: but how ſtrong or how feeble ſoever theſe impreſſions may be, they mutually weaken each other. Hence we never obſerve, at one time, on the phyſiognomy, the violent tranſports of joy, and the deſtructive languor of deſpair, although we frequently diſcover ſadneſs veiled with a gentle ſmile.

SECTION II. Influence of the BODY on the SOUL.

SEnſibility, deſires, paſſions, remembrance, recollection, wit, talents of every kind, even the moſt inferior qualities of the ſoul, are different in every individual. [96]Are ſouls, then, in their nature, different? Are there as many ſpecies of ſouls as there are of moſs*; or are they the ſame and unvaried in all men? This myſterious truth is equally unknown to the learned and unlearned. It is a ſecret impenetrable to Man, and known only to the great Author of Nature. But as we are able to account for the diverſity of ſouls by the difference of bodies to which they are united, and by the different circumſtances of individuals, the poſſibility, even the facility of a phyſical explanation of the diverſity of characters, paſſions, minds, induces us to believe, that ſouls are not eſſentially different from each other. But were ſouls different in their nature, their diverſity would be of no effect, ſo long as they continue united to the body: when once entered therein, they inſtantly become ſubject to phyſical laws, and receive their character from organization. Let us examine in what manner the body characteriſes the ſoul, and to what the varieties [97]obſerved between men are to be imputed.

Authors who have hitherto treated this ſubject, not conſidering the dignity of their undertaking, have, inſtead of inveſtigating the laws of the influence of the body on the ſoul, employed their imagination in the invention of new ones; inſtead of labouring to diſcover the cauſes of phenomena by their effects, have confounded the whole; by attributing to the body the properties of the ſoul, they have made the faculties of the thinking ſubſtance ſo many corporeal faculties, which they have diſtributed to particular organs, viz. the nervous fluid and the fibres of the brain: by the motion of theſe fibres, by the modification of theſe organs and of this fluid, they have accounted for ideas*, prejudices, deſires, paſſions †, intrepidity, courage, memory and thought.

By attributing to the brain functions ſo ſublime, by regarding this viſcus as the organ allotted for the production of ideas, as formed to repreſent the ſeries of intellectual* [98]operations by a ſerics of particular fibres and ſibrillae differently modified, theſe ſages have ſuppoſed, in oppoſition to facts*, a particular conſtruction which it has not, an admirable ſtructure ſuperior to all we can conceive or imagine, where the Deity can read as in a book the different thoughts of Man. Some have even ſtrained the marvellous, or rather the ridiculous †, to meaſure the volume of the medullary ſubſtance, and to determine the number of ideas which a grain of the medulla contains. Having made the deſires, paſſions, memory, imagination, &c. merely corporeal faculties; having given to each of theſe organic fibres a marvellous ſtructure, they have tortured their minds to apply them to the different phenomena,* [99]but finding themſelves unable to make any juſt application, they have made one which is abſurd and unintelligible: by theſe forced and puerile explanations, by occult cauſes not in the leaſt ſatisfactory, they have involved in darkneſs that which they deſired to explain, rendering themſelves ridiculous in the opinion of men of genius, and unintelligible to inferior capacities.

Every one hitherto has fallen into theſe errors, and, as if it were impoſſible to arrive at truth, has neglected that which alone could conduct him thither. But if, amidſt ſo many ſucceſsleſs enquirers, a few attained to the diſcovery of ſome truths, they knew not how to improve them, they only gueſſed, not demonſtrated.

Thus, ignorant of every true principle, they undertook to explain theſe phenomena, but not being able to complete their deſign, abandoned it, imputing their inability to the intricate nature of the ſubject. So that hitherto no advantage has been obtained from any obſervations made on the influence of the body on the ſoul, towards forming a fixed and regular ſyſtem. Every thing as yet written [100]on this ſubject is vague and abſurd; I ſhall therefore endeavour to diſpel this darkneſs, or rather attempt to reduce this ſcience to its principles.

CHAP. I. Influence of ORGANIZATION on the AFFECTIONS.

EVERY mind is endued with the ſame faculties; in this reſpect, all are ſimilar: but theſe faculties are more or leſs extenſive, more or leſs ſuſceptible of improvement, and ſome have their peculiar propenſities; but in theſe, all minds vary. This diverſity is wholly produced by the body.

The Senſibility of the SOUL ever Proportionate to that of the ORGANS.

There is a conſtant relation between the ſenſibility of the ſoul and that of the body, a determinate invariable relation.

Is the body endued with great ſenſibility? The ſoul is ſo likewiſe: does it poſſeſs but little of it? The ſoul ever poſſeſſes it in the ſame degree.

The cauſe of this phenomenon is very ſimple.

[101]However ſenſible the ſoul may be in itſelf, the meaſure of that ſenſibility is undiſcoverable by us, and is, in fact, wholly obliterated, even ſuppoſing the mind to have been pre-exiſtent to the body, and that all its faculties were active before its union with matter: for the ſoul being once united to corporeal organs, there remains not the leaſt veſtige of its former ſtate, every thing is forgotten. When united*, the ſoul receives no ſenſations but by the body; like a ſheet of white paper, whereon objects are repreſented after having paſſed through different intervening mediums, the ſoul receives its ſenſations by the organs of ſenſe; its ſenſations therefore are founded on impreſſions made on the body. But as the ſenſibility of the ſoul is a purely paſſive faculty, the different degrees of which are not known to us by any immediate method, and as the ſenſations of the ſoul are all founded on thoſe of the body; the vivacity of the ſenſations of the ſoul therefore depends on that of the ſenſations of the body. The ſenſibility of theſe two ſubſtances muſt be equal.

[102]Thus the degree of the ſenſibility of the ſoul depends on purely phyſical cauſes*.

Why the Senſibility of the SOUL appears more powerful than the Senſibility of the BODY.

The ſenſibility of the ſoul is ever proportionate to that of the body, and the ſenſations are ever more ſtrong at the inſtant they are received from the object, than when remitted from the memory. Hence it appears, that the moſt powerful artificial pleaſures, the moſt lively paintings of the imagination, muſt neceſſarily be weaker than the impreſſions of the ſenſes. However, when we compare the repreſentations of fancy with thoſe of nature, the brilliant paintings of love in the Adonis of Marini, with the merely phyſical pleaſures of that paſſion, we are much more ſtrongly affected by the former than by the latter.

Whence ariſes this phenomenon? It is not that the ſenſibility of the ſoul is more ſtrong than that of our organs, as might be inferred from theſe examples; but that [103]the ſenſes, in their enjoyment, being ever confined to their objects, can neither add to, nor take from them; whilſt the imagination being free in the choice of its colours and its lineaments, inceſſantly paſſes from object to object, ſelecting that which is moſt brilliant, and moſt engaging, and from thence forms its images, as the bee its honey from the moſt delicious parts of flowers. The lineaments which are diſperſed in ſenſual enjoyments, are collected, or rather concentrated in our imaginary pleaſures, and acquire force from this concentration, as the rays of light collected in the focus of a mirror.

The paintings of imagination muſt therefore appear more powerful than the pleaſures of the ſenſes; although they receive their whole force from the ſenſations of the body.

Why MAN is more ſenſible to Pain than Pleaſure.

Painful ſenſations affect us incomparably more ſtrongly than the agreeable; for violent pain deſtroys all ſenſations of pleaſure, but the moſt powerful ſenſation of pleaſure cannot ſilence a ſtrong ſenſation of pain.

[104]However ſurpriſing this phenomenon may appear, it is not difficult to aſſign the cauſe of it.

Notwithſtanding we are ignorant of the mechaniſm of the ſenſations, it is however certain, that their force is ever proportionate to the affection of the nervous fibres of which their organs are formed. In the agreeable ſenſations, theſe fibres are ſlightly affected; it may be ſaid, that objects of pleaſure paſs only gently over them; whilſt, in painful ſenſations, the ſame fibres are violently compreſſed, are ever rendered extremely tenſe and often broken.

Hence Man is leſs ſenſible to pleaſure than pain; hence more ſtrongly affected by the repreſentation of Tartarus than by that of Elyſium; hence the attraction of pleaſure, the pleaſingneſs of hope, always yield to the fear of torment and to the horror of deſpair.

Why the Character of the SOUL is ever congruous to the State of the BODY.

There is a conſtant relation between the diſpoſition or humour of Man, and the conſtitution of the corporeal organs.

[105]Is the body affected with diſeaſe? The ſoul is ſad Is the body in health? The ſoul is gay. Is the former in vigour? The latter is vivacious. Is that Ianguid? This is ſo too.

Sadneſs, gaiety, vivacity, languor, theſe diſpoſitions, theſe ſentiments, are experienced by the ſoul often when it is ignorant of their ſubject, ignorant even of their ſource. Like two harmonic machines, the ſoul conſtantly correſponds to the ſtate of the body; the ſame phenomenon is obſerved at all times and in all places: the light does not more regularly follow the revolutions of the ſun, than the ſoul the revolutions of the body.

Let us explain this phenomenon.

Although the ſenſations be not the cauſe of the paſſions, and although no mechaniſm whatever can produce in the heart a ſentiment of ſadneſs or of joy, it is nevertheleſs a law of nature, that when ſome particular ſenſation is received, ſome particular ſentiment ſhould ariſe in the ſoul; that* pleaſure ſhould excite joy, and pain ſadneſs.

[106]Pleaſure and pain ſpring from three different ſources,

From external objects, by the ſenſes.

From ideas, by thought.

From the internal parts of the body, by the general organs of feeling.

The agreeable and painful ſenſations which ariſe from the two firſt of theſe ſources, are momentary; becauſe the ſenſes are not always affected, nor is the underſtanding conſtantly in exerciſe: but the ſoul conſtantly receives ſenſations from the third ſource, if it be only that of the ſtate of the body.

Joy and ſadneſs, ſentiments which have an immediate relation to agreeable and painful ſenſations, muſt therefore prevail in the ſoul in proportion as the one or the other of theſe ſenſations reſults from the diſpoſition of our organs.

The impreſſions of pleaſure and pain, which we receive from the two firſt ſources, are the cauſe of thoſe tranſient fits of exultation and ſadneſs, which we ſo frequently experience, whoſe ſubject is ever known; thoſe, we receive from the laſt, are the cauſe of that gaiety and ſadneſs with which we are at all times more or leſs [107]affected, frequently imperceptibly to ourſelves, but much oftener without our knowing their principle: theſe form the baſis of the humour of Man.

Whilſt the body is in health, whilſt all the functions are perfectly performed, and the fluids circulate with freedom and eaſe, this motion of the fluids produces on the plexus nervoſi, which envelope the veſſels, an agreeable ſenſation, a ſlight and vague emotion, more eaſily ſelt than deſcribed: this ſenſation paſſes into the ſoul by the nerves: hence joy, which ſprings from pleaſure and inceſſantly accompanies it, muſt neceſſary ariſe therein together with this agreeable ſenſation. Thus gaiety and good humour are neceſſary attendants on health.

On the contrary, are the functions of the animal machine diſordered? Are our fluids too denſe, too acrid, in too large or too ſmall a quantity? Is their circulation violent or difficult? The diſorder within, produces in the ſoul a diſagreeable ſenſation, ever accompanied with ſadneſs.

When all the functions of the animal machine are eaſily performed, Man is gay; [108]when with difficulty, he is melancholy and ſad.

When an eaſy or irregular performance of the functions is the natural ſtate of the body, we are gay or ſad by conſtitution. But as eaſy circulation reſults from the equilibrium between our fluids and ſolids; as this equilibrium may be eaſily deſtroyed in a machine ſo complex and ſo feeble as the human body, inceſſantly expoſed to ſhocks from external objects, from the impulſe of fluids penetrating it in every part, often ſo pernicious in their nature, and almoſt always with ſo little proportion to its delicacy, it may be eaſily conceived, that the ſtate which produces gaiety, muſt ſeldom exiſt; but that which produces ſadneſs, very often.

That voluptuous ſenſation, which ariſes from the eaſy motion of the organs, is likewiſe much more reſtrained than the diſagreeable enſation which ſprings from a defect in their harmony. The former varies very little, becauſe one cauſe only produces it; the latter, on the contrary*, is [109]of different kinds, and each kind is differently diverſified. Thus the gay character is ever uniform, whilſt the melancholy humour has as many gradations, as are found between the ſlighteſt and deepeſt melancholy.

Although the voluptuous ſenſation, produced by the perfect ſtate of the functions of the body, be ſingle in its kind, it has however its gradations. As this equilibrium between the ſolids and fluids is more or leſs perfect, the agreeable ſenſation which reſults from it is more or leſs powerful, and the gaiety of temper more or leſs apparent.

The ſenſations therefore of pleaſure or pain have their different degrees; but theſe degrees approximate inſenſibly; there is a point where theſe ſenſations are ſo greatly weakened, that they are no longer diſtinct, but become confounded one with the other. This point depends on [110]that diſpoſition of the body, which conſtitutes uniformity, or rather ſerenity of temper; an indeciſive character, and ſo much the more indeciſive, as theſe ſenſations are the more confounded.

Finally, as the mechaniſm of the body, to which theſe ſenſations of pleaſure or of pain, which are the ſource of a melancholy temper, are to be imputed, is changeable, ſo the temper varies likewiſe. Obſerve however that the agreeable ſenſation, which depends on the perfect ſtate of the machine, can be eaſily deſtroyed; whilſt the diſagreeable ſenſation, which reſults from the primitive conſtitution of the ſolids, is in the other extreme. Thus it is not unfrequent that gaiety yields to ſadneſs, but a melancholy temper ſeldom gives way to mirth.

Hitherto we have diſcourſed of the temper only; let us examine that vivacity and that languor of the ſoul, which ever accompany the vigor or languor of the body, one of which wears ſo ſtrong an appearance of gaiety, and the other of ſadneſs.

We muſt conſider the languor of the ſoul, leſs as a weak degree of ſadneſs, although [111]it has all the appearance of it, than as a ſtate of indetermination, wherein Man poſſeſſes not ſufficient power to determine himſelf. Objects ever remain the ſame; they likewiſe act on our ſenſes by the ſame mechaniſm: but whilſt the body is affected with a languor, their impreſſion on our organs* is much weakened by the deficiency of the organic elaſticity of the fibres. Thus weakened, the ſenſations communicate an impreſſion, too feeble to excite any ſtrong emotion in the ſoul.

There is a ſurpriſing relation in Man, as in every other animal, between ſenſation, ſentiment and action. External objects act upon the ſenſes, the ſenſes modify their impreſſion, convey it to the ſoul, and the ſoul conſequently re-acts on the body. Thus in the animal oeconomy, the action of external objects on the ſenſes is ever ſucceeded by the re-action of the ſoul on our organs. The one is the cauſe, the other the effect; this cauſe and this [112]effect are ever proportionate. The geſture of the body, the tone of the voice, the rapidity of the ſpeech, and every mechanical motion, by which the ſoul externally diſplays its emotions, have neceſſarily a force proportionate to the vivacity of theſe emotions.

In voluntary motion the ſame relation is obſerved.

Man cannot ſee his own good without making ſome efforts to obtain it, nor be expoſed to any evil without attempting to avoid it, and that ever with an ardor proportionate to the greatneſs of the good he ſeeks, and of the evil he would avoid. Thus when the vigor of the body decays, the ſentiments are deſtitute of vivacity.

The firſt cauſe of the languor and vivacity of the ſoul is in the organs, which receive the impreſſion of external objects; the ſecond in the ſoul, which experiences this impreſſion, and re-acts upon the organs. In the former caſe, theſe impreſſions on the body have but little effect on the ſoul; in the latter, the emotions of the ſoul have but little effect on the body.

The force of the ſenſations of the body, and of the emotions of the ſoul, is ever [113]abſolutely neceſſary to the vivacity of the temper and character; but theſe cauſes alone are not ſufficient; for the ſoul and the body are without any immediate communication. Thus, however powerful the ſenſations of the body, and the emotions of the ſoul may be, they are ineffectual, when not propagated reciprocally from one of theſe ſubſtances to the other. The nervous fluid being the medium of communication between theſe two ſubſtances, it follows, that the impulſes, tranſmitted by either, are very much modified by the action of this fluid; and their force is ever in proportion to the vivacity of this action.

Whilſt the body is languid, this action is feeble; for the ſame cauſes which produce the vivacity of the impreſſions of objects, continue it whilſt it is propagated; and the ſame cauſes, which are neceſſary to tranſmit to the ſoul the vivacity of the ſenſations of the body, are ſo likewiſe, to tranſmit to the body the vivacity of the emotions of the ſoul.

Hence Macrocephali are more vivacious than others, and Microcephali leſs ſo.

[114]Hence, likewiſe, extreme fatigue ſeems to extinguiſh in our hearts all ſentiments and deſires. Hence, after a conſiderable haemorrhage, the emotions of the ſoul are* without vivacity, and when our ſtrength is diſſipated, we feel only the gentle emotions of an indeciſive will; hence rage and courage decreaſe with the blood. When enquiring into the cauſes of vigour of body, and of the force of ſenſations, I proved, that three cauſes contribute thereto, the primitive elaſticity of the fibres, the large diameter of their cavity, and a ſufficient quantity of the nervous fluid. Theſe concur to produce that vivacity of our deſires and actions, which forms the ſprightly character; whilſt the lax texture of our fibres, their ſmall diameter, and a deficiency of the nervous fluid form the effeminate and indolent.

Such are the cauſes of that analogy, of that harmony which is ever obſerved between [115]the temper of the ſoul and the organization of the body, or, ſo to expreſs myſelf, between the ſtate of the body and the ſtate of the ſoul.

Hitherto we have ſeen in what manner the body characteriſes the ſoul; but the influence of the corporeal on the immaterial part in Man, ends not

In what Manner the Diſpoſition of the BODY varies the Proſpect of NATURE.

The ſoul is ever in a diſpoſition analogous to that of our organs: this I have already proved: it has likewiſe been ſhewn*, that there is a conſtant analogy between the impreſſion of external objects and the internal diſpoſition; that thoſe objects are pleaſing and agreeable, when the ſoul is affected with joy; much leſs ſo when it is affected with grief: conſequently the mechaniſm of the body changes the proſpect of nature, the reaſon of which has been already aſſigned.

Organization renders the Temper conſtant.
[116]

Although the temper be variable, it nevertheleſs is not equally ſubject to change in every individual. We have ſeen how the ſtate of the body forms its character; but the heart has other fources of joy and ſadneſs than theſe.

If the ſoul experiences agreeable or painful ſenſations, which ariſe from the ſtate of the body, it likewiſe experiences others which are independent of it; theſe muſt change its natural ſtate, when they are contrary to thoſe which are tranſmitted from the general organ of feeling, and with ſo much the more force, as they have greater vivacity. The ſoul united to a ſenſible and vigorous body muſt therefore be of a temper the moſt inconſiſtent: but more eſpecially if it be not determined by the conſtitution of the body; for at that time the ſenſations affecting it preſerve all their energy, and as if it had no character, its temper varies with the impreſſions it receives.

On the contrary, vexations change not the temper of the gay; ſuch feel them [117]only as ſlight pains, which ceaſing, the ſoul re-admits the ſweet impreſſions of pleaſure*, and inſtantly re-aſſumes its wonted gaiety.

On the other hand, pleaſure makes very ſlight impreſſions on the ſad; conſtantly concentrated within themſelves, they are ſenſible only to grief, and never admit any ſtrong impulſe of joy.

Thus, by diffuſing their colours over objects, our ſentiments acquire longer duration; joy contributes to perpetuate joy in the heart, and ſadneſs to perpetuate ſadneſs.

The mechaniſm of the body, therefore, in characteriſing the temper, contributes likewiſe to fix it.

Organization renders MAN volatile or thoughtful; talkative or ſilent.

If we obſerve the influence of the paſſions on the body, we ſhall perceive, that joy ſhews itſelf externally by precipitate [118]motions*; on the contrary, ſadneſs renders the limbs motionleſs, and appears immoveably fixed in the heart. This latter recalls Man's thoughts within himſelf, whilſt the former continues to act outwardly: thus organization, by fixing the temper of the ſoul, renders the gay volatile and unſettled; the ſad reſerved and thoughtful.

Organization renders MAN moroſe, cruel, communicative or benign.

Sadneſs inceſſantly centers the mind within itſelf. ‘He whoſe thoughts are wholly on himſelf, and who ſeparates his intereſt from that of others, knows neither pity nor generoſity.’ Thus that organization*, which renders Man ſad, renders him likewiſe obdurate and cruel; that which renders Man gay, on the contrary, [119]renders him communicative, benevolent and compaſſionate. The diſpoſition of the organs likewiſe produces theſe effects by another principle; for to the ſad, ever centered within themſelves by the ſentiment of their own misfortunes, nature appears covered with a gloom, all their ideas are mournful and melancholy: if they ſpeak of happineſs, it is to complain of the want of it; they ſeem never to have enjoyed any of the pleaſures of life.

The ſight of the happy cauſes the melancholy ſufferer to feel the full weight of his miſeries; it increaſes his ſufferings, by irritating his ſenſibility, and wounding his ſelf-love. Thus he is grieved at the ſight of thoſe pleaſures he cannot enjoy, and is envious of that felicity which flies from him and is poſſeſſed by others; he would willingly ſee all beings groaning around, and tormented with him: as if the number of his ſufferings were diminiſhed by thoſe which he inflicts upon others*, he [120]takes delight in diſturbing their pleaſures, poiſoning their happineſs, and becomes cruel and malevolent*.

How different the joyful Man? The ſoul ever engroſſed by agreeable ſentiments, pleaſing images, flattering ideas, is but ſeldom afflicted; ſadneſs has but little power over a mind ſo diſpoſed: ever ready to take all things in good part, its affliction muſt be very ſevere, if it be obliged to grieve. Thus that diſpoſition of the organs, which produces gaiety, gives at the ſame time an amiable character to the ſoul, and likewiſe generates benevolence.

The Man of a gay diſpoſition, being contented with his lot, is unenvious of others, and ſo far from deſiring to render their lives unhappy, he endeavours to prevent their being ſo; not from pity to them, but from love to himſelf: his heart overflowing with joy, reluctantly ſupports whatever would afflict it, and haſtens to remove every painful impreſſion, which either prevents its amuſements or interrupts its natural gaiety.

Organization renders MAN ſuſpicious and miſtruſtful.
[121]

I cannot quit a ſubject ſo extenſive: the ſimple diſpoſition of the machine which characteriſes the temper, characteriſes the human heart in ſo many other reſpects, that it ſeems to be inexhauſtible.

The ſad are ſuſpicious and miſtruſtful; they imagine every perſon that approaches them ready to deceive: in proportion as their grief is more acute, their ſuſpions are increaſed, and nature is covered with a darker veil.

Whence does this proceed? We are not, as is commonly done, to account for it, by ſaying, that miſtruſt is natural to a deceitful mind, and that no one can be ſuſcipious who is incapable of deceiving. This maxim is true with regard to men abſolutely ignorant, but not with regard to thoſe who have been inſtructed by experience: beſides, we have no proof, that the ſad are leſs juſt than the joyful; on the contrary, if we obſerve miſanthropes, ſouls gloomy by conſtitution, we ſhall [122]find that plain dealing is one of their characteriſtic qualities; we know with what liberty they indulge themſelves in offenſive expreſſions, and how little trouble it gives them to ſpeak the moſt diſagreeable truths.

It is not in that ſo often repeated maxim, but in the ſtate of the body, that we muſt look for the cauſe of this phenomenon. External objects ever take their colourings from the ſentiments which the ſoul at that time experiences, and it has been demonſtrated, that the proſpect of nature is in the mind only: now that particular organic diſpoſition which produces a melancholy temper, occaſions likewiſe loſs of vigor. Weakneſs and pain generate ſadneſs and timidity, and from theſe two diſpoſitions of the ſoul united, naturally reſult miſtruſt and ſuſpicion: for the feeble, being more obnoxious to danger than the ſtrong, more aſſiduouſly ſeek to avoid it, are more provident and better prepared againſt ſnares, obſtacles, and every kind of evil. On the other hand, the ſad collect in their minds every difficulty, exaggerate ſubjects of fear, eaſily deſpair, [123]and believe every thing to be gloomy around them.

Beſides, the penſive character of the ſad, and the natural ſucceſſion of their ideas, inceſſantly exciting in the mind thoughts analogous to the ſentiment of ſadneſs then preſent, creates obſtacles, objections, ſubjects of fear and terror.

Organization characteriſes the AFFECTIONS.

There is a conſtant determinate relation between the organization and the affections of the heart.

In the languor of diſeaſe, the proſpect of Nature excites no emotion: the amorous chant of birds, the cool refreſhing breeze, the enamel of flowers, no longer tranſport the ſoul; inſuſceptible of joy, the image of pleaſure charms it no more. At that time, therefore, we are feebly determined to action*, and if rouſed thereto, [124]are unable to continue; we ſink under it, and ſigh for repoſe. But when the fibres are ſenſible, elaſtic, and abundantly ſupplied with the nervous fluid, the ſmalleſt objects make ſtrong impreſſions on the organs, and forcibly affect the ſoul. The ſoul at ſuch time can re-act on the body with equal vivacity, and the repreſſion of its emotions is as ungrateful as action in the preceding.

The ſoul, when united to a ſenſible and vigorous body, is therefore inactive, and leſs patiently endures inaction than exerciſe; but when united to organs compoſed of lax fibres, it is indolent and effeminate.

The ſoul, united to groſs organs, loves lively amuſements and noiſy pleaſures; to delicate organs, refined pleaſures and peaceable amuſements.

Brilliant colours are pleaſing to robuſt perſons; ſuch are paſſionately fond of warlike muſic, penetrating odours and ſpirituous liquors. Perſons of delicate texture and great ſenſibility, on the contrary, [125]love light colours, ſoft muſic and ſweet odours. In the pleaſure of the mind the ſame diverſity appears; the delicate and the ſenſible, fly thoſe noiſy amuſements in which the robuſt and vigorous ſo greatly delight; they love refined enjoyments, the ſweet effuſions of the mind, têtes à têtes, and every pleaſure which ariſes from the tender union of hearts.

The cauſe of this phenomenon is, on one hand, the relation obſerved between the ſenſibility of our organs and the force of the impreſſion of objects; on the other, the organic diſpoſition which characteriſes the temper.

With the impreſſions we receive from objects, conſtantly concur two analogous ſentiments of the ſoul; love, with agreeable ſenſations; and hatred, with painful.

All men ſeek pleaſure and fly from pain; in this they all accord: but we never ſeek objects but from the relation which they have to ourſelves, that is, from [126]the degree of pleaſure they can communicate.

The ſentiments of love and hatred muſt therefore change with theſe relations.

A weak ſight, or rather an eye extremely ſenſible, delights not in glaring colours; ſuch being prejudicial to it. A delicate ear, delights not in violent noiſes for the ſame reaſon: whatever is injurious to the ſenſes, is pleaſing to no one. On the other part, every being loves to be ſenſible of its own exiſtence. Thus, whenever any one avoids too violent ſenſations, he ſeeks thoſe only which have a certain degree of vivacity.

Hence the ſoul, which is united to groſs organs, being too weakly affected by gentle and delicate ſenſations, loves thoſe which are violent and ſtrong; ſuch as ſpirituous liquors, glaring colours, the ſound of the horn, trumpet, drums, and all kinds of noiſy amuſements: whilſt the ſoul, which is united to a delicate and ſenſible conſtitution, [127]delights only in gentle ſenſations, tender colours, expreſſive muſic, in a word, in every kind of refined and delicate pleaſure.

But in theſe relations between the affections of the ſoul and organization, there is a more than ſimple proportion between the force of the impreſſion of objects and the delicacy of the ſenſes; for many moderate pleaſures are devoid of tenderneſs, and a great number of amuſements which cannot be claſſed with the noiſy, excite no gentle emotion.

What then determines the ſoul, which is united to delicate organs, to tenderneſs? It is the conſtitution of the body, but conſidered in another point of view.

I have demonſtrated, that the ſtate of the body, which renders the temper gay, likewiſe renders Man a lover of diſſipation; whilſt that, which renders it melancholy, renders him penſive. But that diſpoſition, in which the functions of the organs are eaſily performed, and is the medium between vigour and imbecility, [126] [...] [127] [...] [128]affects the ſoul with an agreeable languor, which pleaſingly allures it back within itſelf; ſuch is the ſtate of the body after the moderate loſs* of ſpirits; ſuch is the laſt ſtage of convaleſcence when it juſt borders on perfect health, and ſuch is the habitual diſpoſition of bodies which are delicate and ſenſible. The gentle languor we then experience, and which is a diſpoſition to tenderneſs, conveys to the ſoul an agreeable ſenſation with which we deſire to be affected, and which we cheriſh in the heart. Hence we delight in every thing which tends to preſerve it; as, affecting muſic, amorous diſcourſes, and every pleaſure productive of tenderneſs and love.

But the affections of the ſoul are determined by the organization in a manner yet more particular.

The prevailing paſſion, in thoſe affections of the ſoul which have a phyſical object, is ever fixed by that ſenſe which is [127]the beſt conſtituted, and by the moſt ſenſible organ. He whoſe organs of pleaſure poſſeſs ſenſibility ſuperior to that of his other ſenſes, is libertine and laſcivious. He whoſe palate, or rather whoſe tongue, is the moſt delicate of his organs, is a drunkard or a glutton. He whoſe hearing is exquiſite, is paſſionately fond of muſic.

I have ſaid, that the reigning paſſion is ever determined by that organ which is the moſt ſenſible: this is evident, ſince Man ſeeks pleaſure with an ardour proportionate to its vivacity. But if, of theſe enjoyments which he attains, one part exclude another, he ever prefers that which is the moſt engaging. The more ſenſible the organs, the greater the pleaſure; for we can at all times proportion objects to the ſenſes when too delicate; but we can never proportion the organ to objects when it is deficient in ſenſibility.

The gay love joy and ſeek comic or mirthful amuſements; the ſad, on the contrary, delight only in thoſe which are [128]ſad and mournful; they delight to relate and hear related tragic adventures, ſhun gay company, fly to deſerts, woods, caves, gloomy foreſts, and ſavage nature.

It is eaſy to conceive why the gay delight in joy, this being of itſelf agreeable; but by what caprice do the ſad delight in ſadneſs, in tragic and mournful amuſements? If we attentively conſider it, we ſhall find the cauſe of this ſurpriſing phenomenon in the diſpoſition which the ſoul receives from the body, combined with ſelf-love. I have ſaid, that we ſeek after thoſe things only which have ſome relation to ourſelves; this is true in more than one reſpect. The ſad by conſtitution, being inceſſantly affected by a diſagreeable ſenſation, vexed that he is only conſcious of his exiſtence by his ſufferings, envious and jealous of what he does not poſſeſs, and what if he were poſſeſſed of, he could not enjoy, hates thoſe who are leſs unhappy than himſelf; and by a natural conſequence, ſhuns all ſociety [129]where there is the leaſt appearance of gaiety. The idea that himſelf is not the only miſerable being, alleviates his torments; the thought that others participate his ſufferings gives him eaſe; thus he recounts tragic adventures, and is pleaſed at the ſight of another's misfortunes. As the only pleaſure he can enjoy is that of afflicting the happy, and as the only mean he poſſeſſes of relieving his own miſery, is the indulging himſelf in reflecting on the ſufferings of others, he flies to ſolitude, to ſavage and deſert nature, where he may, without interruption, indulge the gloomy reflections of his ſoul. Thus the phyſical ſways the moral part in Man, and the conſtitution of the body generates the affections of the mind.

I ſhall now prove, that the force and duration of theſe affections depend wholly on mechanical cauſes.

The relations, which are obſerved between the ſenſibility of the body and that of the ſoul, are likewiſe obſerved between the ſtate of our organs and the character of our ſentiments.

[130]The force, the vivacity, the duration, the violence of the ſentiments of the ſoul, are all of them effects of organization.

The ſenſations are undoubtedly not the cauſe of the paſſions; but ſenſibility is the meaſure of their force; for the deſire of being happy, which blindly leads us in queſt of pleaſure, and prompts us to fly from pain, ever carries us thither with an ardour proportioned to the greatneſs of the good we purſue, or of the evils we avoid.

As the degree of the good and of the evil is ever determined by that of ſenſibility, the paſſions muſt draw their force from the organization; the ſenſibility of the ſoul being ever determined by that of the body.

There is a ſurpriſing relation in Man between ſentiment and action. He cannot perceive his good without making ſome effort to acquire it, nor be expoſed to evil, without attempting to avoid it. This I have already obſerved, but there is a neceſſity of repeating it here. If it be evident, as undoubtedly it is, that Man ever [131]yields to ſentiment, and that the degree of the good and the evil is determined in every individual by that of ſenſibility, it is plain, that the more ſenſible Man is, the greater efforts he will make to enjoy that good, or avoid that evil.

But this relation between ſentiment and action is not reſtrained to voluntary motion; the action of external objects on the ſoul is ever followed by the re-action of the ſoul on the body. Unable to reſtrain the emotions agitating it within, the ſoul diſplays them externally by impreſſions purely mechanical, and ever with a force proportioned to that of its ſentiments. Thus in the violent paſſions, we are ever tranſported with ſtrong and precipitate motions; but when all is placid and quiet within, all is calm and ſerene without.

Yet the man, who is ardent in his deſires, is not ever impetuous in his actions. Vivacity of motion ſuppoſes only great organic elaſticity of the fibres: impetuoſity requires not only great organic elaſticity of the fibres, but force and ſolidity of the organs likewiſe.

[132]The duration of a paſſion is determined by its objects. The ſenſual are ever momentaneous: thoſe, which have ſome natural want for their cauſe, continue not after this want is ſupplied; the others are not more durable. But thoſe, which are produced by the imagination, are incomparably more conſtant; they reign throughout the day, and diſappear not at night; they attend us when we retire to reſt, and reign in the mind when all the ſenſes are locked in ſleep. This duration of the artificial paſſions, ſo long when compared to that of the ſenſual, depends on the organization combined with the nature of their different objects.

It is the property of our pleaſures mutually to deſtroy each other, on enjoyment, and to have no continuance without the aſſiſtance of novelty. The objects of ſenſual pleaſures are extremely confined, compared to thoſe which are imaginary; for the firſt are determined by nature, whilſt imagination, ever active, can inceſſantly modify its objects, and preſent them under new appearances. Moreover, in [133]the ſenſual paſſions, the ſentiments which then engage the mind, are felt only by means of external objects; when theſe objects ceaſe to act, the ſentiment immediately becomes extinct. Thus in ſenſual love, the ſweet emotions of the ſoul, and the ſpirits, are loſt together: but in the artificial paſſions, the heated imagination exaggerates objects, adorns and embelliſhes them; the ſoul, ſeized with an enthuſiaſtic ardor, affects the body with ſtrong emotions, and thereby retains its tender ſentiments, even when pleaſure is extinct.

Nature cannot long ſupport the violence of an extremely active paſſion; the ſentiments forming this paſſion vaniſh, and inſtantly re-appear. The cauſe of this phenomenon is phyſical. In every paſſion, whilſt the ſoul is fixed on its objects, the* organs are tenſe; this is obſerved even during ſleep, when the commerce of the ſoul with the body appears to be interrupted. In the agitation of a troubleſome [134]dream, the pulſe becomes quicker, the complexion more lively, the body is variouſly agitated, Man awakes and finds himſelf in his bed, exhauſted by fatigue, and wet with ſweat and with his tears. In the paſſions, tenſion of the body ever accompanies tenſion of the ſoul. This tenſion of the ſentient ſubſtance is not only determined by that of the organs of the body, but wholly depends on it; for when the body is affected with languor, the ſoul receives no ſtrong ſenſation, it is inſuſceptible of it*.

Let us then conclude, that if the ſoul cannot long ſuſtain very ſtrong emotions, it is becauſe the fibres of the body cannot endure great tenſion for any length of time.

The violent paſſions conſiſt in a ſeries of ſentiments, which are interrupted, one inſtant, and renewed the next; the ſucceſſion of theſe ſentiments is perceived only at intervals.

[135]The duration of each particular ſentiment, and that of their total ſucceſſions, depend on the organization. For if the ſoul always requires the mediation of the body, to receive any ſtrong ſenſation; if it be unable to fix itſelf without the concurrence of the other; it plainly appears, that the duration of every ſtrong emotion of the mind, and that of all theſe emotions which are ſucceſſively experienced, depends on that faculty of the body, whereby it continues tenſe a longer or ſhorter time; a faculty dependent on the different degrees of organic elaſticity and ſolidity of the fibres.

Thus the ſoul, which is united to ſtrong and elaſtic organs, is ſubject to violent and durable paſſions; that which is united to delicate organs, unable to endure long continued tenſion, paſſes inceſſantly from one impreſſion to another; and never experiences any which is laſting.

In the violent paſſions, the ſoul is truly paſſionate, only when engaged with its objects; when it ceaſes to be affected thereby, the paſſion expires; yet the ſame [136]internal diſpoſition continues, even when the ſoul is engaged with a new ſentiment. The cauſe of this phenomenon has been already ſhewn to be in that impreſſion*, which ſenſibility produces on the body, and which in its turn, from an effect becomes a cauſe, preſerving in the ſoul the ſentiment which produced it, and recalling it there, if at any time its object diſappear.

But this impreſſion which the paſſions produce on our organs is not equally durable in every individual. The more ſtrong theſe emotions are, ſo much the more apparent is this effect; for the more ſtrong is the impulſe communicated to the nervous fluid by the ſoul, and the more extreme the tenſion of the fibres, ſo much the more is their elaſticity weakened, the equilibrium between theſe two powers of the circulation deſtroyed, and the circulation itſelf obſtructed. At this time the nervous fluid produces, eſpecially in the plexus nervoſi, a very great conſtriction, [137]proper to continue the emotions of the ſoul.

The duration of this impreſſion is at firſt, therfore, in a direct ratio of the degree of ſenſibility, afterwards in an inverſe; for the more elaſtic the fibres are, ſo much the more they yield to the action of the nervous fluid, the more forcible likewiſe is their re-action, and the equilibrium much ſooner re-eſtabliſhed. In eſtimating theſe relations, we find the duration of this impreſſion to gain leſs by an exceſs of ſenſibility in the organs, than it is prejudiced by an exceſs of organic elaſticity.

In a body delicate and vigorous, the ſoul muſt therefore be ſubject to paſſions the moſt violent and the leaſt durable; in a body indelicate and robuſt, to thoſe which are the moſt conſtant.

Hence the reaſon why men of great ſenſibility are eaſily provoked to anger, whilſt the indelicate and robuſt are with difficulty inflamed. Hence the reaſon why the anger of the former is like a fire of ſtubble, which blazes and is ſoon extinguiſhed; while that of the others is of [138]long continuance: once excited to fury, their ſouls cannot be appeaſed, reſentment remains after revenge is gone, like the agitated ocean, which ſubſides not to a calm till a conſiderable ſpace after the ſtorm. But the duration of the paſſions is produced by many other cauſes. Whilſt Man is intent upon the object of his paſſion, as he is ever ſurrounded with beings adapted to diſtract him, he eaſily loſes ſight of it: this very frequently happens. During theſe moments of diſtraction, if the ſenſation which occaſioned it be not very intereſting, the paſſion muſt be regarded as a latent fire, which inſtantly blazes forth on the leaſt admiſſion of air.

If the ſoul be ſtrongly affected by theſe new objects, the paſſion revives not, but yields to ſome other ſentiment. Thus the more ſenſible a man is, the more he is expoſed to the impreſſion of external objects, and the more eaſily will his paſſions be extinguiſhed.

This is the cauſe why the virtue of the ſprightly is neither regular nor conſtant; [139]it appears only at intervals, by ſtarts, as if it had no ſource in the perſons themſelves; they being obliged to be frequently recalled to the practice of it: while the virtue of the ſedate and robuſt has the appearance of conſtant habit.

On the other hand, while the paſſion is extremely violent, and any ſentiment tyrannizes in the ſoul, other objects have not power to diſengage the attention.

The paſſions therefore, if they are, on one ſide, leſs conſtant in proportion as Man is more ſenſible; they are, on the other, more conſtant in proportion as he poſſeſſes greater ſenſibility.

This is obſerved more eſpecially in the paſſions which have a ſentiment of love for their baſis: when the ſoul believes that its own happineſs depends on the poſſeſſion of ſome object, nothing can diſengage it from thence; the powerful attractives of pleaſure keep it intent on the beloved object, and admits of no interruption.

From theſe obſervations let us conclude, that,

[140]A Man of extreme ſenſibility, who has only ſlight affections, muſt be the moſt fickle of human kind; he is never ſo conſtant, as when violently excited by ſome paſſion.

The force of the paſſions therefore depends on the ſenſibility of the fibres; their violence on their extreme ſenſibility, and their impetuouſity on their ſenſibility combined with their force: the duration of the paſſions depends equally on the ſenſibility and elaſticity of the fibres, and on their force and ſolidity. It is thus the phyſical part in Man gives character to our ſentiments and paſſions.

How Organization renders MAN open-hearted, or a Diſſembler.

To the preceding truths, I add another which ariſes immediately from them.

The ſame organic elaſticity, which cauſes the extreme force of the paſſions, renders Man frank and open-hearted; for the ſoul cannot conceal its emotions, they ruſh out precipitately, and appear in his geſture, ſpeech and voice; finally, the repreſſing of theſe emotions is ever painful, [141]and even impoſſible, when the ſoul is ſtrongly affected. Reſerve is peculiar to ſouls united to organs of lax or very groſs fibres; frankneſs, to ſouls united to organs of extreme organic elaſticity.

Men of great ſenſibility and livelineſs, always ſpeak the language which ſprings from the heart, the language of truth; thus it is by warming the heart of him who is naturally cold, that is, by augmenting his ſenſibility, by increaſing the elaſticity of his fibres, that wine baniſhes reſerve and lays open the heart.

Thus no credit is to be given to perſons of known diſſimulation and habitual reſerve, unleſs in the paroxyſms of paſſion. Then only are their words without diſguiſe; in theſe moments, the violence of the emotions of the ſoul augments the tenſion of the fibres, affects them with a ſlight rigidity, frees them from the empire of the will*, makes them drop the maſk and appear without diſguiſe.

When you preſs the chaſte miſtreſs of your heart to lay open her mind to you, [142]although ſhe ſubmits with regret to the leſſons of her mother, and to the ſevere laws of modeſty, ſhe nevertheleſs divulges not her true ſentiments; ſhe allows ſhe has a friendſhip for you, and nothing more. But when wearied out with a long and painful reſiſtance, the diſſembling fair permits her lover to triumph; while love fires her veins; while ſhe embraces her beloved with tranſports; claſps him in her arms; preſſes him to her eager boſom, and her humid lips attract and diſtil pleaſure; her voice is broken and faultering, ſcarcely can ſhe articulate a few words—expreſſions of tenderneſs and love.

Obſervations on the Manner in which Orgaganization renders MAN obdurate and cruel, compaſſionate and humane.

Let us again examine the effects of the primitive and organic elaſticity of the fibres; for what a diverſity in the moral character is produced by the different degrees of theſe corporeal faculties! What ſurpriſing phenomena, of which they are the cauſe! Principles the moſt fertile! [143]Principles! whoſe extent, when fully known, demonſtrate them to be almoſt inexhauſtible.

We do not compaſſionate the miſerable, but from an idea of his ſufferings; we have no idea of pain till we have experienced it ourſelves: if, therefore, to bemoan others, we muſt have ſuffered ourſelves, ſenſibility is a diſpoſition abſolutely neceſſary to pity.

If united to groſs organs, or to fibres too ſolid or too lax, the ſoul becomes obdurate and inflexible; when united to organs delicate, elaſtic and vigorous, it becomes compaſſionate and tender. Hence pity, although an artificial ſentiment, is nevertheleſs, in every individual, modified by the organization.

The greater the ſenſibility of Man, he may thence be the more humane; and by a very ſingular conſequence, he may thence be the more cruel. For if, to bemaon others, we muſt be ſenſible ourſelves, it is equally true, that we diſcover only that ſenſibility for others which we want not ourſelves. The more ſenſible any one is, the more aſſiduous is he to avoid pain, the [144]more eager after pleaſure, the more engroſſed by himſelf, and the leſs concerned for others. If, in theſe caſes, ſenſibility be fixed on the ſenſual or artificial paſſions, which have neither generoſity, clemency, nor goodneſs, for their object; the voice of pleaſure drowns that of pity; the heart is contracted and ſhrunk within itſelf, the ſoul, full of the object of its deſires, denies its attention to every thing beſides, and is no long either clement or humane. If the well-being of others be inconſiſtent with our own, theſe affections become more extreme; for if it be a conſequence of the love of ourſelves, to love thoſe things which are beneficial, ſo likewiſe it muſt be, to hate thoſe which are prejudicial to us. Thus they, whom we now look upon with indifference, become the object of our moſt extreme hatred, when we regard them as enemies; in the heat of paſſion we treat them with the greateſt virulence, relentleſsly ſeek their ruin, aggravate their miſery, and view their ſufferings with an eye of ſatisfaction.

The more ſenſible likewiſe Man is, the more fearful he is of pain, and the [145]more timid; the fear of his enemy prompts him to complete his deſtruction, whenever opportunity offers. Let us therefore conclude, that the more ſenſible a Man is, the more he is obnoxious to hatred, his cruelty is greater, and the more atrocious his character.

Another reaſon, which modifies pity in our hearts, is drawn from that diſpoſition of the body which characteriſes the temper of the mind.

I have ſhewn that the melancholy humour, by centering Man's thoughts in himſelf, renders him unſociable, obdurate and cruel.

That, which conſtitutes good humour, is much more favourable to pity; yet in ſome particular inſtances leſs ſo. In the gay, the ſentiment of pleaſure, ever predominant in the ſoul, nouriſhes therein ideas of joy, and the ſight of the unhappy generates thoſe of ſadneſs. Theſe therefore are weakened by the former, and conſequently make not their full impreſſion.

The diſpoſition of the body, which conſtitutes ſerenity of temper, is much [146]more favourable; as it leaves Man the entire liberty of his mental faculties, and changes not the impreſſion of objects.

But of all diſpoſitions of the body, that is the moſt favourable which conſtitutes the tender character, that diſpoſition of the ſoul which determines it to compaſſion.

The Man who is conſtitutionally ſad may be juſt and ſincere; the gay may be equitable and meek; and a Man of a ſerene temper may poſſeſs the virtues of both. But it is only to the Man of a delicate conſtitution of body, that Nature has given a compaſſionate heart; on him only has ſhe beſtowed that noble propenſity to clemency, that generoſity of ſoul, which takes pleaſure in mingling tears with the afflicted, in melting at another's woe, and relieving the oppreſſed.

Let us add, that it is the ſame diſpoſition of body which generates in our hearts, that goodneſs which prevents the requeſts of others, and that eaſy communicability of heart, which, in a moment, contracts the moſt durable friendſhips, produces that ſenſibility and tendency of mind, [147]whoſe firſt emotions determine our lot, and decide the deſtiny of our lives.

Organization characteriſes the Manners.

I conſtantly return to the ſenſibility of our organs; ſo fertile is this principle, ſo many and ſo marvellous are its phenomena!

The love of happineſs is the great and only principle of all our actions, but ſenſibility is the ſource, or rather the ſtandard, of our vices and of our virtues.

Men of the greateſt ſenſibility may be the moſt cruel, the moſt vicious; but to them likewiſe has Nature given ſouls of the greateſt virtue, of the nobleſt ſentiments, grandeur and magnanimity.

Men of a little ſenſibility are beings without virtue, lifeleſs carcaſſes wherein you can diſcover neither fire nor activity.

Farther Obſervations on the Manner in which Organization renders MAN frank and haſty, or timid and deceitful.
[148]

The ſenſations, which the ſoul receives from the general organ of feeling, are not confined to agreeable and painful impreſſions, the ſoul likewiſe perceives the vigour or languor of the body; and this ſenſe of vigour and languor greatly diverſifies the moral character of Man.

The ſenſe of vigour*, combined with ſenſibility, renders Man ardent in his deſires, precipitate in his deſigns, and impetuous in his actions; whilſt that of languor renders him weak in his deſires, ſlow in his reſolutions, and indolent in his conduct.

[149]Thoſe who are vigorous and of great ſenſibility are therefore furious, vindictive, audacious and inconſiderate.

Thoſe who are weak and of little ſenſibility are timid, crafty, indolent and patient.

Organization determines the Force of the SOUL.

It has been already obſerved, that a delicate body contains not a mind endued with force.

In treating of the force of the ſoul, I have deſtroyed the ſophiſtry which has been uſed in the application of this term. I have proved, that, properly ſpeaking, there are no minds endowed with force, ſince every Man is irreſiſtibly ſubject to ſenſibility, and held in ſubjection by the paſſions. I have ſhewn, likewiſe, that in every individual, the force of the paſſions is ever in proportion to ſenſibility, and that the ſenſibility of the ſoul is ever determined by that of the body. Finally, I have demonſtrated, that the force of the ſoul, if we chuſe to make uſe of [150]that expreſſion, is in an inverſe ratio of the ſentient faculty.

The ſoul therefore is more in ſubjection in a body of delicate and great ſenſibility, than in a body which is indelicate and robuſt.

CHAP. II. Influence of ORGANIZATION on the Mind.

WHAT an aſtoniſhing variety of minds! How different their characters!

All men compare and combine their ſenſations to a certain degree; but every one is not equally capable of comparing and generalizing them, and of forming therefrom ideas and new combinations. All have not the gift of invention, nay, not even that of perfecting what is already invented. How few are able to think of themſelves! How many others, yet more confined, who cannot think at all, but are ever chained down to imitation, [151]never doing any thing but what they have ſeen done before, nor ſaying any thing but what they have heard ſaid, as if endowed with inſtinct only, and entirely deſtitute of judgment!

In diſtinguiſhing the operations of the mind relatively to their objects, we find, that the greateſt part of mankind are conſined to the combination of ſenſations, and that but very few can attain to that of ideas; but amongſt the ſmall number of thoſe who think, what diverſity appears!

There are ſome whoſe activity of ſoul is ſuch, that they can never ſeize any principle, without tracing it to its moſt diſtant conſequences. There are others, and of theſe the number is very great, whoſe leſs active ſouls let every conſequence eſcape them, which has not a certain degree of evidence at firſt ſight, and ſeize thoſe only which preſent themſelves.

How different likewiſe their character! In one, judgment is the chief power of the mind; in another, imagination; this is fertile in ideas; that other has ſolidity of judgment; this is more impetuous, ſuperior in argument; that reaſons more [152]cloſely, and is more conciſe; this excites admiration by his lively fallies, that by the force and ſolidity of his eloquence ſilences, guides and governs us.

The cauſe of this diverſity of minds has been ineffectually ſought; but if any one ſufficiently attends, he will diſcover this, as well as the character of the heart, to proceed from the diſpoſition of the corporeal organs.

The impetuous Eſchylus, the agreeable Horace, the ſublime Milton, the judicious Bacon, the profound Newton, the ſagacious Monteſquieu, in a word, every man owes the turn and character of his mind to the conſtitution of his body.

But not to reſt content with merely aſſerting this truth, I proceed to demonſtrate it, to determine the diſpoſitions of our organs, which occaſion the diverſity of mind, and develope the unknown laws of their myſterious influence. In order to account for thoſe phenomena, I ſhall not follow the tract of thoſe who have attempted it before me, nor will I have recourſe to forced explanations, which are neither convincing nor ſatisfactory: while [153]the natural proofs ariſe ſpontaneouſly and lead us, as it were, by the hand, to the ſcope of our purſuit. Here ſhall be no enquiry concerning the complicated and wonderful ſtructure of the brain, nor the obſcure and chimerical modifications of fibres and fibrillae, which are exceedingly magnified by ſome authors. Theſe phenomena are produced by the moſt admirable laws; by cauſes ſo ſimple, and ſo evident, that it is really aſtoniſhing no one ſhould have diſcovered them till now.

Organization determines the Capacity of the MIND.

There are ſome men, whoſe active ſouls receive few ſenſations without comparing them; theſe are the moſt ingenious.

There are others who compare only a certain kind of ſenſations; theſe are leſs ingenious than the former, and ſo much the leſs ſo, as their ſouls have a leſs propenſity to compare their ſenſations, and to form ideas therefrom. The ſouls of others again are ſo little active, and ſo greatly averſe to thinking, that they neither compare [154]nor combine any thing at firſt ſight; they require ſenſations which are both ſtrong, and many times repeated, before they are brought to compare them, and to form any idea: ſuch, being more or leſs ſtupid, differ not from the weak minds, but in the ſmall number of their ideas, which they ſo laboriouſly produce.

No man deſires to know, but becauſe he deſires to be happy: he who is without deſires, and without fears, will certainly not give himſelf the trouble of comparing his ſenſations, of combining his ideas, and reaſoning therefrom.

Paſſion therefore is the cauſe of this activity of ſoul, this perpetual fermentation of reaſon*; without it, the mind, unaffected, unſupported, falls into a languor, and is immerſed in ſloth.

[155]The mind therefore thinks only when it has an intereſt in thinking: this intereſt may be of many kinds; one finds it in the pleaſure which he receives from the knowledge of things; another in the pleaſure he takes in diſplaying his learning, and attracting regard; a third in the means of procuring the conveniences of life by his knowledge. But whatever the object may be, the paſſions ever actuate the mind; by their activity its faculties unfold and riſe to perfection. To arrive at excellence of any kind, Man muſt be animated by ſome paſſion; and the more violent his eagerneſs to ſucceed, the more efficacious are his efforts for that purpoſe. For only the violent paſſions produce illuſtrious, heroic and great men: he who is animated by no paſſion, does nothing to render himſelf illuſtrious, and is wholly inſignificant. Men therefore are more or leſs ingenious, as they poſſeſs greater or leſs ſenſibility.

The human underſtanding is undoubtedly greatly indebted to the paſſions; but if the paſſions are neceſſary to render the mind active, they are not ſufficient to produce [156]a creative imagination, or a great genius: they can indeed render Man eager after ſucceſs; but they ſupply not the qualities, which are neceſſary to the acquiſition of it. Some phyſical diſpoſitions therefore are required, together with the ſenſibility of our organs.

Let us inquire into the nature of theſe diſpoſitions.

At our birth none of the mental faculties is unfolded, none in exerciſe*, not even inſtinct. But whether the ſoul exiſted before its union with the body, or whether it had any peculiar method of acquiring knowledge or not, it is moſt certain, that when once it has become ſubject to the laws of this union, it no longer retains aught of its former ſtate, not even the remembrance of it.

Every man poſſeſſes the power of judging; but even although we ſuppoſe that every man poſſeſſed it alike, the minds of individuals would not be leſs different; for the underſtanding can never proceed [157]alone; but requires the concurrence of the ſenſitive faculty, or rather that of the ſenſations.

Examine the productions of the human mind, the moſt ſingular works of imagination, even thoſe which have the leaſt analogy to nature; all have for their ſubject, ſenſible objects, or relations of theſe objects. Almoſt all our thoughts are corporeal images, and of the moſt abſtract ideas there is none which is not fixed by the ſenſes; there is not throughout all nature a work of the pure intellect. If we deſired, for inſtance, to form any idea of the Deity, or his attributes, we ſhould conſider him under human relations; at one time, as a beneficent father: at another, as a glorious King; now, as a benevolent maſter; then, as an offended Judge.

He who would riſe to the firſt of Beings, and contemplate him in his eſſence without the aid of corporeal images, perceiving no relation between God and himſelf, knows not how to form any notion of him, and is loſt in the ſublimity of the idea. Thus all religions are ſupported by [158]a groſs worſhip, which interpoſes material objects between the ſupreme Being and Man. One contemplates the Deity in his works, another worſhips him under an imaginary reſemblance; for the heart, as well as the mind, is ever fixed by the intervention of the ſenſes.

Thus likewiſe, when we form to ourſelves a notion of the ſoul, we ever repreſent it as a thin ſhade, or ſubtil matter; in ſhort, as a corporeal being, if we form any image of it at all.

Whatſoever object we chuſe, the caſe is the ſame; for let us employ our utmoſt efforts to form ideas wholly intellectual, or to conceive pure ſpirituality, the only conſequence of the attempt is to involve the mind in greater darkneſs and confuſion.

Every idea therefore is formed from the true or falſe relations of ſenſible objects; whence the underſtanding never operates without the concurrence of the ſenſations: in proportion as they are removed from their objects, the ideas we would convey become unintelligible; without their aſſiſtance our ideas either eſcape us, or they are never formed at all.

[159]Let us conclude from the preceding, that the ſenſations are the baſis of all our knowledge.

What a variety of minds therefore muſt be produced by the different ſtructure of the organs of the ſenſes, the only means whereby we can have communication with the various beings which ſurround us.

Our knowledge is neither increaſed nor perfected but by the comparing our ſenſations. The greater the number of ſenſations to be compared, ſo much the more numerous are our ideas; the more diſtinct theſe ſenſations, ſo much the more clear are our conceptions, and the more exact theſe compariſons, the more perfect our knowledge muſt be. On the contrary, the ſmaller the number of our ſenſations, the more confined is the ſphere of mental activity, and the leſs numerous our ideas; not only from the privation of thoſe ideas which are founded on the ſenſations of the ſenſe we are without: but from the privation of many others; for it is evident that, as all the parts of hature are connected, the ſenſations of one ſenſe often ſerve to diſcover the relations of the ſenſations of another ſenſe.

[160]The number of our ideas muſt therefore be relative to the number and ſtructure of theſe organs: whence Man muſt be leſs intelligent, leſs ingenious, in proportion as he poſſeſſes a ſmaller number of ſenſes, and as his ſenſes are leſs exquiſite.

Although there is an intimate relation between the number of ſenſations and that of ideas, this relation is not equal with regard to every ſenſe; one ſenſe may be confined whilſt another is leſs ſo.

From a calculation of the number of the objects of the ſenſes, the organ of ſmelling appears to be the moſt confined, and that of ſeeing the leaſt ſo. The eye is of all the bodily organs the moſt comprehenſive, and takes in the greateſt number of objects; forms, dimenſions, colours, are all within its diſtrict; the varieties it perceives in each of theſe modifications of matter infinitely ſurpaſs all thoſe within the cognizance of the taſte, ſmelling, hearing, and feeling; that is, of ſounds*, ſavours, odours, and ſenſations [161]from the touch. This is evident during ſleep; for the many ſenſations which are retraced in the mind during reſt, are ſo many images of viſible objects. The ſight therefore contributes more to knowledge than any of our other ſenſes.

With regard to the nature of our ſenſations, it is very evident, that, from the different ſtructure of the ſenſes in different individuals, there muſt be a great diverſity in their reſpective impreſſions.

Every object muſt naturally produce on Man, an agreeable or painful impreſſion; for every Man is a ſenſible being, and every ſenſible being muſt be ſuſceptible of either pleaſure or pain; but it does not therefore follow, that the ſame object ſhould produce, in every individual, the ſame ſenſation; their reſpective ſenſes not [162]being of ſimilar organization. In whatever manner material objects affect the ſenſes, it is certain, that the ſame objects affect them not equally in every individual, and conſequently produce not in the ſoul the ſame impreſſions. The lilly is not beautiful to every eye, neither is the anana pleaſant to every palate, nor the ſong of the nightingale to every ear. I ſhall not ſpeak here of theſe diverſities in the ſenſations of individuals, as their cauſe is utterly unknown; but ſhall attend to thoſe which are more evident and better underſtood.

The chief differences between the ſenſations of different individuals conſiſt in their delicacy, in the greatneſs of their image, and in the number of the objects compoſing the picture; the two laſt ſpecies of theſe differences are peculiar to the organ of ſight, the other is common to all the ſenſes.

The more delicate an organ is, the better it perceives thoſe minute objects which eſcape organs which are leſs ſo. The delicacy of the ſenſes is often neceſſary to the acquiſition of many ſorts of knowledge; [163]we are indebted for the diſcovery of the Satellites of Jupiter, and other celeſtial bodies, of the animalcula in liquors, and of the minutiae of anatomy, to thoſe inſtruments which have been contrived to ſupply the imperfection of our ſenſes. Theſe ſupplements have advanced our knowledge in many reſpects beyond the point to which it had arrived a few ages ago, and have, in our times, conduced to the diſcovery of many great and important truths. But as a delicate organ is more ſuſceptible of irritation, and leſs diſtinctly receives ſtrong ſenſations than another that is leſs ſo, it loſes on one ſide what it gains on another, and ſometimes more. To what uſe would the faculty of ſeeing in the dark ſerve, if the light of day be painful to the ſight; it is very evident, that a perſon ſo circumſtanced would loſe by the exchange. With an eye, likewiſe, which comprehends only a ſmall proſpect, we can diſcover particular beauties more diſtinctly, than with an eye which takes in an extenſive circuit; but we ſee not ſo well the harmony of the [164]whole*. A too comprehenſive organ ſees detached parts imperfectly: an organ not ſufficiently ſo diſcerns not their relations.

By entering into an examination of the ſenſations which are employed in the ſeveral ſciences, we might determine what particular ſtructure of the ſenſes is beſt adapted for each; but, in general, organs moderately delicate, adapted to comprehend a moderate number of objects, and poſſeſſed of every faculty (if I may be allowed the expreſſion) in a mean proportional degree, are the moſt advantageouſly conſtructed. In caſes where penetration depends on the number and diſtinctneſs of the ſenſations, and on the comparing the ſenſations together, he whoſe ſenſes are beſt conſtructed, muſt therefore have the greateſt natural qualifications.

‘But we perceive not, ſays a celebrated philoſopher, that perſons whoſe ſenſes are dull, ſight imperfect, hearing [165]thick, and ſmelling greatly if not wholly decayed, have ſlower capacities than others.’

The obſervation is juſt, if underſtood of civilized nations; for how is it poſſible to perceive the advantage of a ſuperior organization of the ſenſes in ſociety, where Man can eaſily find means to ſupply the imperfection of his ſenſes? What defect is there of the organs, for which art affords not ſome remedy? The ſhort-ſighted are furniſhed with teleſcopes which bring near the moſt diſtant objects; the weak-ſighted are ſupplied with microſcopes, angiſcopes, and other glaſſes, which make them diſtinguiſh minute objects which would otherwiſe eſcape them. To perſons of dull hearing, are given acouſtic inſtruments; for thoſe in whom the ſenſe of ſmelling is decayed, or taſte imperfect, are prepared concentrated odours, ſavours, juices and quinteſſences. Supplied with theſe ſubſtitutes, is it ſtrange that men, whoſe ſenſes are imperfect, ſhould become, in this reſpect, equal to thoſe who have received from nature the moſt perfect organs? Take your obſervations from perſons deſſtitute [166]of theſe reſources of art, and then determine.

‘Nevertheleſs, he replies, Man is not the more ingenious for having exerciſed his ears and eyes.’

I ſhall prove hereafter (in oppoſition to the vulgar opinion) that our ſenſes are not rendered more perfect by uſe: but ſuppoſing it to be true, what would our philoſopher infer from his vague aſſertion againſt the advantage of well organized ſenſes? Without doubt Man may have exerciſed his eyes and ears, yet not be more ingenious than another who has not; he may even poſſibly be leſs ſo: for the mere exerciſe of our ſenſes can never increaſe our knowledge; they muſt have been alſo exerciſed on ſubjects which are not only important, but relative to ſome ſcience.

Were a man to ſpend his whole life in examining grains of ſand, he would not be leſs ignorant, although he might know their different configuration, than when he firſt began; but if, inſtead of this unprofitable and barren occupation, he had paſſed the ſame length of time in examining [167]plants, animalcula, and in forming ſuch obſervations upon natural hiſtory, as have rendered Malpighi, Lewenhoeck and Muſchenbroek ſo famous; do you ſuppoſe he would have profited nothing by this exerciſe? Do you imagine, that his knowledge would neither have been increaſed, nor his underſtanding improved? The leaſt reflection would have diſcovered the futility of theſe objections. However, it was neceſſary to employ ſome time in the refutation of them; as the celebrity of the objector may be of great weight to the generality of readers. Let us conclude, that the better conſtituted the ſenſes are, the more ingenious Man is, caeteris paribus.

Organization characteriſes the MIND.

Men not only differ one from another in the number of their ideas, but likewiſe in the nature of their knowledge. The difference of minds therefore depends not wholly on the multitude of its judgments, but on the manner in which they are formed.

[168]Does a man judge without much reflection, does he form his ideas upon relations which are apparent only? He is then ſuperficial. Does he form his ideas upon true relations? He is a Man of ſound underſtanding. Does he miſ-improve theſe relations? He is in this caſe of an erroneous underſtanding. Does he forge chimerical relations, which have neither reality nor probability? He is a fool. Does he too negligently compare his ſenſations? He is weak. Does he exerciſe his judgment only upon refined ideas? He is a wit *. Does he exerciſe it on ideas difficult to be acquired? He is profound.

He, who has received from Nature the moſt exquiſite, has no advantage over him who has received an inferior organization, unleſs he cultivate his mind. But if animated with the ſame paſſion, they both [169]apply themſelves to ſtudy, their efforts will be attended with very different ſucceſs. Whilſt the former, without difficulty, ſurmounts the greateſt obſtacles, advances with a rapid flight in his progreſs towards truth, and eaſily penetrates the ſecrets of Nature; the attempts of the latter will be vain, he meets obſtructions every moment, and proceeds with tardy ſteps in the vaſt career of ſcience.

I have already aſſigned ſome phyſical cauſes of the difference of minds; but many others far more important remain yet to be diſcovered.

Organization aſſiſtant or an Hindrance to the unfolding of the MENTAL FACULTIES.

It is unknown whether the ſoul, when diſunited from the body, can perceive, think, or remember its ſenſations and ideas or not; but it is certain, that, when once it is united to the body, the unfolding of its faculties depends entirely on the ſtate of the body with which it is yoked. Let us endeavour to diſcover the latent reaſons of this important truth.

[170]Without ſenſations there can be no ideas, as has been already demonſtrated; but if all our ideas are founded on the ſenſations, they likewiſe depend on the underſtanding by which they are formed. The mind cannot form them in the ſame manner in every individual, nor can it form them always in the ſame manner in the ſame perſon.

When the impreſſions of objects are made on the organ, and the ſenſations are received by the ſoul, all the functions of the ſenſes are diſcharged, but not all the functions of the body.

To judge of the relations of objects, we muſt diſtinguiſh theſe objects with care, examine and compare them under their different appearances: this requires attention.

Attention is the parent of all knowledge: attention, by applying the mind to the conſideration of beings, diſcovers to us their different properties: attention, by fixing it upon the different phenomena of Nature, inveſtigates its unknown laws and its ſecret relations, which otherwiſe eſcape us: attention produces, from the [171]various combinations of our obſervations, thoſe ſublime diſcoveries, thoſe admirable inventions, thoſe prodigies of ſcience, thoſe productions of genius, which have been in ſo many various ways beneficial to mankind. Without attention every phenomenon in nature is loſt to us; in vain is the ſoul endued with ſuch noble faculties, in vain does the univerſe offer its vaſt and wonderful volume to our ſight.

Attention is ſtrengthened by being concentrated; it then ſuſpends all the other faculties of the mind, and ſeems to have intire poſſeſſion of the ſoul. On the contrary, it is weakened by being divided: when it has got half way in a geometrical demonſtration, if any ſingular object affect our organs, the mind is inſtantly diſtracted, ſuffers itſelf to be engroſſed by this object, and after it has wandered a while, endeavours in vain to reſume the thread of its former thoughts. Thus every ſenſation foreign to the object preſent in the mind, diverts and deſtroys the attention.

To examine objects, to reflect, to meditate, the mind muſt be perfectly calm; [172]no ſenſation, no foreign ſentiment, muſt then affect the ſoul. The firſt thing therefore neceſſary to the free exerciſe of thought, and to the unfolding of the intellectual faculties, is that the ſoul be united to a body, whoſe vital functions * are performed with eaſe, moderation, and regularity; that is, that the powers which cauſe circulation have a degree of organic elaſticity, proportionate to the volume and conſiſtence of the fluids.

But it is not enough that the ſoul be united to a body in perfect health, and exempt from diſeaſe; for, that the body may not diſtract the ſoul from the objects on which it is intent, the ſenſation which reſults from the action of our organs muſt be imperceptible. Thus the diſpoſition moſt favourable to the reflection, is that ſtate of the machine which conſtitutes ſerenity of temper: that, which cauſes gaiety, allures the mind towards outward objects; that, which cauſes ſadneſs, attracts it within: the one prevents it from examining objects, [173]the other from combining their impreſſions; both diſtract it, and interrupt the ſeries of its thoughts. Beſides, with that diſpoſition which conſtitutes ſerenity, we can contemplate Nature with the greateſt advantage, and diſcern what ſhe really is.

It is only in retirement, and when the paſſions are at reſt, that the ſoul can reſign itſelf to profound meditation: it is only in thoſe tranquil moments, when the ſoul retires within itſelf and is wrapt in ſilence, that we can meditate to advantage.

They who have great ſenſibility, enjoy leaſt of this liberty of mind; being continually expoſed to be acted on by objects, and being ſtrongly affected by their ſlighteſt impreſſions, they are almoſt always engaged by externals. This extreme ſenſibility, I allow, may be in ſome meaſure remedied by ſhunning every kind of noiſe, avoiding the light of day, and retiring to ſilence and ſolitude of the country, or by taking advantage of the ſtillneſs of the night. But theſe precautions are practicable in certain caſes only; yet, though every [174]precaution ſhould be uſed, the ſenſible will ſtill be more obnoxious to diſtraction: for the delicate and ſenſible are ſubject to more wants, more indiſpoſitions, and conſequently to more frequent diſtractions, than thoſe who are robuſt and of ſtrong conſtitutions. Thus almoſt inceſſantly influenced by their various wants, and as conſtantly engaged in the gratification of them, as if unavoidably attached to preſent objects, they eaſily loſe the remembrance of the paſt, together with the power of conſidering and meditating on thoſe objects which preſent themſelves to the mind, or rather they never poſſeſs it. For during the perpetual flux of tumultous ſenſations which inceſſantly attract the attention outwardly, they can neither examine nor meditate upon any ſubject whatever.

It is therefore extremely difficult, if not impoſſible, for a ſoul united to very delicate organs, to employ itſelf in profound meditation, and to enjoy that liberty which is ſo neceſſary to the ſtudy of Nature.

Reflection is a ſtate of the mind which requires a ſufficient degree of ſenſibility to be ſtrongly affected, but not enough to [175]make it be irreſiſtibly attracted by preſent objects. Only the Man whoſe ſoul is united to organs of moderate ſenſibility, can meditate at liberty and ſtudy with ſucceſs.

Organization renders the Underſtanding either juſt, extenſive, delicate, profound; or ſuperficial, confined, erroneous and groſs.

Our intellectual faculties are neither developed nor improved, but in proportion as the mind compares its ſenſations. The more it compares them, the more it diſcovers their relations, and the more numerous are our ideas; the more carefully it examines them, ſo much the more perfect is our knowledge.

I have diſtinguiſhed two powers of the underſtanding, that of perceiving and conſidering objects, and that of pronouncing on their relations. The firſt is the baſis of the ſecond, and neceſſarily precedes it. What then is requiſite to enable the mind to form a ſound judgment of things? An accurate perception of them. It is therefore on the greater or leſs degree of attention we employ in examining [176]objects, or rather on the different aptitude of the mind for attention, combined with the time it is able to ſupport it, that the juſtneſs of our judgments and the character of our ideas depend.

To acquire profound ideas, we muſt for a long time, and without diſtraction, contemplate the ſame objects, conſider their relations, their difference, examine, compare and combine them in many different ſhapes, that we may afterwards conſider them under unobſerved appearances, and diſcover their hidden relations.

I will not however ſay, that every great diſcovery has been made by gradual ſeries of combinations and complicated obſervations. Sometimes the mind overlooks the intermediate ſpace, and perceives its object at a diſtance amidſt ſurrounding darkneſs: but if in this manner it arrive at truth, it muſt nevertheleſs return to obſervation, to experience, and to this gradual ſeries of combinations, to verify theſe new ideas, and connect them to others which have been already acquired. Thus having at once traverſed an immenſe ſpace, it is afterwards obliged to paſs over [177]every intermediate degree which ſeparates the two extremes, returning circularly to the point from whence it at firſt ſet out. Such is the progreſs of the human mind in diſcoveries of every ſort.

Thus a perſon deſirous to acquire new knowledge, or verify that which he has already acquired, can never accompliſh his deſign, but by a long and cloſe examination of the phenomena of nature.

It is therefore only to attention more or leſs ſtrong, more or leſs continued*, that we owe the ſuperficiality or profundity of ideas.

[178]This different aptitude of the mind for attention, and the ſpace of time it is able to ſupport it, abſolutely depend on organization: for the mind becomes fatigued juſt as the body does, and both at the ſame time.

It is unknown whether the ſoul is really fatigued; for our knowledge of things is not ſufficient to demonſtrate whether an immaterial ſubſtance is, or is not, naturally ſuſceptible of laſſitude; but without the leaſt doubt, the ſoul, when once it is united to the body, and during the whole continuance of its union therewith, experiences a ſenſe of fatigue as frequently as the body.

Might I have leave to offer my opinion upon ſo delicate a ſubject as this is, I would declare for the negative, and would ſupport it thus.

Since the ſenſe of laſſitude is common to both ſoul and body when united, it is evident, that the ſoul muſt become fatigued together with the body.

The laſſitude of the mind is partly the laſſitude of the body itſelf*, which is [179]communicated to it by the general organ of feeling, and probably it is no more than this; for ſince the mind, to be intent, requires the fibres to be tenſe, and as the fibres are ever fatigued by their tenſion, it is not to be wondered at that the ſoul ſhould ceaſe to be intent, when the fibres ceaſe to be tenſe, or, which is the ſame, the mind ever appears fatigued when the body is tired, and the body is tired at all times when the mind is fatigued. Beſides, we have no idea of the laſſitude of the ſoul, but by the weakneſs of its thoughts and emotions, and by their ſhort continuance on the ſame ſubject. When the body is tired, that is, when the organs are affected with languor, the functions of the ſoul muſt needs be languid, the ideas ſcarcely diſtinct, and the vivacity of the ſentiments decayed*. This has been already explained.

[180]It is therefore evident to me, that the laſſitude of the ſoul is only laſſitude of the body*, and that in this phenomenon, as in many others, the reality is concealed by the appearance.

But whether it be ſo or not, this is certain, that the mind is fatigued together with the body. This is an obſervation which univerſally prevails, yet no one has hitherto thought proper to deduce the natural conſequences from it.

When the body is fatigued, admitting that the ſoul really fatigues the body by application, let us be ever ſo deſirous to continue our meditation, and make whatever [181]efforts we pleaſe, we cannot long keep the mind fixed on the ſame object, nor fix it there for any time ſtrongly. The ſoul therefore cannot continue its attention, when the fibres have loſt their tenſion.

It is therefore erroneous to ſuppoſe, as many philoſophers have done, that our aptitude for attention ſolely depends on the power of the paſſions. It is true, that the greater intereſt we take in applying ourſelves to any particular ſtudy, the longer we can ſupport attention; paſſion can then employ the whole ſtrength of the body, but nothing more: hence let the paſſion be ever ſo violent, attention is always proportionate to the elaſticity and force of the fibres.

Beſides, forced attention is more prejudicial than favourable to our ſtudy. In the firſt place, it cannot be very ſtrong, from the painful ſenſation which ever accompanies it: its duration likewiſe is very ſhort; for when the organs are once wearied, they act but with little force; beſides, the body is exhauſted by thoſe violent efforts, and Man loſes by its diſordered ſtate all the time which he endeavours to [182]gain by this prolongation of attention, and ſometimes even more.

Such are the phyſical cauſes of many diverſities of mind; cauſes which have hitherto been unnoticed by philoſophers, although they ſo naturally ariſe on examining the phenomena I have now undertaken to explain. And here let us repeat our firſt principle, in order to a combination of its effects, and that we may deduce its proper conſequences.

Attention is ever proportionate to the organic elaſticity and force of the fibres. To produce profoundideas, the mind therefore muſt be united to organs compoſed of fibres which are both ſtrong and elaſtic; the mind, if united to in-elaſtic and weak organs, is trifling and ſupercifial in its operations. Thus a Man, whoſe conſtitution is delicate and ſenſible, is not capable of profound diſquiſitions: too weak to ſuſtain long meditation, and too ſenſible to lead a contemplative life, he beholds Nature without attending to particular parts, inceſſantly flies from object to object, glances upon them, and dips not beneath the ſurface.

[183]However, I do not pretend to ſay, that every man of ſtrong and vigorous conſtitution is thus profound; for, beſides this phyſical diſpoſition, his talents muſt be cultivated; all I would be underſtood to ſay is, that only a man of ſuch a conſtitution of bodily organs can arrive at this ſtate; others may, indeed, have a great number of juſt and ſolid ideas, but never thoſe which are profound and well connected. That ſublime knowledge, which is derived from the conſtant ſtudy of Nature, is what they are unable to acquire of themſelves; on the contrary, they muſt be initiated in it by others: their minds may be congenial with the minds of Pope and Voltaire, but will never riſe to the dignity of Newton's or de Monteſquieu's; they may be called men of wit and learning, but never men of depth.

To be juſt, our ideas muſt be diſtinct; but theſe qualities are not always united. To conceive diſtinctly, it is ſufficient that our ſenſations be well expreſſed, and that the mind be exact in pronouncing on their apparent relations; but to conceive juſtly, there is required a perfect knowledge of [184]every relation neceſſary to form a ſolid judgment. Thus ideas may be diſtinct, yet not be juſt.

We may therefore from this cauſe, reaſon juſtly upon one article and falſely upon another; but in every caſe, where to diſcover the true relations of beings, it is requiſite that we attentively examine them; in every caſe where the knowledge of things is the reſult of a great number of complicated combinations; in every caſe where truth is difficultly obtained, and where there is a neceſſity of ſeeing much, if we deſire to ſee well, the juſtneſs of our judgments depends on the capacity of the mind, and on its profoundneſs, or rather, juſtneſs and profoundneſs require the ſame degree of attention of the ſoul, and the ſame organic diſpoſition of the body. With feeble and delicate organs, therefore, Man is incapable of this juſtneſs of judgment: too weak to conſider objects under their various appearances ſucceſſively, and too feeble to purſue the connexion of things, and to collect a multiplicity of ideas in the ſame point; he ſuffers many things to eſcape, from an inability to retain them, [185]and examines haſtily thoſe which remain: thus paſſing ſlightly over many objects, and judging of the whole by his imperfect knowledge of a part, he forms deductions neceſſarily falſe and inconcluſive.

Ideas are particular or general relatively to their object. The ſame diſpoſition of organs which is neceſſary to the acquiſition of profound ideas, is likewiſe neceſſary to the acquiſition of thoſe which are univerſal: for the univerſality of ideas reſults from the multitude of relations, which the underſtanding perceives, unites and collects into one and the ſame point of view. The faculty of comprehending the ſyſtem of Nature is therefore given only to thoſe, whoſe fibres are endued with force and great organic elaſticity.

Another effect of this organization of the body, which we could never have ſuſpected and ſcarcely believe, although it is demonſtrated, is, that it is abſolutely neceſſary to delicacy of ſenſations and ideas.

It is an opinion univerſally received by philoſophers, that the ſenſes are perfected by uſe, and that they are improved by ſeeing, feeling, taſting, &c. juſt as the mind is improved by reaſoning.

[186] ‘A painter, ſays one, ſees, at firſt ſight, the defects of a drawing, and the different tints in a picture, although inviſible to other eyes.’

‘A ſhepherd, accuſtomed to number his flock, knows them from thoſe of another, by marks which none but himſelf can diſcover.’

‘A man of a nice palate in liquors, diſtinguiſhes in the flavours of wines differences which are unnoticed by others.’

‘The ear of the muſician who leads the orcheſtra is ſenſible of the leaſt diſſonance.’

‘And the words of a foreign language appear to one unaccuſtomed thereto, but a confuſion of articulate ſounds, which become afterwards diſtinct, by hearing them frequently repeated?’

If we maturely conſider theſe phenomena, we ſhall find this pretended improvement of the ſenſes*, which is attributed [187]to exerciſe, to be very erroneous; for exerciſe neither changes the texture of our organs, nor adds to their delicacy. It is true that, by exerciſing the ſenſes, a greater quantity of nervous fluid is determined into their organs, whereby their ſenſibility is increaſed: but he, who endeavours to view minute objects for the firſt time, has the organ of ſight equally tenſe with him who is accuſtomed to diſtinguiſh them at the firſt glance, although he can neither ſee nor remark any thing. It is not therefore to the organ but to the ſoul which receives the ſenſation, that we are to attribute the cauſe of this phenomenon.

This pretended delicacy of the ſenſes ariſes only from the attention which the mind gives to the ſmalleſt impreſſions of objects affecting it; for whether we exerciſe our organs or not, the delicacy of the ſenſes continues the ſame. But the [188]mind, being attentive to the ſenſations it receives, gradually becomes able to diſcern the ſmalleſt differences, which are too weak to be perceived by a ſingle effort of the attention. Beſides, it is not in the organs of ſenſe that the ſoul perceives, but in itſelf; there the proſpect of nature exiſts. We muſt therefore look on ſenſibility as a tablet, upon which are repreſented the images of the objects which affect us, and wherein the underſtanding perceives them. As theſe repreſentations have parts of aſtronger or weaker colouring, more or leſs luminous, more or leſs diſtinct: ſo ſome of theſe* more ſtrongly engage the mind than others; thoſe which are weakly coloured, and are the repreſentations of very minute objects, are almoſt imperceptible; ſuch are not perceived at firſt ſight, but muſt be ſought for with attention before they are found. If a painter perceive at the firſt glance the defects of a painting; if a ſhepherd eaſily diſtinguiſh his ſheep; this proceeds from no other cauſe, than that both are accuſtomed to [189]turn their attention to theſe objects more frequently than to any other. Thus a very great number of delicate ſenſations, received by a ſoul united to ſtrong and elaſtic organs, are loſt when united to organs deſtitute both of ſtrength and vigour.

What I have ſaid of the ſenſations is true in regard to ideas likewiſe; for it is only by long continued attention that we can make thoſe delicate obſervations, and acquire thoſe refined ideas which eſcape the generality of men.

Thus the difference of the force and elaſticity of our fibres is a new ſource of the diverſity of minds.

Hitherto we have ſeen in what manner the corporeal influences the ſpiritual part, how the conſtitution of the body forms the character of the mind; but we have not yet concluded: let us make further reſearches into this ſubject, and endeavour to diſcover truths hitherto enveloped with extreme darkneſs.

The more we ſtudy the ſoul, the more we trace its progreſs in the exerciſe of its faculties, and the more we examine its operations; the more ſhall be forced [190]to acknowledge the powerful influence of the corporeal on the intellectual part in Man.

Organization renders MAN rational or inſane.

The mind undoubtedly poſſeſſes the faculty of thinking; and although all men were equally endowed therewith, organization would not the leſs regulate the exerciſe of this faculty: for thinking, when our thoughts are in regular ſucceſſion, requires tenſion of the fibres; the mind never can proceed alone, but requires the concurrence of the organs to form a ſound judgment of things, or to reflect. Thus depending on the ſenſes for its unfolding, on the organic elaſticity and force of the fibres for the character of its ideas; it likewiſe depends on the ſame organic elaſticity of theſe organs, for the order of its thoughts and the mode of their ſuccceſſion; this laſt dependency of the ſoul on the body is the cauſe of the principal diverſities in minds.

Regular thought ever requires a certain aegree of tenſion of the fibres; the mind can [191]never proceed alone, but needs the concurrence of our organs to form a ſound judgment of things, or to reflect.

This principle, the importance whereof all who think juſtly muſt needs feel, now firſt preſents itſelf; beſides, it is ſo cloſely connected with the ſubject, that it requires to be fully explained, and to be eſtabliſhed on the moſt demonſtrative proofs. I therefore proceed to conſider Nature in a manner never attempted before.

The mind is endued with the faculty of judging, but judges not always in the ſame manner; at one time its thoughts are connected with each other; at another they are without either continuance or connection; ſometimes they ſucceed each other with rapidity, and ſometimes the reverſe.

Philoſophers have attributed theſe phenomena to the ſoul, never ſuppoſing, what now appears a certain truth, that they wholly depend on the body. The mind judges not in any particular manner, but by means of ſome particular relations between it and the diſpoſition of our organs; this diſpoſition determines the character of our thoughts.

[192]Although ideas ariſe without our conſent, and ſometimes in oppoſition thereto, the mind always requires the aſſiſtance of the body to diſpoſe them in ſucceſſion, and determine them to ſome particular end.

When the body is exhauſted with fatigue, when the head inclines forward on the breaſt, when the eyes are heavy and yield to the pleaſing power of ſleep, the blood ſteals through the veins with a gentle current, the ſenſations grow weaker by degrees, the ſenſes loſe their vivacity, and the mind traces out faint images only, reſembling the almoſt imperceptible contours drawn by a very light hand.

In ſleep, all our faculties are in action, although the imagination appears to be the only acting power; but the ſenſations follow, and the thoughts ſucceed each other with rapidity and confuſion, and we neither compare nor are conſcious of them: the mind, at that time, in appearance diſengaged from matter, rambles after different objects, and from their irregular aſſemblage, forms thoſe empty images which compoſe our nocturnal illuſions. [193]On the contrary, in inflammatory fevers, when the blood rapidly circulates in the veſſels, the ſenſations and ideas are ſtrongly marked; nevertheleſs they ſucceed each other in confuſion, whilſt the ſoul neither compares nor is conſcious of them. But with perſons both healthy and awake, the ſenſations have a moderate degree of force, the ideas are diſtinct, the ſoul compares them, and diſpoſes them in a regular and orderly ſucceſſion.

If we maturely conſider theſe phenomena, we ſhall diſcover their cauſe to conſiſt in the different tone of the fibres, whilſt aſleep or awake, in a healthy or diſeaſed ſtate of the body. In ſleep, this tone is too feeble to promote the juſtneſs of our thoughts, and the regularity of their ſucceſſion; in an inflammatory fever, the tone is, on the contrary, too ſtrong: a regular ſucceſſion of thoughts, therefore, always requires a certain degree of tenſion, or rather a moderate degree of organic elaſticity.

As theſe ideas are too ſingular, theſe principles too new, to be received without farther confirmation, I ſhall proceed to [194]give the cleareſt evidence of their truth. Man has two modes of exiſtence, ſleeping and waking; in this latter every ſpring of the machine is in action; in the former, thoſe only which are allotted for the continuation of the vital functions.

Sleep is eſſential to Man; it is the neceſſary conſequence of his conſtitution, and of the laws of the animal oeconomy: by theſe laws he paſſes from a ſleeping to a waking ſtate; by theſe laws likewiſe the time of waking neceſſarily ſucceeds that of repoſe, and both are independant of every external cauſe. For Man can ſubſiſt for a determinate ſpace only, in either of theſe ſtates: by continual watching, the inceſſant motion of the fibres would deſtroy their organic elaſticity, and prevent their future reparation; ſo by continual ſleeping, though the fibres are not fatigued, the nervous fluid would be gradually exhauſted by the action of the organs of life, and would never be repaired.

The continuance of either of theſe two modes of exiſtence, would therefore neceſſarily be attended with a total ceſſation of vital motion.

[195]At the approach of ſleep, the muſcles relax, the neck ſeems unable to ſupport the head, the arms yield to their own weight, the ſenſes become inactive, the whole body ſinks into repoſe, and the blood circulates with a ſlow and gentle pace. By attending to the diſpoſition of the organs of a man aſleep, and to the phenomena accompanying it, we diſcover, that this ſtate is produced by the defect of the organical elaſticity of the fibres. This relaxation is even ſenſible to the touch, the ſkin of one aſleep being more moiſt, and the fibres ſofter than when awake. But were this relaxation imperceptible by the ſenſes, the ſimple examination of the cauſes of ſleep will be ſufficient to confirm the truth of the principle here eſtabliſhed.

It is an inconteſtible fact, that every thing which impairs the organic elaſticity of the fibres, occaſions ſleep; and that every thing which increaſes this elaſticity prevents it. The loſs of nervous fluid in coition is immediately followed by a ſlight drowſineſs: after the conflicts of love, the vivacity of our motions is diminiſhed, our deſires are extinct, and we gradually ſink into repoſe.

[196]The loſs of the ſame fluid by labour produces the ſame effect.

Though this loſs of the nervous fluid be a principal cauſe of ſleep, it is not the only one; let us repair it ever ſo much by freſh ſupplies of aliments, ſleep will not be the leſs neceſſary; this may prevent it for a ſhort time, but afterwards ſuffers it to return with new force. Thus the loſs of nervous fluid is not alone productive of it; ſince, not being exhauſted of this fluid, Man ſleeps not the leſs; ſleep therefore is occaſioned by a diſpoſition peculiar to the ſolids; and this diſpoſition is no other than the laſſitude of the organs, produced by the tenſion of the fibres when awake, or by the reiterated extenſion and contraction of the muſcles in motion.

Sleep therefore is cauſed by the diminution of the organic elaſticity of the ſolids, and by the diminution of their primitive elaſticity; for it is certain, that an elaſtic body loſes its primitive elaſticity by frequent contraction. The fibres, after extreme tenſion, relax, and their organic elaſticity being impaired, the circulation [197]is ſlowly performed, the ſecretion of the nervous fluid is obſtructed, as likewiſe its influx into the organs of ſenſe and motion; whence reſult a diminution of ſenſibility, a weakneſs, and a general languor of the ſenſations, deſires and ideas*.

Although all communication between the ſoul and the body appears interrupted during ſleep, theſe two ſubſtances however have a conſtant relation one to the other. The ſenſes are ever open to the action of external objects, and their ſlighteſt impreſſions are conveyed to the ſoul; but too weak to engage it, they only glance thereon without leaving any veſtige behind; ſtrong ſenſations only can awaken and engage it. Theſe are phenomena peculiar to ſleep, and proper to confirm what has been already ſaid concerning its cauſes.

Theſe truths however are ſupported by other phenomena. The fibres of perſons greatly diſpoſed to ſleep are feeble, and it is by ſleep that our exiſtence commences. The infant, whoſe fibres are endued but [198]with a very ſmall degree of organic elaſticity, ſleeps continually; children, whoſe fibres are very weak, ſleep more than they wake; in proportion as they advance in years, that is, in proportion as their fibres acquire ſtrength and elaſticity, they endure more eaſily the want of repoſe; women, leſs ſtrong and leſs vigorous than men, have likewiſe more occaſion for ſleep. Phlegmatic men*, whoſe fibres have but a ſmall degree of organic elaſticity, conſume the half of life in that ſtate, and people, when recovering from any diſeaſe, ſleep almoſt continually.

Another cauſe is, that every thing which impairs the force of the circulation by decreaſing the elaſticity of the fibres, as heat, emollient liquors, and whatever benumbs the ſolids, as ſulphureous vapours, ſpirituous liquors and opium, ever produces ſleep.

In ſubjects which have died of a lethargy, or of any ſleepy diſeaſe, we find the head diſordered, and the other parts ſound.

[199]Bonet*, who has collected a vaſt number of obſervations of this kind, ‘found a great quantity of extravaſated ſeroſities in the brain of one who had died of a lethargy, ſo that the cortical ſubſtance and the meninges were covered therewith. In another ſubject, that had never been attacked but once with any ſleepy affection, the internal part of the cerebrum was full of extravaſated ſeroſities. In others, he found ſcirruſes and tumours in the cortical part of this viſcus. Finally, in ſome that had been affected with an habitual lethargy, the ſubſtance of the brain was found dry, and the veſſels of the pia mater extremely diſtended with thick and grumous blood.’

Theſe obſervations prove, that this continual numbneſs is cauſed by the diminution, or even by the total ſuppreſſion of the influx of the nervous fluid into the organs of motion and ſenſe; a natural effect of its vicious ſecretion, during the diſtenſion of the cortical ſubſtance of the [200]brain, of the defect of the oſcillatory motion of the diſtended meninges, of the compreſſion of the medullary ſubſtance by the extravaſated ſeroſities, or the defect of this fluid as in a ſiccity of the brain. Beſides it is well known, that the ſimple preſſure of this viſcus, after the removal of the cranium, produces ſleep, by preventing the influx of the nervous fluid into the origin of the nerves, and conſequently by weakening the organic elaſticity of the fibres, as the preceding cauſes*. But the moſt concluſive reaſon is, that ſleep cannot take place whilſt the body is violently agitated, either by a fever, or by any violent paſſion, equally capable of producing a tenſion of the fibres.

If the relaxation of the fibres be the cauſe of ſleep, the re-eſtabliſhment of their organic elaſticity by repoſe muſt be the cauſe of waking. This cauſe, which [201]is neceſſarily deduced from the nature of things, I ſhall demonſtrate by its phenomena.

On the concluſion of undiſturbed ſleep, the fibres inſenſibly become more tenſe, the complexion more lively, the circulation more quick, the impreſſions of objects on the ſenſes more ſtrong, and the ſoul again communicates with external objects. When we have once fallen into a deep ſleep, we are not awakened from it but by very lively ſenſations; but when the uſual ſpace of time allotted for reſt is nearly expired, the leaſt noiſe awakes us, and ever more eaſily, the nearer we are to the hour of awaking: ſo that the firſt degree of ſleep is ſcarcely to be diſtinguiſhed from waking, and its laſt degree is confounded therewith. Sleep, therefore, comes on and goes off by inſenſible degrees; ſimilar, in this reſpect, to the obſcurity of night, which gradually increaſes till it arrives at midnight darkneſs, and afterwards decreaſes by the ſame gradation. Let us therefore conclude, that the fibres poſſeſs a greater degree of organic elaſticity in Man when awake than when aſleep. [202]It is then obvious, that whilſt the fibres are relaxed, there is no regular ſeries of thoughts; the mind paſſes without any regularity over the ſenſations it has received, its thoughts ſucceed each other in confuſion; and, if at any time they form a regular ſeries, it is only whilſt the fibres are tenſe. In the agitations of a painful dream, the thoughts are ſomewhat regular; but in the mean time, Man is greatly diſturbed, and, when he afterwards awakes, finds himſelf oppreſſed with fatigue, and wet with ſweat and tears.

Thus it is only by the relaxation of the organic elaſticity of our fibres, that ſleep interrupts the ſucceſſion of our ideas; the order of our thoughts therefore depends on the ſtate of the body.

I imagine, the proofs already offered in ſupport of this will be found ſatisfactorily concluſive; but that no proof may be wanting, and that the principle may be incontrovertibly eſtabliſhed, let us examine the ſtate of the body relatively to the ſucceſſion of the ideas in madmen, thoſe living examples of the vagaries, or, if you will, of the rovings of this diſtempered ſtate of human reaſon.

[203]There are many ſpecies of madneſs, in every one of which the mind forms wrong judgments of things. In each ſpecies of madneſs, ſenſations and ideas of every kind are produced, but have neither order nor connexion; and in this incoherent ſucceſſion, in this chaos of ſenſations and thoughts, the will acts not, but lets the images of things ſucceed each other in diſorder. Attention not being ſufficiently ſtrong, the ſoul is not conſcious of its thoughts; ſo that illuſion is often admitted amongſt, and intimately connected with them.

This, however, may be obſerved with reſpect to the ſeveral ſpecies of madneſs; that ſtate of the ſoul, which is accidental in the one, is natural and conſtant in the other ſorts: but all equally reſult from an inability to attend; this inability I ſhall demonſtrate to be wholly dependent on the conſtitution of the body.

Phyſiologiſts have ſought in dead animals the cauſes of this diſordered ſtate of the ſoul in living animals, as if it proceeded from the unnatural conformation of ſome organ, which muſt neceſſarily [204]always exiſt, never dreaming that it might be occaſioned by ſome change in the organic elaſticity of the ſolids, the only principle by which theſe phenomena can be explained. A ſtriking example of the ill-ſucceſs of moſt phyſiological enquiries, and a proof that our efforts to diſcover truth ſerve often to miſlead us, and to remove us to a great diſtance from it!

By comparing the ſtate of the body of one that died in perfect enjoyment of reaſon, with that of one who died in a ſtate of madneſs, we ſhall undoubtedly diſcover many conſiderable differences; ſuch as the diſtenſion of the veſſels of the meninges; the inflammation of theſe membranes; the extravaſation of lymph into the ſinuſes of the brain; the ſiccity of this viſcus, and of the origin of the nerves; appearances commonly ſeen in the bodies of the latter, but never in thoſe of the former. This difference, which is here ſuppoſed to be the cauſe, is only the effect. Conſidered as the effect, it may conduct us to the knowledge of the true principle; but in our enquiries we ſhall proceed with greater ſucceſs, by comparing [205]the ſtate of the ſolids of a man in perfect reaſon, with that of the ſolids of one who has loſt it.

The different ſpecies of madneſs may be reduced to two; which are to be diſtinguiſhed not by thoſe vagaries of reaſon which are common to both, but by the character of the thoughts; they are deſigned under two general denominations; furious madneſs, when the thoughts are daring, and the emotions of the ſoul vehement; inſanity or idiotiſm, when the emotions of the ſoul and the thoughts are weakly expreſſed.

There is a rigidity of the nervous ſyſtem, when the rovings of the ſoul are attended with fury, as in frenzy, inflammatory fevers, drunkenneſs, and the hyſteric affection; there is a debilitation thereof, when the ſame rovings are indicated in a tranquil and languid manner, as in inſanity, dotage, and in that melancholy madneſs, which is occaſioned by the uſe of narcotics. Every one may be convinced of this, by ſimply inſpecting a body in theſe different ſtates, and by examining the phenomena.

[206]With regard to that affection of the mind which is produced by drunkenneſs, it is obvious, that ſpirituous liquors are peculiarly adapted to produce a rigidity in the fibres.

The ſaline particles with which theſe liquors are impregnated, and the ſpirits with which they abound, when received into the ſtomach, firſt irritate its membranes, and, being conveyed into the inteſtines, irritate their coats: this irritation is immediately followed by a ſpaſm of theſe organs, propagated throughout the body, by the correſpondence of the nervous ſyſtem which affects every part, but more eſpecially the meninges.

This violent tenſion of the meninges is preſently after produced in a more direct manner: the ſalts and the ſpirits gradually paſs into the fluids, and, being conveyed to the brain with the blood, increaſe the tenſion of its membranes, and the circulation is rendered more impetuous. This violent ſpaſm, at intervals, compreſſes the cavity of the nerves, and interrupts, in whole or in part, the perflux of their fluid: [207]hence proceed thoſe irregular and convulſive motions of the muſcles, that ſtaggering and total loſs of ſenſe and motion, obſerved in perſons who have died in a ſtate of inebriation. By comparing the tone of the ſolids of a drunkard, with that of the ſolids of a temperate perſon, we find the fibres moderately tenſe in the latter, and extremely ſo in the former. In drunkenneſs, the countenance appears inflamed, the eyes red and fiery, the veſſels of the face diſtended, the limbs at firſt are flexible, afterwards they are ſtiff and convulſed; the regularity of muſcular motion is deſtroyed, the body is unſtable, the ſenſes are dull, the ſight is troubled, and the objects looked upon ſeem to waver. Here, if we may judge by the ſenſes, is an extreme tenſion of the fibres, which very nearly approaches to rigidity, and this rigidity is proved on the teſtimony of facts.

If this ſpaſm be ſo viſible in the ſtrong and groſs organs, what muſt it be in the fibres of the meninges, which are incomparably more delicate and more ſenſible!

The effects, which are produced in the ſolids in drunkenneſs, by the irritating [208]and cauſtic particles of the liquors which have been drunk, are produced in fevers in a much higher degree*. In the hyſteric paſſion, the ſpaſm of the nervous ſyſtem is ever conſiderably greater than in fevers; but this ſpaſm ariſes not inſtantaneouſly: at firſt, a numbneſs is felt about the hips and loins, the abdomen and ſtomach are diſtended, a painful oppreſſion is felt at the breaſt, anxieties at the heart, a general numbneſs and ſhivering of the whole body, violent pain is felt in the head, a tenſion in the forehead and temples, the ſight is troubled, involuntary tears flow, reſpiration is difficult, the navel is drawn inwards, the heart palpitates, the pulſe is hard and unequal, the extremities become cold, the oeſophagus is cloſed, reſpiration interrupted, the voice dies away, the mouth is convulſed, the arms and hands are violently contracted, the body is contorted, and every limb agitated with convulſive motions.

[209]Finally, if we carefully examine the body of a madman, we ſhall find the fibres to be tenſe, the pulſe extremely hard and unequal, the eyes fiery, as in rage, and the body affected with convulſive motions, more or leſs ſtrong, according to the force of the frenzy, but leſs apparent than in the diſeaſes mentioned above; nor is their fury ſo extreme. This extraordinary vigour, theſe impetuous motions, theſe terrible convulſions which accompany drunkenneſs, the hyſteric paſſion, frenzy, and inflammatory fevers, are evidently the effects of the violent influx of the nervous fluid into the muſcles, occaſioned by the violent and irregular contraction of the irritated meninges, That there is a ſpaſm, a rigidity in every caſe of this kind, is obvious from the attendant ſymptoms, and from the ſtate of the organs of ſubjects which have not ſurvived this diſorder.

In the diſſection of hyſteric women, we almoſt always find every part of the body unaffected, the organs of generation [210]excepted*: ‘In ſome the teſtes have been found diſtended with a thick and yellowiſh liquor, of a very offenſive ſmell; in others the teſtes, ſpermatic veſſels, and veſſels of the uterus, were diſtended with a whitiſh lymph, viſcous and of a very pungent ſmell; in others, were found polypous excreſcences adjoining to the uterus; the uterus itſelf has been obſerved nearly filled with a fluid, in colour as if tinged with ſaffron and corrupted; ſometimes the membranes have been inflamed and diſtended with grumous and thick blood.’

From the ſymptoms accompanying this diſeaſe, it is evident, that the ſpaſm of the nervous ſyſtem, occaſioning the diſorder of the functions of the body, begins at the uterus, which is irritated by the corrupted liquor contained in the ſpermatic veſſels, and is afterwards gradually propagated by the nerves to the other parts, [211]even to the membranes of the brain, where it ſometimes leaves viſible marks of irritation.

‘In ſubjects which have died of inflammatory fevers or of madneſs, many ramifications of the meninges have been found diſtended, and theſe membranes themſelves inflamed*; in others have been diſcovered many ſanious ſeroſities in the ventricles of the brain, many veſicles, or rather varices full of ſanious lymph, and the plexus choroides inflamed: in others the veſſels of the meninges were livid and full of thick blood, many ſeroſities were found in the ventricles of the brain, and a livid polypous concretion in the ſinus falci-formis; the other parts of the body were ſound, the brain alone being affected.’ This dilatation of the blood veſſels, theſe varices, theſe diſtenſions, theſe extravaſations of ſanious ſeroſities, and inflammations of the membranes of the brain, are evidently the effects of violent, irregular, [212]and obſtructed circulation, occaſioned by the ſpaſm of the nervous ſyſtem, and of the ſolids in general. For when a part is affected with a ſpaſm, the veſſels of which it is compoſed are violently contracted; and as the coats of the arteries are more ſtrong than thoſe of the veins, ſo much the more they reſiſt their contraction; the blood continues to flow on to that part with eaſe, but in its return is obſtructed; whereby it accumulates in theſe veſſels, and exceſſively diſtends them: hence theſe inflammations, diſtenſions and varices. When the diſtenſion is extreme, the veſſels permit their contained fluid to permeate their coats: hence thoſe extravaſations of the lymph, blood, and thoſe polypous excreſcences which proceed therefrom. Finally, if we obſerve that cauſtic acrids, as the hyoſciamum, ſolanum verum, and generally every thing that irritates the nerves and renders them rigid, either taken internally or applied outwardly, produce the moſt terrible delirium and madneſs; whilſt lenients and antiſpaſmodic medicines reſtore reaſon, we ſhall be convinced, that this perturbed ſtate of the [213]mind is wholly produced by the ſpaſm of the nervous ſyſtem, but more eſpecially by that of the membranes of the brain. Hence it is evident, that furious madneſs proceeds from a rigidity of the fibres; I ſhall now ſhew that inſanity or idiotiſm is occaſioned by their relaxation.

Inſanity often ſucceeds madneſs, and that inſtantaneouſly; this phenomenon is very natural, as the violent tenſion of the fibres muſt be followed by their relaxation: when this debilitation is conſiderable, and the organic elaſticity of the fibres is ſo greatly impaired, that it requires ſome conſiderable time before it can be reſtored, the mind recovers not the tone adapted for reaſon; it only changes the ſpecies of its folly. This is more particularly obſerved in inflammatory fevers, where furious madneſs opens the diſeaſe, and idiotiſm concludes it. Whilſt the nerves are convulſed, and the circulation is vehement, Man acts with violence, his ideas are confuſed, he loſes all knowledge, and utters, with a furious aſpect, incoherent expreſſions: but when the morbid humours have taken another courſe, when the black [214]poiſon which occaſions his diſeaſe is diſcharged from his veſſels; weakened by the violence his tranſports, he remains a long time deſtitute of ſtrength, deprived of reaſon, inſenſible either of the evil or danger of his condition, and is reduced to a ſtate of infancy, which is of ſo much the longer duration, andthe debilitation of the elaſticity of his fibres is more extreme; for in theſe caſes the effect is ever equal to the cauſe.

To the foregoing may be added the analogy between the diſpoſition of the ſoul and body during ſleep, and the diſpoſition of theſe two ſubſtances during inſanity. For this ſtate of the ſoul, whilſt Man is awake, perfectly correſponds to that whilſt Man is aſleep; the ſucceſſion of ſenſations is the ſame; the exerciſe of thinking, and the action of the organs are the ſame likewiſe; in both, the fibres are relaxed, and the circulation languid: whence it appears, that theſe two ſtates have ſimilar cauſes.

This kind of inſanity is oftentimes produced by exceſſive ſtudy, by violent paſſions, by a conſiderable loſs of ſemen, [215]and by every thing which debilitates the organic elaſticity of the fibres. This is confirmed by comparative anatomy: for the ſtate of dotage, that is, when the ſenſations and ideas are combined without order, is preciſely the ſame as when the body is feeble, the ſtrength is exhauſted, and the organs are inelaſtic. It is therefore obvious, that this alienation of mind is the effect of the extreme impairing of the organic elaſticity of our ſolids

Furious madneſs proceeds from the rigidity of the fibres; idiotiſm or inſanity from their relaxation; and the ſlate adapted for reaſon from their moderate elaſticity: ſuch are the ſecret cauſes of the order which obtains in our thoughts. Hence it appears, that a greater or leſs degree of tenſion of the fibres can make a man either rational or inſane. Reaſon and madneſs muſt therefore depend on the mechaniſm of the body, and not in the leaſt on the ſoul, as philoſophers have falſely ſuppoſed.

Having contemplated theſe rovings of the ſoul, and diſcovered their cauſes in the different tones of the fibres, let us proceed to aſſign the reaſon of theſe phenomena.

[216]A regular ſeries of thoughts ever requires, in order to its formation, that the mind be intent on the object of its judgments; this intenſeneſs of the mind is ever accompanied by that of the body. During meditation, the pulſe beats more ſtrongly than when we do not meditate, and ſo much the more ſtrongly, as the ſoul is the more deeply engaged in meditation. Thus in cataleptics, whilſt the ſoul is involved in the moſt profound reflections, the blood circulates with greater freedom and force, the complexion becomes more lively, reſpiration more free, and every function of the body is more perfectly performed. During meditation the whole body is violently tenſe, but particularly the plexus nervoſi, and the membranes of the brain.

Too great or too long application increaſes this tenſion, even ſo far as to excite a ſtupor in the head, and kindle up a fever in the veins: ſtudious perſons frequently experience this, I myſelf have, many times.

The ſoul, during meditation, not only affects the body with a degree of tenſion, but [217]without its concurrence cannot operate alone. In chronic diſeaſes, during a ſtate of convaleſcence, and after a conſiderable loſs of ſemen, we can neither reflect nor meditate, whatever efforts we make; we think very little, and our ideas are vague and unconnected. Even immediately after profound meditation, the mind being fatigued, indulges itſelf in roving, although the will oppoſe; we indeed continue to think, but our thoughts are altogether irregular; we remain awake, but experience the effects of ſleep; imagination traces the ſame airy ſemblances, the ſame fugitive ſhades as during ſleep.

No regular ſeries of thoughts can be formed without a tenſion of the fibres: this tenſion has fixed bounds, determined limits, beyond which the ſucceſſion of our ideas cannot proceed. When the fibres are too tenſe, as in drunkenneſs, in fevers, and in violent head aches, let us ever ſo much attempt to reflect, all our efforts are vain, the ſoul is either in a delirium or in a ſtupor. It has been proved, that in regular thought the underſtanding* is ſubject [218]to the will; that this exerciſe of reaſon requires a certain tone of the ſolids; and that the tone of the ſolids neceſſary to reaſon has a certain extent: this tone, therefore, muſt be conſtantly exiſtent in Man, whilſt his organs are obedient to the will; but is not found either in a ſtate of rigidity or relaxation, two ſtates of the fibres which have this in common, that they both equally free the body from ſubjection to the will.

If we notice the power which certain aliments, fruits, and liquors have on the body, we ſhall be convinced that it is ſuperior, or at leaſt equal to that of the ſoul over the material ſubſtance to which it is united. Again, if we compare the empire of the different faculties of the ſoul over the body, we ſhall be convinced*, that the power of ſenſibility is much greater than that of the will, and incomparably more ſo than that of the underſtanding or imagination. That of ſenſibility and imagination is univerſal; that is, it influences both the muſcular fibres and their fibrillae, the organs of ſenſe and [219]motion; whilſt that of the will is reſtrained to the latter of theſe only. But none of theſe faculties has any power over the body, but by the nervous fluid; when this is deficient, or when it has loſt its energy, or even when the elaſticity of the fibres is impaired, it is obvious, that the power of the will is at an end. Even when this fluid is violently impelled into the muſcular fibres, either by ſenſibilty or by ſome other cauſe, with greater impetuoſity than the will can impel it; it is evident, that the rigidity is not removed, but confirmed thereby, if it proceed from a violent influx of the nervous fluid into the fibres.

Hence the reaſon why the violent paſſions, as rage, fear, terror, affect us with a kind of momentary madneſs; why the efforts we make to reflect, when fatigued by meditation, only ſerve to increaſe our inability to think; in a word, why the rigidity and total relaxation of the ſolids deprive the ſoul of the free exerciſe of its faculties, and are the cauſes of madneſs, the degree and force whereof is proportioned to that of their principle.

[220]Let us therefore conclude, that as the mind cannot act alone, it ever requires the concurrence of the corporeal organs to reflect and meditate, and that the unfolding of its faculties entirely depends upon organzation.

I have now only to offer a few obſervations on the ſubſequent phenomena, to confirm what has been ſaid on the ſame ſubject elſewhere*. Certain hypochondriacs ſee viſions at mid-day, and with their eyes open: ſome fancy they behold a continued ſeries of phantoms and hideous ſpectres, rapidly ſucceeding each other; others, a ſeries of agreeable objects, flitting ſhades, female forms, magnificent ſcenes, which offer themſelves in ſucceſſion, and are ſeen like objects really exiſting; ſo that the deception of theſe viſionary repreſentations is ſo ſtrong, that they believe them to be realities.

When ſpeaking of the colourings which the ſentiments of the ſoul communicate to objects, and of the illuſions of the paſſions [221]analogous to the facts related above, I obſerved, that phyſiologiſts had attributed theſe phenomena to the nervous fluid; and that, to account for it, they had imagined, ‘that this fluid, which is naturally ſubject to the empire of the ſoul, becomes its ſuperior in theſe affections; that in the organ of ſight particularly, it aſſumes every ſucceſſive modification repreſentative of objects, which had before affected it.’ I demonſtrated, that phyſiologiſts improperly confound the operations of the ſenſes with thoſe of the mind; I likewiſe proved this phenomenon to be very ſimple, and only myſterious from our miſapprehenſion of it. I obſerve now, as I did then, that theſe viſions of hypochondriacs are only ſenſations renewed from the memory, the empty phantoms of a ſoul violently agitated, wholly engroſſed and miſled by its pleaſures or its pains, and unable to return within itſelf to examine objects.

I have already proved, that the ſoul, when ſtrongly affected by any object, is blind to every other, it being no longer able to attend thereto; I ſhall now offer a phyſical reaſon of this phenomenon.

[222]It is only by attention, that we can diſtinguiſh in the ſoul the real impreſſions of things from ſenſations re-produced. Beſides, the preſence of mind neceſſary to reflection, requires in the fibres a certain degree of tenſion, the medium between rigidity and relaxation. In inflammatory fevers, and in the hypochondriac diſeaſe, there is the ſame rigidity as in the inflammation of the ſtomach, contracted by the uſe of ſome acrid aliment, or by poiſon: for the irritation of this viſcus affects the whole nervous ſyſtem, and more eſpecially the membranes of the brain. In all theſe caſes, reaſon is extinct; for the will has no longer any power over the organs, as has been already ſhewn. Thus, abandoned to itſelf, the mind employs itſelf in reviewing the objects which formerly affected it; but wanting the attention neceſſary to diſcern whether their image be re-produced or not, it miſtakenly imagines them preſent, and really exiſting.

When the ſpaſm ceaſes, the mind inſtantly recovers its reaſon, theſe imaginary objects diſappear, the deception ceaſes, the patient finds himſelf in his chamber, [223]ſurrounded by his diſconſolate friends, and relates to them the ſubject of his viſions.

The ſame effects which are produced by acrid humours on the body in ſevers, and by irritating aliments in the inflammation of the ſtomach, are likewiſe produced by an inflamed imagination, and by violent paſſions; examples, which confirm this, daily occur to our obſervation.

When the ſoul is engroſſed by any violent paſſion, when the imagination forms a lively picture of the charms of a favourite object, repreſents it as the idol of the heart, adorns it with every attractive grace, and ſuffers it to make a deep impreſſion on the mind; by degrees the charms, in which we have cloathed and decked it, dazzle the ſight, and impoſe even on ourſelves: then wholly engaged thereby, we are inſenſible to every other object, and miſled fo theſe phantoms, we take our viſions for realities.

Thus, in the extreme anxieties of a ſoul tormented by remorſe, the guilty wretch continually revolves in his mind every crime he has committed, and remains a miſerable victim to deſpair. Should [224]ſleep cloſe his eyes; his ſleep is only a frightful delirium, the conſciouſneſs of his crimes preys upon his heart, and terrifies him with horrid viſions. He dreams he hears the groans of thoſe he has deſtroyed, thinks he ſees their ghoſts riſing from their tombs, and imprecating the juſtice of heaven on him; the darkneſs of hell covers the face of the earth, the furies hiſs in his ears, ſhake their torches at him, and purſue and haunt him wherever he goes; devils, fiends, every moniter in fable beſet his ſoul; harraſſed with theſe horrible viſions, the wretch awakes in affright, vents loud cries, ſtarts back with horror at the approach of his friends, whom now he knows not, and claſps the next thing he finds in his arms, and fancies he clings to the altar.

Thus it is that the paſſions produce viſions and trances; thus it is that enthuſiaſm is changed into a delirium, and thus it is that fanatic minds ſometimes fancy themſelves inſpired.

This diſcourſe on the ſucceſſion of our ideas, and the order which obtains in our [225]thoughts, recalls me to the point from whence I firſt ſet out. I then proved that the depth, the juſtneſs and ſublimity of ideas, required fibres ſtrong and greatly elaſtic, and that theſe characters of our ideas varied together with the organization: but the different degrees of the ſtrength and elaſticity of theſe organs in different individuals, which at firſt appeared of ſo little conſequence, produce other very ſurpriſing effects. This principle, ſimple as it is, abounds in conſequences; it is this which enables us to diſcover truths, hitherto concealed from the learned, and involved in profound darkneſs. Let us endeavour to draw from this hidden ſource ſome additional knowledge, which may throw light on ſome very obſcure ſubjects, and ſcatter flowers over the thorny paths of philoſophy.

Organization renders Imagination the predominant Character of the MIND.

The exerciſe of regular thought is to the mind, what voluntary motion is to the body; that is, a ſtate of conſtraint which [226]the ſoul commonly yields to with reluctance, and ever endures with pain.

If we follow the mind in its operations, we ſhall obſerve, that when abandoned to its own activity, it acts without rule and without method; it never acts with order, but when neceſſity* obliges it thereto, and returns to its former ſtate immediately, when freed from reſtraint. What renders the regular exerciſe of thought more fatiguing than the irregular, is the attention which it requires; the difficulty of fixing objects in the mind, in order to conſider them without diſtraction, and the efforts which are neceſſary to diſcern their different relations; efforts ſo much the more painful as the objects happen to be naturally volatile, and fall not within the cognizance of the ſenſes. But what renders theſe efforts painful, is that tenſion of the fibres which this intenſeneſs of the mind requires; for the tenſion of the fibres ever produces in the ſoul an unpleaſing ſentiment more or leſs [227]ſtrong, but ever proportionate to its force. We muſt therefore conſtantly recur to phyſical cauſes, to account for theſe phenomena of the mind.

By following the mind in its operations, it is eaſy to diſcover, that when it ceaſes to conſider objects attentively, it no longer judges of their true relations; in this caſe thought becomes imagination. Thus, of all the ſciences, geometry requires the leaſt aid from imagination, as it continually fixes the attention on one particular object*.

I have demonſtrated, that regular thought fatigues the mind much more, and much ſooner than revery; I have likewiſe ſhewn, that when the mind is fatigued, it no longer fixes upon any object, and ceaſes to conſider attentively; I have ſhewn, [228]that the attention of the mind is ever proportionate* to the ſtrength and organic elaſticity of the fibres. Whence let us conclude, that a ſoul united to a delicate and feeble body muſt poſſeſs more imagination than judgment.

The tranſition from reaſon to imagination is very eaſy. If the mind, during reflection, be diſtracted by any ſenſation, it loſes ſight of its objects, is engaged by ſome analogous relation, and wanders from one to another, till it entirely loſes its firſt engagement; it at length perceives itſelf bewildered in the labyrinths of imagination, even whilſt it fancies itſelf attentively purſuing its former reflections. The greater the ſenſibility, the more difficult it is to prevent theſe wanderings: whence it follows, that the Man whoſe organs are delicate and greatly ſenſible muſt poſſeſs more imagination than judgment.

If the tranſition from reaſon to imagination be very eaſy, it is likewiſe very [229]natural. Whatever our thoughts may be' ſome ſecret attractive, ſome hidden charm, recalls the mind to its favourite ſubject. The ſoul, ever delighted with pleaſing ſentiments, reſigns itſelf wholly thereto, and its natural love of happineſs prompts it to perpetuate the pleaſure it takes therein. The mind thus reliſhing thoſe pleaſures, wiſhes to increaſe them; wherefore it ſucceſſively occupies itſelf in examining, one after another, all the agreeable objects which are in any way connected with thoſe which affect it with delight, and thus thought becomes imagination. Man therefore has perpetual need to be on his guard againſt theſe wanderings, and the more ſo in proportion to his greater ſhare of ſenſibility; for in this caſe the atattraction of pleaſure is moſt powerful. In this reſpect therefore, the ſoul which is united to very ſenſible and elaſtic organs, poſſeſſes more of imagination than of judgment.

Organization characteriſes the THOUGHTS.

Organization not only determines our aptitude either for imagination or for [230]judgment, but alſo often forms the character of our thoughts.

When the exerciſe of the underſtanding is wholly imagination, the nature of its images and ideas is ever determined* by that of the ſenſation or ſentiment, then affecting the mind. If this ſentiment or ſenſation be agreeable, there is a ſeries of pleaſing illuſions and agreeable images: if painful, there is a ſucceſſion of ſad and hideous repreſentations. The ſame phenomenon is alſo evident during ſleep: our dreams are pleaſing or terrifying, according to the ſenſations we then experience.

If we take a retroſpective view of what we have ſaid concerning the ſucceſſion of our ideas, when ſpeaking of the exerciſe of our mental faculties, we ſhall find this phenomenon very ſimple. The mind, if left to itſelf, ever proceeds by analogies: the thoughts therefore muſt be gay, when the ſoul is affected with pleaſure, and ſad when affected with pain.

[231]The impreſſions received by the organs of the body are conveyed to the ſoul, fix there, and ſerve as a point of departure, from whence it ſets out when it commences its future operations; from this time forwards it is engaged by analogous images and analogous thoughts only.

And as the ſoul ever perceives the diſpoſition of the body during ſleep, although it appears to be then freed from its ſubjection to the ſenſes; the ſame analogy muſt be obſerved in man aſleep, as when awake. Hence the reaſon why the nature of dreams is ever analogous to the ſtate of the body, and to the ſenſation then affecting the mind. Hence too, the reaſon why, when the ſenſation is agreeable, we enjoy during ſleep a ſeries of pleaſing deceptions and agreeable images; but, when it is painful, are terrified with diſmal thoughts and frightful illuſions.

What has been ſaid above concerning the imagination, is properly applicable to irregular thought only; its regular productions require the ſame phyſical diſpoſition which reaſon does.

The mind muſt compare and combine its ſenſations and its thoughts in many different [232]ſhapes, to form new productions therefrom; this requires attention, and conſequently force and elaſticity in the fibres. Thus imagination is weakened by degrees, together with the organic elaſticity of the fibres: in proportion as they become more lax or more rigid, the mind cannot compare or combine its ſenſations, and becomes inactive; even ſo far as to be no longer able either to imagine or to invent; it then ceaſes to draw conſequences from principles, and only acts by the aid of the ſenſes.

Nevertheleſs, if regular imagination requires the elaſticity of our organs, it requires it in a leſs degree than reaſon; for its objects are neither neceſſarily dependant on each other, nor cloſely connected its productions are only detached parts, where the mind has nothing to do but to weave them into one tiſſue. Finally, becauſe their connection depends not on the combination of a great number of thoughts or ideas which are naturally profound and difficult to be inveſtigated, as thoſe of reaſon commonly are; a ſingle ſtroke of the pencil ſhall frequently ſerve to connect the parts of which the group is to be [233]compoſed. And although regular imagination may be a ſtate of conſtraint like reaſon, it nevertheleſs fatigues the ſoul much leſs; for imagination has ever the choice of its ſubjects, and this choice is ever directed towards agreeable objects; whilſt reaſon, ever tied down to follow nature, muſt needs frequently find an irkſomeneſs from painful reſearches and dry reflections, and is ever buſied in a diſguſtful employment. Imagination therefore not only requires leſs attention than reaſon, but alſo poſſeſſes many pleaſing attractives beſides.

Imagination requires leſs force of the organs than reaſon, but a greater ſhare of organic elaſticity of the fibres, or rather a greater ſhare of ſenſibility. For it is not always by a careful examination of objects, nor by a ſeries of many ſucceſſive combinations, that the imagination forms new productions: the moſt happy ſtrokes of fancy often preſent themſelves to the mind ſpontaneouſly, when we leaſt think, and are never the fruit of pains or plodding. It is therefore only by vaiouſly combining objects, by leaving (if I may be allowed the expreſſion) the mind to [234]rove at will, and by employing no more attention than is neceſſary to collect the reſult of its thoughts, and to ſelect therefrom ſuch as are for its purpoſe. The greater our ſenſibility, the more liable we are to diſtraction, the more affected by analogies, the leſs attached to material objects, and the more capable of thoſe happy, but fortuitous combinations, the true ſource of ingenious ſallies, and of the nobleſt productions of the human mind.

Thus therefore men who have but little ſenſibility, and are of robuſt organs, can poſſeſs but a ſmall ſhare of imagination: men, who are but little ſenſible, and yet delicate, muſt poſſeſs more. They, who are feeble and of great ſenſibility, yet greater: and they who are extremely vigorous and extremely ſenſible, moſt of all. Eager to riſe above the ſphere of the ſenſes, theſe can alone ſoar above this low world, and with a bold wing traverſing the boundleſs tracts of aether tranſport themſelves to worlds unexplored before.

I have proved, that reaſon is not eſſential to the ſoul, and that the imagination [235]depends on the elaſticity and force of the fibres, I ſhall now demonſtrate, that remembrance and recollection are modes of the ſoul's exiſtence, and wholly dependent on organization.

Remembrance and Recollection dependent on Organization.

Memory is almoſt always confounded with remembrance and recollection, qualities very different, and which ought to be carefully diſtinguiſhed* Memory, or the faculty of retaining our ſenſations and ideas, is peculiar to the ſoul, and independent of every phyſical cauſe: but remembrance and recollection (the one whereof is the faculty of diſcerning our ſenſations and ideas, when re-produced to be thoſe which we have before received; and the other, that of re-producing them at will) although intellectual powers, nevertheleſs wholly depend on organization.

[236]Acute diſeaſes of a long continuance ever impair both remembrance and recollection; chronic diſeaſes are ever accompanied with the ſame phenomenon; but more eſpecially the hernia ſpinalis, when the tumor is opened, and even ſtill more than this, thoſe ſleepy diſeaſes which enſue from a conſiderable loſs of ſemen*. Great drinkers, apoplectics, thoſe unfortunate perſons who have undergone the operation of the trepan, thoſe who have been covered after hanging, frequently paſs the reſidue of life, unable either to remember or to recollect.

The microcephali, whoſe brain is of ſmaller dimenſions than common, are generally deſtitute of theſe faculties.

Finally, in the hiſtory of the academy of ſciences of Paris, Année 1701, pag. 57. we find the caſe of a child, eight years of age, that loſt its memory by the exceſſive heats of ſummer, and never recovered it whilſt the heats continued.

[237]Since the influence of the body on the ſoul has fixed and conſtant relations, the decay and loſs of remembrance or recollection are therefore produced by cauſes common to every inſtance abovementioned. By what theſe caſes have in common, it clearly appears, that the cauſe of this decay, and loſs of theſe powers, is only the diminution of the organic elaſticity of the nervous ſyſtem, but more eſpecially of the membranes of the brain; a diminution common to every ſubject here noticed, but produced in different ways. In the one, by a defect of the nervous fluid, as in microcephali, and thoſe who have been exhauſted by immoderate coition: in others, by a violent tenſion of the fibres, as in apoplectics, thoſe who have been recalled to life after hanging, and thoſe who have under gone the operation of the trepan: in others, by theſe two cauſes united, as in perſons affected with acute or chronic diſeaſes.

We ſhall be fully convinced of this truth, if we conſider, that every thing which impairs the tone of the ſolids, either by vitiating the ſecretion of the nervous fluid in the brain, or reſtraining its action, produces [238]the ſame effect. The immoderate uſe of cooling liquors, ſpirits, opium, hyoſciamum, and other narcotics, long and profound ſadneſs, fear, terror, and every other violent paſſion of the ſoul, too long continued watching, and too profound meditation, all which are adapted to deſtroy the elaſticity of the fibres, occaſion the loſs of remembrance and recollection. Finally, the decay, and even the loſs of theſe powers, are often occaſioned by exceſſive heat; in this caſe, it is viſibly produced by the diminution of organic elaſticity. Every thing concurs to eſtabliſh the loſs of elaſticity, as the cauſe of this phenomenon, as I have obſerved, in collecting the different obſervations made upon this ſubject, and reducing to fixed points their numerous variations.

If more proofs were required, I would here repeat what has been ſaid elſewhere concerning the order of our thoughts. On the approach of ſleep, and at the cloſe of weariſome meditation, when the fibres relax and the circulation is languid, when the ſenſes are inactive and every organ is at reſt, the ſoul appears to be then detached from the body, and wanders without any [239]ſcope; remembrance is loſt, we recollect nothing, not even things which are the moſt familiar. When ſleep cloſes the eyes, objects which affect us whilſt awake are retraced in the mind, but the mind remembers them not, and this forgetfulneſs is ſo much the more extreme as the ſleep is more profound, that is, as the fibres are more relaxed; the mind recovers not theſe powers, till the elaſticity of the fibres is re-eſtabliſhed by repoſe.

But if the loſs of remembrance and recollection be often produced by the relaxation of the fibres; it is ſometimes occaſioned by their rigidity. In inflammatory fevers, in drunkenneſs, nothing is remembered, nothing recollected. How frequently are ſeen perſons when affected with either of theſe, that know not their friends, children, wives, and even forget their own name! How many have been reduced to the ſame miſerable ſtate from the irritation of the meninges by ſplinters of the cranium, or by ſome extraneous body!

Remembrance and recollection, therefore, require a moderate degree of tenſion of the fibres, as does the regular exerciſe of thought. [240]The reaſon of this phenomenon is eaſily comprehended. Memory is a paſſive faculty; but remembrance and recollection are the* reſults of our ſeveral intellectual faculties combined. The one is the ſtate of reflecting on the ſenſations and the ideas depoſited in the memory: the other is a ſtate of intenſeneſs, by which the ſoul forces itſelf to recall theſe ſenſations and theſe ideas. Remembrance and recollection therefore of neceſſity require attention, and conſequently a moderate degree of organic elaſticity in the fibres. It is therefore obvious, that when the ſubjects of our obſervations have not the power of rendering the fibres tenſe, the mind is devoid of theſe powers.

Hence we muſt conclude, that remembrance and recollection are determined by the tone of the ſolids, and even depend on organization.

Hitherto I have ſhown how the different degrees of the elaſticity of the fibres contribute to the diverſity of minds, and [241]how this mechaniſm explains theſe phenomena, reconciles them to Nature, if I may be allowed the expreſſion, and diveſts them of the marvellous; this cauſe, however ſimple it may appear, produces many other very ſurpriſing effects.

Organization renders MAN intelligent or ſtupid.

Penetration, that noble faculty of the mind, by which we diſcern truth amidſt the darkneſs ſurrounding it, by which we diſcover the moſt remote relations of things, depends on the tone of the fibres, and on the ſtate of the body, equally with remembrance and recollection; for being wholly owing to the capacity of the mind*, and to the number of ideas and ſenſations, it conſequently muſt depend on the number of the ſenſes, and on their good organization. ‘Nevertheleſs the ſenſes of an idiot appear ſound and well conſtituted; he has likewiſe, as other perſons have, ſenſations of every kind, [242]and he arranges them in the ſame order, when he acts like others: but he has but very few ideas, and is deficient in judgment and penetration.’

Penetration depends on the number of the ſenſes, and their good organization; but depends not wholly thereon. To diſcover the relations of things, it is not ſufficient to have a great number of ſenſations, there is alſo neceſſary the power of calling them to mind when occaſion requires. Without this faculty, the ſenſations depoſited in the memory would be uſeleſs; without it, the mind could compare its preſent ſenſations only, all its judgments would be determined by the ſenſes, and Man no longer act as Man, but as the moſt ſtupid of beaſts. Beſides, the number of the ſenſes and their good organization, penetration likewiſe requires the ſame elaſticity and force in the fibres as recollection.

But even this will not ſuffice. To diſcover the relations of things, the mind muſt compare them in their different aſpects, and variouſly combine them. Except this, admitting every other qualification, the beſt organized ſenſes, the moſt [243]ardent deſire of attaining perfection; yet ſo long as Man continues unable to combine his ſenſations, it will be impoſſible for him to acquire knowledge. Penetration therefore requires the ſame organic elaſticity of the fibres as reflection.

Every man has a certain number of ſenſations, but all men have not equally the power of recalling, comparing, combining, and arranging them; qualities indiſpenſibly neceſſary to the diſcovery of concealed relations. Theſe qualities idiots have not; and this inability to recollect or reflect, is to be wholly attributed to the ſtate of their organs.

If we compare the body of an idiot with the body of a rational perſon, we ſhall find many conſiderable diverſities between them. The moſt conſpicuous is the ſmall dimenſions of the cerebrum. Microcephali * are idiots by nature; they have neither conception nor judgment: on the contrary, macrocephali are very ingenious.

Another difference is the bulk of the body, in compariſon of the ſize of the [244]head. Extremely large and fat perſons, are commonly but a ſmall remove from ſtupidity; whilſt ſmall and lean perſons are generally the reverſe.

But all idiots are not ſo by nature; ſome gradually arrive at that ſtate, the moſt ingenious equally with others. Acute diſeaſes of long continuance*, and likewiſe chronic diſeaſes, impair the penetration. The conſiderable loſs of nervous fluid, either by coition, by its diſcharge from the tumor of the hernia ſpinalis, or by extenſive exerciſe, produces the ſame effects. Great drinkers, apoplectics, they who have undergone the operation of the trepan, they who have been recovered after hanging, remain very long without conception and without judgment.

Let us attend to the reaſon of theſe phenomena.

Microcephali are idiots, macrocephali very ſagacious. But if penetration be ever proportionate to the dimenſions of the brain, it is not from any particular organization of this viſcus, as ſome have imagined. [245]The brain is only an organ of ſecretion, and is without relation to the ſoul, except by its ſecreting a greater or leſs quantity of the nervous fluid; and as its volume might more or leſs obſtruct the origin of the nerves, by compreſſing the membranes which ſurround it; it is only in theſe reſpects, that the brain can influence penetration.

It has been already ſhewn, that the exerciſe of regular thought, ſuch as is neceſſary to penetration, requires a tenſion of the fibres, particularly of thoſe of the meninges. This tenſion, this augmentation of the organic elaſticity of the ſolids, ariſes from the immediate influx of the nervous fluid impelled into theſe organs by the will. The more this fluid, ſo immediately ſubject to the ſoul in voluntary motion*, abounds, the more ſtrongly Man can apply his mind to reflection, and the longer continue it: for the power of the will on our organs, never prevails ſo far as to render them rigid. Hence it is [246]evident, that microcephali, who are not abundantly ſupplied therewith, muſt neceſſarily be ſtupid; and that macrocephali, who poſſeſs it in great abundance, muſt be perfectly the reverſe. Hence it is, that large and very fat perſons have in general but little ſagacity; for the bulk of the body continually increaſes, and the ſize of the brain continues the ſame. This enormous bulk of body, compared to the dimenſion of the brain, places them in the ſame claſs with microcephali.

This inability in microcephali, and in thoſe who are extremely fat, to increaſe the organic elaſticity of their fibres, often deſtroys the penetration of the moſt ſagacious. To this is owing that ſtupidity which affects thoſe who have been recovered after hanging, apoplectics, thoſe who have ſuffered the operation of the trepan, and hard drinkers. It is this, likewiſe, which, after acute and chronic diſeaſes, deprives men of the faculty of conception, and reduces them to a ſtate of infancy.

Hence is the reaſon that, when an inflammatory fever has conſumed the nervous [247]fluid, and fatigued our organs by violent and precipitate motions, the mind is affected with a ſtupor, all its faculties are diſordered, and all knowledge loſt: this returns not, but in proportion as the body acquires ſtrength, and arrives not to its former perfect ſtate, till the body has entirely recovered its former vigour.

Hence the reaſon why the violent paſſions, profound ſadneſs, and narcotics, produce a kind of momentary ſtupidity.

Hence the reaſon why ſome perſons have become ſtupid, by imitating too affidiouſly the geſtures of folly.

It is therefore evident, that the extreme impair of the organic elaſticity of the fibres generates ſtupidity, and that the penetration of every individual depends on his organization.

Organization renders MAN ſagacious or dull, ſedate or volatile, and the Judgment, clear or confuſed.

Nature has greatly varied the degrees of the delicacy and vivacity of minds. Sagacity, that quickneſs of underſtanding, [248]in diſcerning the reaſon of things, that admirable faculty of comprehending at once a multitude of objects, or rather of reviewing them with rapidity, and penetrating in an inſtant the moſt remote relations, obſerves not the ſame gradation as penetration. This increaſes and decays by inſenſible degrees; the other has no progreſſion, but has its exiſtence confined, as it were, to an indiviſible point.

Sagacity conſiſts in readily diſcovering remote relations. Thus, beſides the number and order of our ſenſations and ideas neceſſary to diſcover thoſe relations, it requires quick apprehenſion; hence, not only the ſame phyſical diſpoſition is neceſſary as in penetration, that is, force and organic elaſticity of the fibres, but alſo the moſt perfect degree of this elaſticity, or which is the ſame thing, that degree which is beſt adapted to ſecond the activity of the will: for the exerciſe of the underſtanding in penetration is voluntary. The regular exerciſe of thought, requires a certain organic tone of the fibres; but this tone is not limited to one particular point, it has a certain extent contained [249]between the oppoſite extremes of relaxation and rigidity. Madneſs and ſtupidity are produced by the extremes, wiſdom holds the middle ſtation, and its various degrees occupy the whole interval between them: there are therefore different degrees in this intermediate ſpace, in every one of which the ſoul may poſſeſs penetration. It is in that degree of elaſticity, where the fibres have a greater aptitude to yield obedience to the will, that the diſpoſition to ſagacity conſiſts. Thus the abundance of nervous fluid *, the primitive elaſticity of the fibres, and that degree where the equilibrium between theſe two powers is moſt perfect, muſt be the principle of ſagacity, of invention, of that divine enthuſiaſm which animates genius, and diſtinguiſhes thoſe who poſſeſs it from the herd of common wits. [250]Sagacity therefore falls to the lot of thoſe who are endued both with vigour and ſenſibility. Theſe are the qualities which alone actuate thoſe towering minds which ſoar to the firſt principles of ſcience, and rapidly ruſh to the goal; whilſt others lag far behind, and advance with ſlow and tardy ſteps.

In proportion as this equilibrium between theſe two powers is deſtroyed, the mind neceſſarily loſes its ſagacity; but in a different manner; if the balance be in favour of the ſolids, if the fibres be either too lax or too rigid, the mind is leſs apt to recall the ſenſations and ideas depoſited in the memory, or to compare them, and leſs readily diſcovers their remote relations. The mind is therefore leſs active, takes up longer time in its reflection, and is ſlower in tracing any analogy, or inveſtigating any truth. Man, thus organized, may poſſeſs judgment, but not wit. The farther he is from this perfect degree of organic elaſticity, the more his activity of mind is diminiſhed; he may even be at ſuch a diſtance from it, as to poſſeſs no powers of imagination at all. In this ſtate he can pronounce [251]on the relations of thoſe objects only which immediately act on the ſenſes; and principles, to ſuch a perſon, are without conſequences. Hence the reaſon why ſallies of wit, happy flights of any kind, never occur to us when the mind is fatigued.

But when this equilibrium between the fibres and nervous fluid, which forms Man's diſpoſition to ſagacity, is deſtroyed, and the ſcale inclines to the latter, vivacity of mind becomes volatility. The ſoul being then ſtrongly affected by the moſt minute* objects, re-acts on the body with a force proportionate thereto, communicates to this fluid a very ſtrong impulſe which, acting upon weak fibres, renders them rigid, and deſtroys ſagacity, together with the free exerciſe of the underſtanding.

To this ſenſibility add the delicacy, which is inſeparable from it, and which renders us incapable of ſuſtaining for any long [252]time that laborious attention, which is often neceſſary to the diſcovery of remote relations. Thus too haſty in pronouncing on the relations of things, the mind always falls ſhort of the end which it deſires to attain, forms forced reaſonings, and continues for ever ignorant.

The ideas, to be juſt, muſt be diſtinct, although theſe qualities are not inſeparable. Thus in every caſe where juſtneſs of our ideas requires them to be numerous, the mind, if united to a body of very delicate texture and extreme ſenſibility, can ſcarce conceive any thing diſtinctly. In a man ſo circumſtanced, the mind has not time to examine throughly any of the objects as they offer: they ſhift ſo faſt, that he has hardly time to perceive them.

Hence the mind can have only imperfect notions of things, and all its knowledge is but a confuſed huddle of errors and abſurdities.

Organization contributes to render MAN either prudent or inconſiderate.
[253]

The ſoul united to weak, elaſtic and delicate organs, being continually acted upon by ſtrong ſenſations and ſentiments, diſplays them the moment it is affected by them*. Such a perſon therefore is incapable of diſſimulation. Endued with too great ſenſibility to diſſemble, he is likewiſe too much ſo to reflect, to ſecure his purpoſes, to comply with, and bend to circumſtances, or patiently purſue a ſcheme, till he finds ſome clue, which may ſerve to guide him. Hence he is incapable of that circumſpection, which conceals hidden reſources, till it ſees a fit occaſion to make uſe of them; he knows not what to conceal, but tells the whole of what he knows, and thus betrays his own ſecrets. Imprudent in diſcourſe, he is ſo likewiſe in his deſigns and actions; his ardor ever carries him to lengths little ſuited to his ſtrength, and by the improper uſe he makes of it, almoſt all his efforts prove ineffectual; in [254]a word, he is neither fit for executing nor for counſel.

Prudence therefore depends on that ſtate of the machine, on that tone of the fibres which promotes the free exerciſe of thinking, by moderating the vivacity of the ſenſitive faculty. Only the Man, whoſe organs are thus formed, can be ſevere, yet gentle, tender, though not weak, and high-ſpirited without being a bravado; he alone can conceal his deſigns under the veil of ſilence, and be at once communicative and diſcreet. This calm, this external ſerenity proceeds therefore from a natural coolneſs of temper; and it is to the want of ſenſibility in our organs, that this boaſted wiſdom, this prudence we value ourſelves ſo much upon are owing.

Why MAN appears to loſe ſome of his mental Faculties without loſing the others.

Some men loſe the power of meditating, yet retain their other faculties. Some loſe remembrance, imagination, the power of reflection, yet retain that of recollection and judgment: ſome forget one kind [255]of ideas, one ſort of knowledge, without prejudice to others: in a word, ſome ſeem to loſe every mental power, inſtinct excepted.

The moſt celebrated philoſophers, to account for theſe phenomena, have imagined a ſyſtem, plauſible at firſt ſight, but in reality exceedingly abſurd. They have firſt ſuppoſed, contrary to truth, that each faculty of the ſoul has ſome particular organ for its ſeat, entirely disjoined from, and without relation to the others. They have afterwards laid it down as a maxim, that, when one of theſe organs is vitiated, the faculty reſident therein is depraved likewiſe. Finally, to make this ſyſtem quadrate with facts, they have concluded, that in the general diſarrangement of the machine, every part of which is intimately connected, theſe different organs, ſeats of the different faculties* are not all affected at the ſame time.

To elucidate theſe phenomena, I ſhall not undertake a myſterious explanation, [256]which ſuppoſes us to be endowed with knowledge which we have not; nor imitate the explanations of others, which are equally repugnant to reaſon and experience. All theſe phenomena, which appear ſo whimſical, and ſo impoſſible to account for, according to the ſyſtem of theſe philoſophers, are ſo very ſimple, according to that which is here eſtabliſhed, that the only thing to be wondered at is their ſimplicity. We have ſeen that reaſon, imagination, remembrance, recollection, penetration, ſagacity, &c. are powers of the mind, dependent on the different tones of the organic elaſticity of the fibres. It is therefore evident, that theſe effects muſt diſappear with their cauſes. I ſhall attempt farther to develope this principle, and give it the cleareſt evidence of truth.

Theſe faculties of the ſoul, viz. ſenſibility, will, memory, and underſtanding, have different functions, as has been already proved; but theſe faculties unite and combine in many different manners: from theſe their combinations reſult thought, and the different operations of the mind. But unleſs they act conjunctly, [257]Man has neither ſentiments nor ideas; their ſeparation deſtroys every operation of the mind, and, in appearance, annihilates the faculties themſelves.

Although theſe different faculties mutually combine, they however combine not all in the ſame act: according as their combination varies, ſo much the more different are their reſults. Beſides, though our intellectual faculties are the ſole principles of the operations of the ſoul, and although ſome are active of themſelves, their exerciſe is nevertheleſs entirely dependent on the body. The mind cannot proceed alone: it ever requires a certain degree of organic elaſticity in the fibres, to think, reflect, meditate, &c. From theſe different degrees of the organic elaſticity of the fibres, reſults every diverſity in the operations of the mind.

Regular thought ever requires a tenſion of the fibres: but to think on ſome particular ſubjects, there is required a much greater degree of organic elaſticity in the fibres, than to think on ſome others; as on metaphyſical ſubjects, than on thoſe of elementary geometry; there is likewiſe [258]required a much greater degree of organic elaſticity to meditate than to reflect, to imagine ſomething new, than to judge of ſimple facts. Thus with one degree of organic elaſticity Man can reflect, with another meditate; ſo with one he can imagine, and with another weaker degree, which leaves him unable to recall the ideas and ſenſations formerly depoſited in the memory, he can pronounce on his preſent ſenſations only, and ſeems to have loſt every faculty but inſtinct: with a degree, yet weaker than this, he is unable to combine two ſingle ſenſations, and is deſtitute of every ſentiment, even that of his own exiſtence.

Thus Man may loſe the power of meditation, and retain that of reflection; he may loſe imagination, ſagacity, and penetration, and retain good ſenſe; laſtly, he may loſe judgment, and yet retain inſtinct.

Both remembrance and recollection require the organic elaſticity of the fibres; but not in an equal degree. Recollection requires the greater degree of tenſion of the two, as any one may be convinced by the efforts which a mind, exhauſted by [259]ſtudy, or during the ſtate of convaleſcence or drowſineſs, vainly makes to recall the moſt familiar ideas, ſuch as when called to mind by being mentioned by others, it remembers to have before received. This is very natural; for it requires more attention to fix on an abſent object, than on one which is preſent; to recall an analogy without the aid of the ſenſes, as in remembrance by the aſſiſtance of objects, than to diſcover its identity: Man therefore may loſe recollection and yet retain remembrance.

Finally, a greater degree of organic elaſticity is required to recall extraordinary ideas, than to recollect thoſe which are familiar; and abſtract ideas than ſimple: ſo likewiſe Man may forget one particular ſort of ideas, and yet retain another. Thus the different degrees of organic elaſticity of the fibres produce new combinations, which interrupt the ſucceſſion of our thoughts, diſorder the chain of our ideas, and ſeem even to annihilate ſome of ous mental faculties, while they leave us the free exerciſe of others. This is the ſimple and manifeſt cauſe of theſe ſingular phenomena.

[260]The different degrees of organic elaſticity required in the different operations of the mind, may be determined by comparing the courſe of the fluids, the number of pulſations, their different degrees of force and vivacity, in one man during meditation, in another during reflection, and in another during revery; and by comparing the courſe of the fluids, the number of pulſations, their different degrees of force and vivacity in the ſame man in all theſe different ſtates.

Thus having ſhewn the principles of theſe phenomena in the different tones of the fibres, having diſcovered the truth of theſe laws in Nature, we may eaſily proceed to eſtimate their effects: notwithſtanding this ſubject may be extremely complicated, and may appear to have but little connection with mathematics, it is poſſible to determine their relations, and to ſubject them to a preciſe evaluation; the balance has been already pointed out, it now remains only to take the amount.

From what has preceded, it is certain that the propenſities, the affections and character of the ſoul, folly, wiſdom, ſtupidity, [261]prudence, reaſon, imagination, recollection, remembrance, penetration, delicacy, ſublimity, depth, ſagacity and genius, are not qualities inherent in the mind, but modes of the ſoul's exiſtence, depending on the ſtate of the organs of the body; as for inſtance, colours, ſounds, heat, cold, &c. are not eſſential attributes of matter, but qualities dependent on its texture, and on the motion of its conſtituent corpuſcles. It is therefore evident, that organization alone cauſes almoſt* every difference which is obſerved between ſouls; that they receive their principal characteriſtics from the corporeal organs; and that, ſuppoſing them really in their nature different from each other, this difference would be of no effect, ſo long as they continue united to the body.

Thus every thing in Nature is influenced by phyſical laws.

Corporeal ſenſibility, the regular or diſordered courſe of our fluids, primitive or organic [262]elaſticity, the rigidity or relaxation of the fibres, the force or volume of the organs, are the cauſes of the ſurpriſing diverſities in ſouls, and the ſecret principles of that great influence of the ſoul on the body, and of the body on the ſoul, hitherto deemed an impenetrable myſtery.

Such are the ſecret cauſes of that ſingular harmony, which philoſophers have obſerved between the two ſubſtances which form our being, but were unable to explain.

Such, in a word, are the true foundations, the ſolid baſis of a ſcience, wherein every thing appeared arbitrary, obſcure and myſterious.

I would here conclude my work, were philoſophers only to be my readers: to ſuch it might be ſufficient to explain the principles on which I ground my doctrine, and I might have ſpared myſelf the trouble of entering into theſe particulars which are neceſſary to elucidate them. But this were loſt labour: ſince, for one reader who can develop the whole of a ſyſtem by the mere outlines, there are a thouſand who muſt ſee the whole chain of reaſoning, [263]in order to comprehend the principles on which it is eſtabliſhed.

To theſe it is neceſſary to enter into a minute diſcuſſion: it is not enough that they have given them a clue to guide them to the truth, and have the path pointed out to them; they muſt be, as it were, led by the hand through all the mazes of the labyrinth; otherwiſe they muſt unavoidably be bewildered in it.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Appendix A ERRATA.

[]
  • Page 34, line 2, for though, read through.
  • Page 72, l. 4. f. cauſing it to, r. cauſing the ſcale to.
  • Page 109, l. 3, f. ever uniform, r. pretty uniform.
  • Page 115, l. 8, f. ends not, r. ends not here.
  • Page 121, l. 23, f. leſs juſt, r. leſs righteous.
  • Page 124, l. 10, f. inactive, r. active.
  • Page 142, l. in the title, f. obſervations, r. farther obſervations.
  • Page 144, l. 11, f. no long, r. no longer.
  • Page 162, l. 17, f. of their image, r. of the images
  • Page 187, l. 6, their ſenſibility, r. their tenſion, and conſequently their ſenſibility.
  • Page 219, l. 10 f. fibres, r. fibrillae.
  • Page l. 12, f. impel it, r. impel it into the tube they form.
  • Page 226, laſt line, f. ſentiment, r. ſenſe.
  • Page 232, l. 14, f. elaſticity, r. ſtrength.
  • Page 236, l. 11, f. covered, r. recovered.
  • Page 238, l. 2, dele ſpirits.
  • Page 240, l. 16, f. tenſe, r. tenſe to ſuch a degree.
  • Page 244, l. 6, f. gradually, r. accidentally,
Notes
*
I ſay compound, and deſire the reader not to be alarmed. The ſoul is undoubtedly a compound being, although metaphyſicians maintain it to be a ſimple one, but not compound in the ſame ſenſe with the body; its component parts are the different faculties: moreover obſerve, that the term compound does not imply materiality, nor any way contradict the ſpirituality of the ſoul.
*
Lib. 2. Controv. 9.
*
Let it be remembered, that when I term a body ſenſible, I mean a body endued with an high degree of ſenſibility.
*
I ſpeak not here of the extent of our knowledge, or of the number of ideas. I ſpeak of their characters only.
*
I mean thoſe acute diſeaſes, which diſorder all the functions of the animal oeconomy; not thoſe that affect a part only.
*
This obſervation takes place, when the ſoul is a prey to grief, and before it receives any motive of conſolation; but it is never more conſpicuous than in men of a melancholy temper.
*
I know we are not at all times in an equal diſpoſition to receive this joy, to feel theſe pleaſing emotions; there are moments in which we tenaciouſly retain in the heart ſome perplexing ſentiment of ſadneſs, which we continually carry about with us.
*
Milton's genius was ſublime during the firſt and laſt months of the year only; at other times, his imagination was oppreſſed; he was then not ſuperior to other men.
*
In thoſe vaſcular and nervous parts, termed by anatomiſts plexus cardiacus.
We muſt not confound friendſhip with love. Till the time when the organs of ſex are perfectly developed, Man knows only the firſt of theſe ſentiments; he may indeed love a female, but his affection is only ſuch as he has for his friends; it being only by the ſecret emotions of the organs of pleaſure that he has the knowledge of this ſweet attraction of the ſexes to ſeek each other's company, and to unite in procreative pleaſures.
*
The hair of ſome perſons has been obſerved to turn grey inſtantaneouſly through extreme fear.
*
See the Eſſays of Montaigne.
*
This expreſſion of the eye is owing in great part to the different movements of the Palpebrae and the adjacent parts.
*
The erection of the penis in man, and of the Clytoris in woman, are not voluntary motions. This mechaniſm of the parts abſolutely depends on the imagination: how many men are languid and impotent in the company of a woman, for whom they have no affection; notwithſtanding every effort of the will, and ſometimes every aid of art!
*
Theſe marks are always yellow or of a red or violet colour, tints which the blood naturally gives to the ſkin; when it enters in too great quantity into its vaſcular texture, and when it is more or leſs fluid, thick, or bilious, and likewiſe according to its mixture with the nervous fluid, or ſome other of the liquors of the body.
*
See the article on the ſtructure of the nerves, Book I.
*
See the Art. on the action of the ſoul on the fluid of the nerves, Book I.
*
Theſe fibres are the particular organs of motion, as we have already explained when treating of the mechaniſm of the human body, under the Art. on the ſtructure of the muſcles, Book I.
*
This rigidity may likewiſe be produced by the irritating quality of the nervous fluid, contracted during this paſſion. But it is evident that nature does not take this method: for in ſadneſs, relaxation immedietely ſollows this rigidity; whereas the irritating quality of the nervous fluid would have produced a permanent rigidity.
*
Another phenomenon equally ſurpriſing, which has not been more attended to than thoſe already mentioned, is the faculty, which the ſoul poſſeſſes uninſtructed by experience, of diſcerning whence it receives its ſenſations.
*
The nervous fluid, impelled by the ſoul, is precipitated in great quantity into their narrow and delicate tubes, diſtends them, and ſometimes ruptures their coats, which are too weak to ſurmount its reſiſtance.
*
Pope's Eſſay on Man.
Character is to the ſoul what phyſiognomy is to the countenance; it is what diſtinguiſhes one ſoul from another.
*
See Bonnet's Palingeneſie. Haller's Phyſiology, &c.
*
See Le Cat's Treatiſe in the Senſations. Buffon's Natural Hiſtory, &c.
*
Although we cannot perceive the cavity of the fibres which form the ſubſtance of the brain, its ſtructure and its uſe are however very well known. It is undoubtedly a compound of many extremely ſmall veſſels, whoſe direction is viſible, allotted for the ſecretion of the nervous fluid from the blood. This ſuppoſed marvellous ſtructure of the brain can ſerve no purpoſe, if we reſtore to the ſoul thoſe qualities which are without reaſon attributed to that organ.
*
Robert Hook in the Philoſophical Tranſactions.
*
See Book II. Art. of the unfolding of the faculties of the ſoul.
*
See Book I. Art. the organs of ſenſe conſidered with regard to their different degrees of ſenſibility.
See Book II. Art. on the exerciſe of the memory.
*
See Book II. Art. origin of our ſentiments.
*
When this equilibrium is deſtroyed and the fluids prevail, the blood circulates with difficulty; we then feel a kind of ſtupor and indeterminate pain, like that which men of pleaſure experience when exhauſted by enjoyment When it is deſtroyed, and the ſolids prevail, it forms that ſenſe of agitation we call inquietude; add to this every kind of pain accompanying the diſcaſes and infirmities attached to nature.
*
See Book I. Art. the organs of ſenſe conſidered with regard to their different degrees of ſenſibility.
I ſhall hereafter demonſtrate, that the ſenſations and ſentiments, when re-produced, are not more powerful.
*
See Book I. pag. Art. of the neceſſity of arterial blood to motion.
See Book I. Art. the organ of ſenſe conſidered in regard to their different degrees of ſenſibility.
*
See Book II. Art. Some ſingular phenomena explained, concerning the effect of the paſſions on the underſtanding.
*
See Obſervations 24 and 46, Book III.
Ibidem.
*
See Book III, Obſervat. 46 and 47.
Ibidem.
It is not my deſign to exclude the influence of moral cauſes on the character of men. What I undertake in this work, is only to ſhow how organization characteriſes the ſoul.
*
This is a kind of conſolation by which ſelf-love beguiles our grief.
*
This is the cauſe why affliction hardens the heart, and why misfortune generates cruelty.
*
See Book IV. Art. Why the character of the ſoul is ever congruous to the ſtate of the body.
*
See Obſervation 33. Book III.
*
See Obſervation 6, Book III.
*
See a preceding Article. Why the character of the ſoul is ever congruous to the ſtate of the body. Book IV.
*
See the concluſion of the 1ſt Section, Book IV.
*
See obſervations 62, Book III.
*
The cauſes, which conſtitute the ſenſibility of our organs, are the ſame with thoſe which conſtitute vigour of body; but beſides theſe common cauſes, ſenſibility has others which are peculiar to it, as I ſhall hereafter demonſtrate in treating of the influence of climates on the moral character: it is this which obliges me here to diſtinguiſh theſe two faculties.
*
The curioſity of children, and thoſe deciſive propenſities, which many ſuppoſe natural, and which ſome philoſophers pretend to deduce from inſtinct, have no other ſource. This curioſity ariſes from their having been taught to look upon ſcience as happineſs, and conſequently that it was greatly their intereſt to acquire knowledge. Theſe propenſities ariſe from the pleaſure men find in particular employments.
*
See Book II. Art. Of the unfolding of our mental faculties.
*
I conſider not the car as the organ of ſounds, the conventional ſigns of our thoughts, and I look upon the eye in the ſame light. For if Man, deaf from his birth, receives no advantage from converſation, ſo the Man that is blind receives none from reading: and if it be poſſible to ſupply the defect of hearing, by the ſight, ſo it is likewiſe that of ſeeing, by the ear: every thing is therefore in this reſpect equal, the difference between the number of their ſenſations continuing the ſame.
*
It is becauſe attention is weakened by being applied to many objects.
Buffon's Natural Hiſtory, Vol. 4. 12mo edit.
*
Wit, is a habit of diſcerning thoſe relations which are not obvious to every Man: good ſenſe, a habit of diſcerning thoſe which are true but obvious to all: genius, which appears to poſſeſs the middle ſtation between reaſon and imagination, is a habit of diſcerning relations which are latent and difficult to be diſcovered.
*
See Book IV. Art. How organization renders Man fickle, thoughtful, volatile or taciturn.
See Book IV. the ſame Art.
*
This attention is not the ſame with that which is required in ſtudying the languages; in this latter, every thing is unconnected; in the former, every thing is connected: in the one, the mind relieves itſelf by employing attention but at intervals, when prompted by the will, and by paſſing from one object to another; but in the other, the ſame ſubject requires continued attention, the ſoul cannot examine and repoſe itſelf alternately. He who deſires to divide his time between the examination of objects and repoſe, is ever at a ſtand in his obſervations, is conſtantly diſtracted in his thoughts, is perpetually obliged to recommence the ſame labour, and never profits by his pains.
*
Laſſitude of body is only an unpleaſing ſenſation, which ariſes from the too frequent and too continued tenſion of the fibres, by which the nervous fluid which diſtends them is exhauſted, their organic elaſticity decreaſed, a languor ſeizes the ſenſes, and the whole body is affected with ſtupor.
*
See Book IV. Art. the character of the ſoul ever congruous to the ſtate of the body.
*
If our fatigue be ſomewhat diminiſhed by a change of objects, it is not becauſe the ſoul then acts upon others fibres, as a modern writer has ſuppoſed, but that the ſoul, rouſed by this new object, experiences a freſh pleaſure, which partly conceals the prior ſenſe of fatigue, and likewiſe, becauſe this new object often requires a leſs degree of attention, which diminution adminiſters ſome ſort of relaxation and repoſe. But if this new object require greater attention, ſo far from relieving the fatigue of the ſoul, it very ſenſibly augments it. This we experience when we change the ſtudy of hiſtory, for that of geometry, or the ſuperficial peruſal of a romance, for ſome deep problem in mathematics.
*
The errors which philoſophers have been guilty of, relating to the organs of our ſenſations, are really ſurpriſing: one pretends, that our ſenſes continually deceive us; another, that they are perfected by exerciſe; a third, that they poſſeſs not the leaſt degree of certainty, and that each organ requires to be rectified by ſome other: phenomena which have been hitherto attributed to the organs, though they wholly belong to the underſtanding, and are mere mental illuſions.
*
See Book II. Art. Exerciſe of the Underſtanding.
*
See a preceding Art. the diſpoſition of the ſoul is ever congruous to that of the body.
*
It is remarked, that geldings are leſs vigorous than horſes, and likewiſe ſleep more.
*
See the Sepuleretum Anatomicum.
*
I have many times experienced this after the operation of the Trepan: the ſlight preſſure on the brain ever produced an obſcurity of ſight and a noiſe in the ears; a preſſure ſomewhat more ſtrong was followed by drowſineſs, and afterwards by perfect ſleep; all theſe ſymptoms ceaſed upon diſcontinuing the preſſure.
*
They who are acquainted with the conſtitution of the human body and the cauſes of diſeaſes, know that fevers are always produced by a ſpaſm of the irri [...]ated nervous parts.
*
See Veſalius, L. 5. c. 15. De humani corporio fabrica. Riolanus, Antropol. Lib. 2. pag. 35. Binninganus, cent. Q. cap. 90. Manezeta, Miſcellan. Curioſ. Natur. dec. 1. obſ. 32. Diembroeck, Lib. 1. Cap. 24.
*
See Miſcellan. Curioſ, Nat. dec. 2. pag. 234. Anno 6. & dec. 2. pag. 162. Anno 4.
*
See Book II. Art. Exerciſe of the underſtanding.
*
See Book III. Obſ. 62.
*
See Book II. Art. Some ſingular phenomena explained, concerning the effects of the paſſions on the underſtanding.
*
See Book II. Art. Regular thought conſidered relatively to the degree of attention which it requires.
Ibidem.
*
It is not that he who diſcovers a demonſtration has no occaſion for invention; but that the demonſtration being once diſcovered, others have only to purſue it: only the inventor of a ſcience has occaſion to reaſon; thoſe who ſucceed him have no more to do than to repeat his reaſonings.
See Book II. Art. Regular thought conſidered relatively to the degrees of attention which it requires.
Book III. Obſ. 6.
*
Book IV. Art. Organization renders the underſtanding extenſive, juſt, ſuperficial, confined, erroneous or groſs, &c.
*
This is very evident in the furor uterinus, a diſeaſe produced by the irritating quality of the ſemen, depraved by a too long continuance in the ſecretory veſſels, and in the incubus or night-mare.
*
See Book II. Art Of remembrance and recollection.
*
See Book III. Obſervations 12 and 15.
Even here remembrance and recollection are ſignified, as I obſerved above, although the term memory be made uſe of.
*
See Book II. Art. Of recollection and remembrance.
*
See Book II. Art. Penetration, ſtupidity, &c.
*
See Book III. Obſ. 15, 16.
*
See Book III. Obſ. 12.
*
See Book I. Art. Of the different motions of the body.
*
This is true even with reſpect to the inſtinct of animals, where nature ſeems to prompt every action: for although they have particular inclinations, although one may be more or leſs ſavage, more or leſs cruel than another, we ſhall nevertheleſs find them to be all ſtupid, in proportion as they are in want of this fluid; and that the ſagacity of every one is according to the dimenſions of the brain.
*
See Book I. Art. Of the organs of ſenſe conſidered, relatively to their different degrees of ſenſibility.
See Book IV. Art. Why the character of the ſoul is ever congruous to the ſtate of the body.
*
See Book IV. How organization renders Man open-hearted or a diſſembler.
*
See the Phyſiology of Le Cat, tome I. page 221. Paris edition.
*
Let it be once more noticed, that I pretend not to ſubject the whole to phyſical laws; I am well aſſured, that the ſoul partly receives its character from moral cauſes.
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4089 A philosophical essay on man Being an attempt to investigate the principles and laws of the reciprocal influence of the soul on the body pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-59AE-D