OF THE HUMAN BODY.

MAN, in common with all animals, is compoſed of two diſtinct parts, ſoul and body^*; the body being the firſt of theſe which preſents itſelf in Man, and the only one whereof our ſenſes give us any diſtinct idea, ſhall be the firſt object of conſideration.

But firſt let me contract ſo extenſive a ſubject, and endeavour to reduce it within its proper limits.

I ſhall not conſider in this work, thoſe properties of the body which it poſſeſſes in common with matter in general, ſuch as extenſion, ſolidity, gravity; nor, in ſhort, any thing which does not belong to it as an organized machine.

Neither is it neceſſary for me to undertake the anatomical deſcription of the parts [34]which compoſe this machine. To give an exact deſcription of them, is a taſk I ſhall leave to anatomiſts.

The deſign I here propoſe to myſelf, is to conſider the mechaniſm of the human body in ſome general points of view, and chieſly with reſpect to comparative anatomy; I confine myſelf to ſuch deſcriptions only of this machine, as are neceſſary to give a pro⯑per knowledge of its functions, and to en⯑able me to convey my ideas with order and preciſion.

The material part of Man forms an ad⯑mirable machine on hydraulic principles; we diſcover therein innumerable channels with fluids of various kinds, and particu⯑larly one principal fluid which gives motion to the whole. I ſhall omit the prolix ob⯑ſervations of anatomiſts, and the calcula⯑tions of Verdriers of the prodigious number of our veſſels: I ſhall only obſerve, that both the eye and the microſcope convince us, that the human body is entirely com⯑poſed of veſſels, of liquors contained in thoſe veſſels, and of membranes to which they adhere.

[35]Both veſſels and membranes are termed ſolids; all the other parts are claſſed among the fluids.

Of the SOLIDS.

The ſolid parts of the human body are all compoſed of an homogeneous ſubſtance, of a gelatinous juice, or rather of the ſo⯑lid parts of this juice, more or leſs ſepa⯑rated from the fluid, and intimately com⯑bined one with another.

In analyſing the organic parts of the animal machine, the deepeſt reſearches have ſucceeded no farther than the diſco⯑very of a ſimple fibre; and of this we judge more from the imagination than from the ſight.

From the moſt attentive examination of the carnous ſubſtance of the body, the moſt ſimple fibres which the microſcope can diſcover appear hollow, and the cli⯑mentary parts of theſe fibres, we may eaſily perceive, are compoſed of other ſmall fi⯑bres which have no cavity, much reſem⯑bling a filament of ſilk, which is com⯑poſed of many ſmaller filaments; and this fibre without a cavity is what we call a ſimple fibre, ſee fig. 1, and muſt be conſi⯑dered [36]as the organized principle of all the ſolids, ſince it is the fartheſt boundary to which our reſearches can poſſibly attain.

From this idea of the conſtruction of fibres, it will be no difficult taſk to diſco⯑ver their properties; they will be lax and ſlexible, if too much moiſtened with lymph, or if their elementary capillaments are not cloſely enough united; on the con⯑trary, they will be ſtiff and rigid if the lymph be too ſparingly ſupplied, and if their conſtituent parts are too firmly com⯑bined. The ſolid parts of the animal machine differ one from another by their texture, according as it is more or leſs compact; upon this difference depends that of their prim tive elaſticity.

Simple fibres united in a parallel direc⯑tion, and faſhioned into a cylinder, form a ſmall tube, which we term an organic fibre, or fibrillu. See fig. 11.

Many organic fibres united compoſe a muſcular fibre, ſee fig. 111, and of theſe organic and muſcular fibres are formed membranes, veſſels, the carnous ſubſtance of the body, the bones, muſcles, and the whole texture of the ſolids.

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Of the FLUIDS.

The liquors of the human body have, in common with all other fluids, fluidity, and a peculiar compoſition.

Theſe liquors are not all of the ſame kind; they differ in colour, ſmell, taſte and conſiſtence: examined chymically, they vary likewiſe; they are indeed all compoſed of an aqueous principle, which ſerves as a vehicle to the globules contain⯑ed therein, the baſis of which is earth impregnated with ſulphurous, ſaline, and ſpirituous particles: but theſe are more or leſs ſubtile in ſome, more or leſs groſs in others, and in all differently combined.

Of the fluids of the animal machine, ſome are formed, in the animal itſelf, of the juices which are extracted from the aliments, either cruſhed or diſſolved, as the chile, the blood, the bile, &c. the others come already formed from without, as the aetherial fluid, the air, &c.

A TREATISE ON THE HUMAN SOUL.

WE have hitherto conſidered Man as a phyſical being, let us now con⯑ſider him as a moral one. Let us turn our eyes inwards on ourſelves, contemplate the internal Man, and inveſtigate the na⯑ture of the ſoul: that we may do this in a manner becoming the dignity of the ſubject, let us reject the vain metaphyſical refinements of philoſophers, and wholly apply ourſelves to uſeful enquiries and im⯑portant truths.

If the body be an admirable machine, the ſoul is a ſubſtance yet more wonderful. The body indeed exiſts independent of the ſoul, but it is the ſoul which animates it.

This is that inviſible agent which actuates the limbs, which produces that harmony of motion, and all thoſe rapid and ſurpriſing movements we diſcover in the body. It is the ſoul which varies the phyſiognomy, [128]and by turns impreſſes thereon grace, ma⯑jeſty, fear, meekneſs, innocence, and love. It is this which renders the countenance the index of the mind, ſo that we read thereon the thoughts which the tongue refuſes to reveal. Without the ſoul, the body would be like a plant, ſeparated from the ſoil whence it drew its nouriſhment, and would periſh as ſoon as delivered from the womb, notwithſtanding its admirable ſtructure, from its inability, to ſelect the aliments, by which the decays of nature might be repaired. But however great this power of the ſoul may appear, it is not confined to this.

The body is undoubtedly a ſenſible be⯑ing; but it is by the ſoul only that we are enabled to judge of the union of both, and are conſcious of that intimate communica⯑tion, by which they are reciprocally ſenſi⯑ble to the impreſſions of each other, and are indeed two diſtinct beings united in one.

It is the ſoul, which renders Man an in⯑telligent and free being, by its innate energy, diſſipates the darkneſs in which nature had involved him, whereby he be⯑comes acquainted with other beings, his [129]fellow inhabitants of this earth, and ſoar⯑ing above into the celeſtial regions, makes him comprehend all nature in his ideas; and is, in fine, the cauſe of that amazing knowledge and ſagacity wherewith he is endowed.

It is the ſoul which aſſembles all the be⯑ings in nature before him, and, calling back paſt times, in ſome ſort extends his exiſtence throughout all ages; raiſes him above ſenſible objects; tranſports him into the vaſt fields of imagination; enlarges, ſo to ſpeak, the boundaries of the univerſe; creates new worlds, and enhances his enjoy⯑ments by the poſſeſſion of objects which never had a being.

In a word, the ſoul, by its knowledge and paſſions, enables this weak imperfect creature, Man, to change the face of na⯑ture; and, at his will and pleaſure, to become either its tyrant or benefactor.

But let us conſider theſe different ob⯑jects ſeparately; and examine the fa⯑culties of the ſoul, in the ſame manner as we examined the mechaniſm of the body. Let us trace them in their un⯑folding, and afterwards through the ex⯑erciſe of their functions; ſtudy the nature [130]of the paſſions; diſcover their origin; ſee in what they differ; in what manner they are produced; how nouriſhed; how they mutually aſſiſt each other; gather ſtrength; oppoſe and curb each other; and laſtly, in what manner they are combined. Theſe are the different points of view wherein I intend to conſider the ſoul: and although theſe ſubjects are, in appearance, dry and metaphyſical, yet this part of my work will probably prove more entertain⯑ment to the reader than the preceding.

Of the Faculties of the SOUL.

We have no immediate knowledge of the ſoul; all we know of it is by its fa⯑culties, and theſe are known to us only by their effects.

Man can perceive objects which are not cognizable by the ſenſes; he has therefore a ſenſibility diſtinct from that of the body.

He can compare his ſenſations, and de⯑termine their relations and difference; he has therefore a faculty of judging.

He retains the ſenſations and ideas which he receives; he is therefore endowed with memory.

[131]He poſſeſſes freedom of choice, he there⯑fore has a will.

Theſe faculties of the ſoul have been long known to philoſophers; and they are the only ones which modern philoſophy acknowledges. But if we attentively conſider human actions, there evidently appears in the ſoul another faculty, in⯑tirely different from the preceding, and is the ſame with that which in brute animals is called inſtinct: that is, a natural bias or proneneſs to particular objects, inde⯑pendent of, and prior to all knowledge.

It is this faculty which regulates the ac⯑tions of Man in the early parts of life; and ſometimes regulates them in his riper years, though without being perceived; for it is not owing to learning, nor to ex⯑perience that infants ſuck the breaſt, ap⯑ply things to the mouth, or extend their hands to the objects which pleaſe them; it is not reaſon which teaches them to fly from danger, or ſhrink from fire, when they firſt feel it burn them.

This principle is inherent in Man, though not always perceived. As it was given us to regulate our actions till ſuch time as reaſon is ſufficiently unfolded, ſo we find, [132]that in proportion as reaſon appears, in⯑ſtinct gradually vaniſhes: and in thoſe ac⯑tions which it afterwards directs, as we ſeldom examine what paſſes within us, we are unable to diſtinguſh ſuch as are to be attributed to reaſon, from thoſe which proceed from inſtinct.

A kind of titillation felt in the bo⯑dy generates love in the ſoul, but in⯑ſtinct points out the object. This is what cauſes the mutual propenſity of the ſexes, and prompts them to perpe⯑tuate their ſpecies. It is inſtinct which moves the mother to ſuckle her infant, teaches the hen to cover her eggs, and the wolf to nouriſh her young. But if Man ever had occaſion for this principle, if he ever ſtood in need of its conſtant aſſiſtance, it muſt have been in the firſt days of crea⯑tion. Let us then view Man juſt as he came out of the hands of Nature; and here we are not to have recourſe to mira⯑cles, neither are we to imagine our firſt parents had any extraordinary means of ſubſiſtance; we are to ſuppoſe the laws of nature acting, in the primordial ſtate of things, as they act at preſent, ſee⯑ing there is no reaſon to believe that they [133]have varied; let us therefore endeavour to ſupply, by philoſophical inferences, the chronology of thoſe ages which are un⯑known.

Man, at his firſt coming into the world, is feeble, helpleſs, and entirely de⯑void of knowledge; he therefore needs ſtrength, aſſiſtance, and judgment: even his ſenſes are not then developed^*; but ſuppoſing they were, he could make no uſe of them, not having as yet compared his ſenſations, much leſs diſtinguiſhed them; he perceives no external object; in a word, he is an almoſt inſenſible auto⯑maton, and a ſcarce animated ſtatue.

The ſenſes gradually unfold, and are perfected by exerciſe; by degrees an in⯑fant learns to ſee and feel; the faculties of the ſoul, afterwards expand with thoſe of the body, and riſe to perfection by ex⯑erciſe. What notion are we to form of Man's condition, during this long inter⯑val? In what manner are we to ſuppoſe [134]him to ſubſiſt, ſince we muſt not have re⯑courſe to celeſtial aid^*?

Suppoſing Man's condition, at the in⯑ſtant of his creation, in all reſpects like that of a new born infant, and that nature, in the unfolding of his or⯑gans, purſued the ſame laws as at preſent, he muſt evidently have died of hunger, long before he could even be capable of diſtinguiſhing his proper nouriſhment. The human race therefore muſt have pe⯑riſhed, had Man's original condition been a ſtate of infancy: hence nature muſt have beſtowed on Man at firſt all we want at our birth, with whatever is requiſite for animal ſubſiſtance. The evidence of facts obliges us to believe, that Man came from the hands of the Creator, of full ſtature and ſtrength, with all the ſenſes in perfection, as Pallas is ſaid to have ſprung the head of Jupiter.

Thus, although it is to be ſuppoſed that Man muſt have been created of full vi⯑gour, [105]with all his ſenſes perfect, we have yet advanced but very little: it remains to ſhew in what manner he was afterwards to ſubſiſt. It was not ſufficient to ſuppoſe him endowed with bodily ſtrength, that he knew how to avail himſelf of the in⯑formation of his ſenſes, and of the activi⯑ty of his limbs; he muſt likewiſe poſſeſs the faculty of diſtinguiſhing his aliments; for, without this, all the reſt of his en⯑dowments would have been uſeleſs. It may eaſily be conceived, in what manner Man, in proceſs of time, could be enabled to acquire this knowledge; and it is evi⯑dent, that this was not the firſt knowledge he did acquire.

When hungry or thirſty, how came he to know that eating and drinking would ſatisfy theſe cravings? Let thoſe who pretend to deduce every thing from reaſon and experience, ſolve this problem. Confine Man's ſaculties to ſimple reaſon, and leave him to be inſtructed by flow ex⯑perience, his whole life will be ſpent before he can attain the knowledge of his ali⯑ments; ſo that he might die of hunger at the ſoot of a tree loaden with fruit, [136]of thirſt on the bank of a river; or, from his ignorance of the nature of co⯑medible ſubſtances, eat poiſon. What then muſt have become of Man, had he been without inſtinct, his only infallible guide. Who does not ſee that, with this boaſted reaſon, the human race had periſhed, notwithſtanding all the precau⯑tions of nature for their preſervation.

Some think to elude the neceſſity of in⯑ſtinct to Man, by alledging, that he imi⯑tated the beaſts; but this is only ſhun⯑ning the difficulty, not ſolving it.

Taking it for granted that Man imitat⯑ed the beaſts, it is evident, that this pro⯑penſity to imitation, muſt have been in⯑nate and prior to all knowledge: but how came Man by this propenſity to imitate them? Beſides, doth not this imitation ſuppoſe in Man a knowledge he could not have as yet acquired; a knowledge of the phyſical relation, between his nature and that of beaſts? How many difficulties ſtand in the way of this hypotheſis! And what a concurrence of circum⯑ſtances muſt be imagined! We muſt firſt prove, that Man was endowed with ca⯑pacity to obſerve the brute animals; and [137]then ſhew how he came to confine his imi⯑tation of them to certain particular caſes; as for inſtance, why he imitated the goat, on⯑ly when it brouſed on the tendrils of the vine, and not when it cropped the hem⯑lock; for otherwiſe he would have found a poiſon where he ſought for food.

Hence it is evident, that by attributing to Man an inſtinct, whereby he ſupported himſelf in imitation of the inſtinct of brute animals, and admitting him to have imitated them in thoſe caſes only which are conformable to his nature, we attribute to him a guide different from reaſon. It were more eligible to allow him an inſtinct, by which he is enabled of himſelf to diſcern his proper nouriſhment; inſtead of allow⯑ing him any faculty which is ſtill reſolvable into inſtinct, though of another kind, and ſerves only to multiply difficulties unavoid⯑able on ſuch a ſuppoſition.

Reaſon then could not be a ſufficient guide to Man; we muſt therefore allow him to poſſeſs an inſtinct, as an additional men⯑tal faculty whereby he is directed, like other animals, in the choice of his proper aliments.

Of INNATE SENTIMENTS.

Beſides theſe faculties, there is in the ſoul an innate ſentiment, prior to all ſenſa⯑tion, and to all ideas with which nature has connected the preſervation of human beings; I mean ſelf-love, that powerful principle, which irreſiſtibly directs man⯑kind in all their actions, often without being perceived, the ſource of every paſ⯑ſion, and the end to which all our deſires are directed.

As this love is unbounded, and infinite⯑ly more ſtrong than the love of others, ſimple as it is, it has been divided into two ſentiments, different in their nature and effects, viz. love of ourſelves, and love of preference: but it is eaſily per⯑ceived, that theſe are but one and the ſame affection of the ſoul, which is only diſtinguiſhable by circumſtances.

When the love of ourſelves acts ſimply in Man, without his comparing himſelf with others, it is a ſentiment prompting him to ſeek after happineſs or pleaſure, and to fly from pain.

When it acts in oppoſition to the ad⯑vantage of others, it induces Man to pre⯑fer [139]himſelf to every other conſideration, and to purſue his own good, even to the prejudice of his friend. In the firſt caſe, the love of ſelf, prompting us inceſſantly to purſue happineſs, becomes the ſource of a vaſt number of pleaſing ſentiments, with regard to the objects of our pleaſure. In the ſecond, the love of ſelf annihilates every other ſentiment, and changes its na⯑ture. It is this which turns fraternal af⯑fection into hatred, arms rival brothers for their reciprocal deſtruction, and inſtigates them to mutual murders on the ruins of a father's throne. It is this which, among ſavage nations, inſtils fury into the breaſt of warriors, ſteels the victor's boſom againſt his vanquiſhed foe, ſo as even to make him devour the entrails of the ſlain yet palpitat⯑ing with life. It is this which, in a city be⯑ſet by an enemy without, and preſſed by famine within, transforms the tender na⯑ture of females to ſavage fury, and makes the mother deſtroy the fruit of her womb. It is this, in a word, which inſpires all thoſe cruel deeds, all thoſe ſanguinary actions, which nature recoils to hear mentioned.

Another ſentiment innate in the human heart, and which is felt only at intervals, [140]is maternal affection, that indearing pro⯑penſity, on which the preſervation of our ſpecies during infancy depends.

This ſentiment is independent of every other, and is as blind and undiſcerning in its manner of acting as inſtinct itſelf^*. A modern author has attempted to deduce it from ſelf-love. ‘The mother, ſays he, at firſt nouriſhes her little ones for her own, afterwards for their good.’ But how did the firſt mother know, that the ſuckling her child would be of ſervice to herſelf? Beſides, in how many other inſtances doth this affection appear? Con⯑ſtraint, diſagreeable offices, every kind of ſelf-denial, become pleaſing taſks to a mo⯑ther, and troubleſome though they be, yet ſhe conſtantly diſcharges them at the ex⯑pence of her pleaſure, reſt, and often of life itſelf:—how many dangers do ſome mothers voluntarily undergo for the pre⯑ſervation of their offspring!

It is no leſs abſurd, to deduce this af⯑fection from friendſhip. On what ideas of the merit of a new born infant, incapa⯑ble of communicating any pleaſure, and [141]ſcarce one remove from ſtupidity, can it be founded?

Hence it is evident, that the love of mothers for their offspring is a ſentiment impreſſed on the human heart by the Creator.

A Refutation of the Opinion of Philoſophers concerning PITY.

Some philoſophers to the number of in⯑nate ſentiments already mentioned add pity—that gentle emotion which mode⯑rates the love of ſelf; intereſts the happy in the ſufferings of their fellow creatures, and by the bond of philanthropy unites all human kind.

‘We ſympathize with the unhappy, we weep at the plaintive ſorrow of the unfortunate, and are moved with the cries of thoſe who are in pain.’

‘At the ſight of a ravenous beaſt, tearing the tender body of an infant, we feel extreme anguiſh, and the ſoul un⯑dergoes excruciating agitations.’

‘Pity is ſo natural a ſentiment, that it precedes reflection, and even brute ani⯑mals have evident marks of it.’

[142] ‘A horſe ſtarts back at the ſight of a dead one, one dog licks the wounds of another, and cattle, when driven to the ſlaughter-houſe, vent doleful cries.’

Theſe are the proofs whereon thoſe philoſophers ground their opinion.

At firſt ſight it appears to be well found⯑ed, but it is eaſy to conceive, that nature formed not Man originally compaſſionate. All men have not pity, ſavages but little, children leſs, and Man, who, if this opinion were true, ought to give the moſt evident proofs of it, in the early part of life, betrays not the leaſt ſign of any ſuch ſentiment.

If pity is an innate ſentiment, why the human heart is void of it in infancy? Why, in thoſe who are inſane from their birth, ſhould this principle be likewiſe wholly imperceptible, ſeeing they are not deprived of the other faculties of the ſoul?

‘Pity is a ſentiment ſo natural, that the brute creation have many works of it.’

What foundation is there for this aſſer⯑tion?

‘A horſe ſtarts back at the ſight of a dead one; one dog licks the wounds of another; and cattle, when driven to the place of ſlaughter, vent doleful cries.’

[143]But who is aſſured that this is not an inſtinct peculiar to brutes? Who knows, whether theſe external ſigns be not the effect of ſome diſagreeable ſenſation, or rather, of fear excited by the horror of the ſight, than marks of compaſſion.

Even in Man, the external marks of pity are not pity itſelf; we may have the ſtrongeſt appearance of being affected, and not feel the leaſt emotion. A perſon may zealouſly aſſiſt in dreſſing another's wounds, eaſing his aching limbs, and al⯑leviating his misfortunes, merely from the hope of being relieved in his turn; ano⯑ther, from a motive of being upon good terms with heaven; and a third, wholly from the pleaſure attendant on the exer⯑ciſe of virtue.

He alone who, on ſeeing the ſufferings of the unfortunate, compaſſionates their lot, is a compaſſionate man. Now with a little reflection we may perceive, that pity is an artificial ſentiment, acquired in ſociety; it is founded on the idea of pain, and the relations in which Man ſtands with reſpect to ſenſible beings. For, to pity the miſeries of others, he muſt firſt have an idea of them; he that has never ſuf⯑fered, [144]nor has any idea of pain, is un⯑moved at the tears, complaints, the long and vehement cries of the ſorrowful heart; the ſight of the ſufferings of others does not affect him; their wounds appear diſ⯑guſtful; he ſhuns the ſight of them, and keeps aloof, but never commiſerates them.

‘To pity, we muſt be acquainted with the ſufferings of our fellow-creatures, but not feel them. When we know by experience what pain is, we pity thoſe who ſuffer; but when we ourſelves are in pain, we then feel only what we ourſelves undergo. In every ſtation ſubject to the calamities of life, we allow to others that ſhare of our ſen⯑ſibility only which we have no occaſion for ourſelves.’ Pity is therefore evi⯑dently no more than our own ſenſibility, directed by an act of the mind towards thoſe with whom we ſympathize. Thus pity and ſelf love are always in an inverſe proportion.

They who, from an exceſs of delicacy, and a continual habit of indulging them⯑ſelves in every ſort of pleaſure, are not affected by the ſufferings of others; their [145]ſenſibility is conſtantly employed on them⯑ſelves; they are altogether unconcerned about all beings beſides, and their hearts are ſteeled againſt the ſufferings of man⯑kind. In proportion as this love of ſelf increaſes, pity decays, and frequently be⯑comes extinct.

He who now melts into tears at the diſ⯑treſſes of the unfortunate, was he his enemy, inſtead of alleviating, would ag⯑gravate his misfortunes.

Nero, who wiſhed he had never learn⯑ed to write when preſſed to ſign the war⯑rant for a criminal's execution, could delight in the murder of his enemies. The tyrant^*, that loudly bewailed the fate of Hecuba and Andromache, as repre⯑ſented on the ſtage, could hear without emotion the cries of thoſe he had doomed to deſtruction.

Pity is not only deſtroyed by the paſſions; it is even generated in the heart only by prudent reflections, is nouriſhed only by tender ſentiments, and is extinguiſhed by the frequency of thoſe objects, which ought naturally to confirm it. Let us ſup⯑poſe a man has never heard any one diſcourſe [146]on ideas of juſtice, goodneſs, clemency and generoſity: he muſt remain for ever ignorant of the very names of thoſe vir⯑tues. By a frequent attendance at thoſe bloody feaſts, which, in ſome great cities, are given by avarice to idleneſs, you will ſoon loſe all ſenſe of the ſtrong emotions you had hitherto felt at the cries of man⯑gled animals; in time you will hear them with pleaſure, and wait impatiently for a repetition of them. By often frequenting them, the ſoul becomes callous to their impreſſions; is unaffected with the proſpect of human miſeries, and inſenſible to every tender emotion.

Does not theſe reaſons prove, that pity is not a native of the human breaſt?

The different powers of the foul, may therefore be reduced to theſe following, viz. ſenſibility, inſtinct, underſtanding, memory, will, ſelf-love, and maternal af⯑fection.

When we conſider the mutual connex⯑ion and dependence of theſe different pow⯑ers, we readily perceive, that every pro⯑duction of genius, the effects of the paſ⯑ſions, and all the other wonderful pheno⯑mena [147]of the mind, are produced by their combination.

What an admirable harmony! where ſo ſmall a number of ſimple cauſes are united in ſo incomprehenſible a manner, as to produce ſo many and ſo extraordi⯑nary effects.

The different faculties^* and various ſentiments immediately received by the ſoul from nature being diſcovered, I now proceed to examine theſe faculties, ſee how they operate, and in what propor⯑tions they are combined.

Of SENSIBILITY.

The nature of the ſenſibility of the ſoul is no better known than that of the body; all our knowledge of it is, that ſenſibility, whether of the ſoul or of the body, is a paſſive faculty, requiring the impreſſion of external objects to ſet it in action.

The different impreſſions ſenſibility re⯑ceives, may be ranged, in reſpect to [148]their objects, into two claſſes, viz. ſenſations and ſentiments.

The former ariſe from material objects, the latter from moral ones.

[...]f INSTINCT.

Inſtinct, that occult faculty, which is neither derived from principle nor prior knowledge, the mode of whoſe operations is ſo ſingular, and which is, moreover, intirely accompliſhed by nature, intereſts us but very little. The notice I ſhall take of it as I proceed, will be therefore very inconſiderable.

Of the UNDERSTANDING.

All our knowledge of the underſtanding is derived from that of its operations only; we are ignorant of its eſſence, as we are of that of thought. But how won⯑derful is this faculty! How ſurprizing its operations! As an active principle, it per⯑ceives objects, compares, unites, and diſ⯑joins them in a thouſand ways, judges or their relations: by theſe different com⯑binations it acquires the knowledge of things, unravels the ſyſtem of the uni⯑verſe, tranſports us into futurity, recalls [149]paſt ages, collects into one point all the pleaſures of life, extends our exiſtence be⯑yond the grave, and triumphs over death itſelf.

The underſtanding, though active by nature, has undoubtedly need of the ſen⯑ſations to enable it to act, but operates of itſelf when it has received this aſſiſtance: it is the will which ſelects the objects of its operations; but it is the underſtanding alone which perceives them, determines on their relations, and forms its judgment without our interpoſition.

There are two diſtinct powers in the underſtanding, which philoſophers have ever confounded^*, viz. the power of per⯑ceiving, conſidering, and comparing ob⯑jects; and the power of judging of their relations. One of theſe is the baſis of the other, and neceſſarily precedes it: by the firſt, we compare the different ſenſa⯑tions in their ſeveral appearances; by the ſecond, we judge of their relations, and thence form our ideas.

[150]We divide the underſtanding with re⯑ſpect to its modes of judging, into reaſon and imagination: theſe are ſimple modi⯑fications of the ſame power, which philo⯑ſophers have taken, from I know not what cauſe, for two different faculties of the ſoul.

When the underſtanding is employed in comparing ſenſations, which are either immediately received, or tranſmitted from the memory, and when it judges of their real relations, it is called reaſon. When the ſame faculty is exerciſed on the ſame objects differently combined, and when it forms ſuch an aſſemblage as has no model in nature, it is called imagination.

It was reaſon which ſuggeſted thoſe ſtriking characters of men we find in Shakeſpeare. It was imagination which collected whatever is beautiful in nature on one hand, and whatever is horrible on the other, to form thoſe admirable de⯑ſcriptions of Elyſium and Tartarus in Virgil.

How different ſoever reaſon and imagi⯑nation may appear, they are certainly one and the ſame faculty, diſtinguiſhed by the different mode of exertion only. If we con⯑ſider [151]them but for a moment as different faculties, we may juſtly reproach thoſe who have hitherto treated upon this ſub⯑ject, with having improperly diſtinguiſhed them, and with not having rightly defin⯑ed their extent.

Even Helvetius, who has more minutely handled this ſubject, has too much con⯑fined the power of the imagination, by de⯑fining it the power of conceiving things in a figurative manner, and of rendering ideas by images. If it is the imagination which gives being to a ſphynx, creates the gar⯑dens of Heſperides, or the inchanted Iſle of Armida: it is ſtill the ſame faculty which, with the help of atoms, lines, ſur⯑faces, and ſolids, builds the worlds of Epicurus and Des Cartes. It is the ima⯑gination which collects the different events of human life in romance, combines them, forms intrigues, like thoſe which the paſ⯑ſions are capable of producing, and gives them the air of true hiſtory, though they are only the work of genius and ſenſibi⯑lity. It is imagination that launches into futurity, prevents the rapid flight of time, tranſports us beyond the grave, reſtores [152]ſenſibility to our aſhes, and eludes the power of death.

The peculiar characteriſtic of the ima⯑gination is invention; I have ſaid, that its productions are not formed upon any model in nature; ſuch a model may indeed exiſt, but muſt not be known, otherwiſe it is no longer invention, and all is reduced to mere narration: the picture then becomes a copy; the romance, a hiſtory; and imagination, reaſon.

Of the FORMATION of our IDEAS.

We diſtinguiſh objects by their reſpec⯑tive ſenſations. On comparing theſe dif⯑ferent objects, we find in them ſome com⯑mon properties, and ſome that are peculiar to each object. The knowledge of the properties and relations common to differ⯑ent individuals, are called ideas.

Of this ſort are the ideas of extenſion, impenetrability, gravity; properties com⯑mon to all matter: as alſo that of a trian⯑gle, taken from the meeting of three right lines at their extremities.

The more conſiderable the number of ſingle objects, whoſe properties are common [153]is, the more extenſive is the idea: the idea of body, for inſtance, is much more extenſive than the idea of metal.

Although every idea is a particular one, yet there is no ſimple idea of any ſingle object, much leſs of ſpecies or kind; becauſe every idea is compoſed of thoſe properties which objects, when compared, have in com⯑mon: now every individual object, every ſpecies, and every kind, beſides thoſe common properties, have ſeveral which are peculiar. What metaphyſicians have given for ſimple ideas, and even Locke him⯑ſelf, is only a compound of abſtract ideas. We may eaſily be aſſured of this, by ana⯑lyſing their definitions; how great ſo ever the number of ideas which enter into the maſs may be, you will oftentimes find that number too ſmall, to define the object whoſe idea they are intended to convey; as in the ideas of Man, animal, virtue, plant, &c.

Hence ariſe thoſe eternal diſputes, to which almoſt every metaphyſical enquiry is liable, and to which they have ſo fre⯑quently given riſe. Hence the many ab⯑ſurd concluſions which flow from the ſyſ⯑tems of philoſophers; examine their defi⯑nitions, and you will find the idea of a vir⯑tuous [154]man, according to Socrates, very different from that of a virtuous man, ac⯑cording to Diogenes; and the idea of Man in Ariſtotle, is by no means the ſame with the idea of Man in Plato. What ſeems to have led metaphyſicians into this error was, that, as the ſeveral properties of bo⯑dies appear always combined in the ſame ſubject and always the ſame, they inferred, that they muſt all appertain to the ſame ſubject, and when they affixed a name to that ſubject, they conſidered the aſſem⯑blage of theſe qualities, not as a com⯑pound idea, as it really is, but as a ſim⯑ple uncompounded idea.

Although every idea may be equally abſtract, all are not of the ſame nature. Some, which are formed from the rela⯑tions of corporeal beings compared toge⯑ther, have only material properties for their objects; ſuch are the ideas of exten⯑ſion, burning, hardneſs, motion, &c.

Others, which are formed from the re⯑lations of ſenſitive, active, and intelligent beings, compared together, have only in⯑tellectual properties for their objects; of this ſort are the ideas of goodneſs, juſtice, beauty, &c.

[155]The former are denominated phyſical, the latter moral ideas; by the firſt we ac⯑quire the knowledge of the material cre⯑ation; by the latter, we are tranſported to the intellectual world, and acquire the knowledge of ſpirits^*

Of MEMORY.

How many different words! How many adventures! How many volumes are contained in Man's memory! How many languages! What a field of hiſtory and chronology! But what is the nature of memory, this vaſt receptacle of ſo ma⯑ny ſenſations, and ſo many ideas; where [156]ſo many acquirements are depoſited, where events, ſwallowed up by time and never to return, are preſerved from the eternal night of oblivion; where times which are no more, enjoy a kind of perpetuity? A new prodigy this! as admirable as the underſtanding itſelf, and concerning whoſe nature and origin we are equally in the dark.

Memory is grounded on the ſenſations and ideas, but is entirely different both from ſenſibility and from the intellect. With⯑out ſenſibility, there can be no ſenſations; without the intellect, there can be no ideas: but when the ſenſations are once received, and the ideas formed, the ſoul no longer requires the aid of theſe facul⯑ties to retain them. Hence memory is a particular faculty; and is the power of preſerving the impreſſions and ideas of objects which have affected us; in a word, it is the mirror^* of paſt ſenſations, ideas, and ſentiments, as ſenſibility is the mir⯑ror [157]of ſenſations and ſentiments which are preſent to us.

Of REMEMBRANCE and RECOLLECTION.

Philoſophers have fallen into as groſs errors with regard to the memory, as they have with regard to the underſtanding.

[159] Locke, the firſt rational metaphyſician, he who reſcued the ſcience from that chaos of obſcurity, in which it was involved by [160]the ſchools, has defined memory, ‘the power to revive again in our minds thoſe ideas which, after imprinting, have diſappeared, or have been laid a⯑ſide out of ſight.’ They who ſucceed⯑ed him, have given the ſame definition. Some moderns, who obſerved the poſſibi⯑lity of remembering an idea without the power of recollecting it, have with reaſon ſuppoſed that Locke is miſtaken. They diſtinguiſhed in the ſoul memory^*, re⯑membrance, recollection, and made them ſo many particular faculties, in which they are miſtaken in their turn. For if we care⯑fully [161]conſider the mutual connexion of our faculties, we eaſily perceive, that re⯑membrance and recollection are only ef⯑fects of our different intellectual powers, reciprocally combined.

When the ſoul is affected with ſenſa⯑tions and ideas; the retention of theſe ſenſations and ideas I call memory.

We frequently experience the ſame ſen⯑ſations and ideas, which we have experi⯑enced before; the reproduction of theſe ſenſations and ideas, with a ſenſe of their identity, is what I call remembrance.

We can aſſemble at pleaſure a ſeries of paſt ideas and ſenſations; this faculty I ſhall term recollection.

Memory is a faculty purely paſſive like ſenſibility; but the remembering of par⯑ticular ſenſations or particular ideas, is not ſimply the perceiving our ſenſations pre⯑ſent and paſt, but the knowing the ſen⯑ſation or idea, which we actually experi⯑ence, to be the ſame we experienced be⯑fore.

The memory is the power of retaining paſt impreſſions. Senſibility that of per⯑ceiving thoſe which are preſent to us: one is the ſtorehouſe of things paſt; the [162]other, of things preſent: but it is in the underſtanding alone that the power reſides, of perceiving in theſe ſtorehouſes, things paſt and preſent, of conſidering and com⯑paring them, and determining, whether their impreſſions are altogether new, or only reproduced; in a word, the under⯑ſtanding alone is conſcious of their iden⯑tity. Hence we perceive that remem⯑brance is not a ſimple faculty, but is compounded of memory, ſenſibility and underſtanding.

In recollection likewiſe, it is not the memory that retraces paſt ſenſations and paſt ideas in our minds: if we attend ever ſo little to what is paſſing within us during the ſucceſſion of our thoughts, we may be convinced, that it is the underſtanding alone, as being continually actuated with ſome ſenſation, or idea, which paſſes from thoſe with which it is actually affected, to analogous ſenſations, and to ideas which have formerly affected it, and which thus recalls paſt things to the mind by means of analogy. Thus, when we chuſe to recollect any ſenſations or ideas, we per⯑ceive them ready to preſent themſelves, [163]as ſoon as the mind runs over the neareſt analogies.

If this power of rendering preſent to the mind, the ſenſations and ideas treaſured up in the memory, ſometimes act without our interpoſition, it is alſo ſometimes ſubject to the will. Recollection is not therefore a ſimple faculty, but the aggregate of many faculties united. In remembrance, memory is combined with the underſtand⯑ing, and preſent ſenſations; in recollection it is combined with the underſtanding and the will, but without theſe ſenſations. It is thus that theſe different faculties jointly produce remembrance and recol⯑lection.

Of the WILL.

It remains, that we enquire into the nature of the will; a ſingular faculty, which is ſometimes directed by the under⯑ſtanding, but is always governed by ſentiment; has a ſtrong propenſity to pleaſure, and abhorrence of pain; and, from that mixture of good and evil, which the underſtanding preſents to it, chooſes the one, rejects the other, and with an abſolute authority determines [164]Man towards action or reſt. We are ac⯑quainted with the nature of the will only by our conſciouſneſs of its exiſtence and effects; notwithſtanding all our efforts to dive farther into its nature, and let our ſagacity be ever ſo great, our endeavour, will ſerve only to involve us in darkneſs and confuſion.

The will, conſidered in its effects, is a faculty ſometimes active, and ſometimes paſſive. Active, when it impels man to action; paſſive, when ſwayed by ſenſation.

The will is always ſubordinate to ſenſation; for man is by nature conti⯑nually under the influence of ſenſibility, and can no more reſiſt its dictates, than he can will his own hurt, or oppoſe his happineſs.

Origin of the different Sentiments of the SOUL.

The love of happineſs is innate in every heart, like the love of ourſelves from which it is derived.

Every man loves himſelf; but nature, by creating him ſubject to wants, has not permitted him to love himſelf alone. The whole of his ſenſibility therefore cannot be centered within himſelf; there [165]are things in nature, to which he is connect⯑ed by the heart and affections. Man can⯑not, like the ſupreme Being, be happy in the contemplation of himſelf, and with⯑out the aſſiſtance of others. The inex⯑preſſible anguiſh we ſuffer from the loſs of a friend that was dear to us, flows only from a vacuity in the heart; reaſon diſ⯑covers the void, and till ſome new object offers to poſſeſs it, our grief continues.

Senſible beings can only be affected by pleaſure and pain. The ſoul therefore receives only two kinds of ſenſations, the pleaſing and the painful: theſe two ſenſa⯑tions are differently modified, but they are always diſtinguiſhed by two general characters only. There are no indifferent ſenſations: thoſe which are ſo called are but the loweſt degrees of pleaſing or pain⯑ful ſenſations, too weak to influence the ſoul, and determine its action. But as Man is a compound of two ſenſible ſub⯑ſtances, and as each of theſe ſubſtances has its particular object, there are two kinds of the pleaſing ſenſations, and two kinds of the painful, viz. the ſenſations of the body, and the ſenſations of the ſoul.

[166]The impreſſions of objects on the ſenſes are tranſmitted to the ſoul, and there the ſenſations unite: hence the ſoul partakes of the pleaſures and pains of the body; the ſoul likewiſe has ſenſations which are peculiar to itſelf.

Thus all the good we enjoy, and all the evil we ſuffer, proceed from two different ſources, viz. moral and phyſical objects. Man therefore receives impreſſions of plea⯑ſure both from objects which act on the body, and on thoſe which are purely in⯑tellectual: the latter are called the plea⯑ſures of the mind, and the former, bodily pleaſures. The ſame diviſion will alſo ap⯑ply to painful ſenſations: and from theſe, according to the predominancy of either, proceed all the happineſs and miſery of human life.

We muſt be careful to diſtinguiſh ſen⯑ſation from ſentiment. Senſation is a pleaſ⯑ing or painful affection of the ſoul, pro⯑duced by the impreſſion of objects on the ſenſes. Sentiment is a ſtrong affection of the ſoul, produced by the relation which the underſtanding perceives between us and phyſical or moral objects.

[167]Every object that affects us, if its ſen⯑ſation be pleaſing, inſtantly creates in the ſoul the ſentiment of love; or, if its ſen⯑ſation be the reverſe, the ſentiment of ha⯑tred: for it is a conſequence of the love of ourſelves, that we love what is profi⯑table to us, and hate what is prejudicial to us.

From theſe ſentiments of love and ha⯑tred, combined with our different ſitua⯑tions in reſpect of the objects of our ſen⯑ſations, proceed many other ſentiments. When we are agreeably affected by any object, which it is in our power to enjoy at will, a ſudden pleaſing calm creeps on our ſenſes, our wiſhes ſeem ſatisfied, the ſoul ſinks into joy, and is inſenſible to every other ſentiment. But if this object be not within our reach, the privation of it excites in the ſoul deſire, attended with a painful emotion. On the con⯑trary, if the ſenſation be diſagreeable, and we cannot avoid the impreſſion of the object which cauſes it, we experience nei⯑ther joy nor deſire; and ſentiments of grief and averſion ariſe in the ſoul.

From our different ſituations with re⯑gard to different objects, ariſe two other [168]emotions, hope and fear; hope, is that ſooth⯑ing and delightful ſentiment which ena⯑bles us to ſupport the load of life, when under the oppreſſion of misfortunes; fear, on the contrary, is a painful ſentiment, which has been often known to ſhorten the duration of Man's exiſtence.

Hope and fear are affections of the ſoul analogous to joy and ſadneſs, and, as it were, ſhades of theſe affections. Joy and ſadneſs are extremely active ſentiments: one ſprings from the pleaſure of enjoy⯑ment; the other from the pain of ſuffering.

Hope and fear are moderate ſentiments, proceeding from ſadneſs and joy. The firſt ſprings from the probable view of hap⯑pineſs; the other from the probable view of miſery: their force is ever proportion⯑ate to the degrees of the reſpective pro⯑bability, ſo that when theſe degrees are ſo multiplied as to approach very near to⯑wards certainty, the difference of the ſhades becomes imperceptible: thus hope inſenſibly becomes joy; and fear, ſadneſs.

Accordingly joy and hope are the chear⯑ful attendants on pleaſure: ſadneſs and fear, the gloomy attendants on pain.

[169]This is the origin of our deſires and paſſions, which on examination appear to be the effect of ſentiments inſpired by na⯑ture, combined with the underſtanding and the will. It is not however the ſame with that which has been aſſigned by a modern philoſopher^*, celebrated for his extenſive knowledge, elegant ſtile, and love of ſyſtem. As the authourity of this writer is of great weight, and as it might be prejudicial to truth were his opinion to prevail, I will offer ſuch reaſons as will prebably determine the reader to reject it.

Baſſon pretends, that our appetites and paſſions are wholly phyſical; becauſe they [170]naturally ariſe from our ſenſations^*. To demonſtrate the falſity of this argument, we need only diſtinguiſh in our ſentiments, that part which proceeds from phyſical, from that which proceeds from moral cauſes; let us analyſe them again, ſetting apart that which belongs to the ſenſes; the remaining part will neceſſarily belong to the ſoul.

I have ſhewn, that whenever any object affects us, there ariſes in the ſoul a ſenti⯑ment of love or hatred for it; the cauſe of this has been already pointed our. Although theſe ſentiments are neceſſarily produced by means of the ſenſations; although the ſoul cannot poſſibly receive any o⯑thers; and although their relations are al⯑ways the ſame with regard to the nature and force of theſe ſenſations, they are not however their neceſſary, nor their on⯑ly effect: for it does not follow, that be⯑cauſe the ſenſation is produced, the ſenti⯑ment muſt likewiſe of neceſſity be produ⯑ced; [171]there muſt alſo exiſt in the ſoul, a propenſity or averſion to the object. This propenſity and this averſion are the effect of the love of ourſelves combined with the underſtanding, which alone judges of the relations ſubſiſting between the im⯑preſſions of theſe objects and our happi⯑neſs. But what affords us a vonvincing proof of this is, that, if the object be cor⯑poreal, when the impreſſion produced on the organ has been communicated to the ſoul, the organ has entirely performed its office, and has no longer any influence; it has yet leſs when the object is of a mo⯑ral nature; for in ſuch a caſe the ſenſes have nothing to do in it. Therefore the ſentiments of love or hatred are only acts of the ſoul, which perceives the relation of objects to our well-being, and has a conſe⯑quent propenſity or averſion thereto. So that the paſſions of love and hate have in them ſomething of an higher nature, and are not purely phyſical.

But to continue our analyſis.

Deſire has always a ſentiment of love for its baſis, as averſion has a ſentiment of hatred: and ſince every ſentiment has an object, the ſenſations are therefore abſolutely [172]neceſſary to give birth to deſire and aver⯑ſion, but do not produce them; for, al⯑though the ſenſation be ever ſo frequently impreſſed on the ſoul, deſire would never enſue, if the underſtanding did not diſco⯑ver the relation of objects to us. This is ſo true, that fools and ideots, who cannot perceive this relation, do not experience the deſire accompanying theſe ſenſations. Our paſſions therefore are not merely phy⯑ſical, ſince they are only ſtrong deſires, or ſtrong averſions ariſing ſucceſſively in the mind, during a long interval. The con⯑currence of three things is neceſſary to give riſe to the paſſions, viz. ſenſation; the love of pleaſure or the hatred of pain; and the judgment of the ſoul on the relation ſubſiſting between our well-being and the objects which affect us. All the paſſions are therefore mere emotions of the ſoul; and it is in this ſpiritual principle that we muſt look for the origin of pride, ambi⯑tion, avarice, and even of thoſe paſſions which are altogether ſenſual^*.

Of the PASSIONS in particular.

Our different ſentiments aſſume differ⯑ent denominations, from their different degrees of force and duration.

When the ſentiments of love and hatred, deſire and averſion, are violent, and are inceſſantly renewed during a conſiderable time, they are denominated paſſions; when they are weak and of ſhort duration, they are termed likings.

We divide the paſſions into predominant and ſubordinate. In the latter, our hearts are influenced for a ſhort time by ſome particular ſentiment: in the former, ſome particular ſentiment reigns ſupreme in the ſoul, and lords it over every other deſire.

What Man could be more voluptuous than Julius Caeſar? What Man had a greater number of miſtreſſes? Beſides his wives, four of whom he divorced, he in⯑trigued with the queen of Bythinia, Cleo⯑patra; [174]Eunoe, queen of Mauritania; Poſ⯑thumia, wife of Servius Sulpitius; Lollia, wife of Gabinus; Tertullia, wife of Craſ⯑ſus; Mutius, wife of Pompey; Servilia, ſiſter to Cato, and with others beſides. Pleaſure, however, was not his ruling paſſion. Love, that drew off the atten⯑tion of Mare Anthony from the manage⯑ment of public affairs, never loſt Caeſar a ſingle moment, nor made him neglect one opportunity of advancing his power. — Ambition was the predominant paſſion of Caeſar^*! Every paſſion, more or leſs, influences the actions of men: but as the ruling paſſion is their leading principle of action, it ſtamps a general character on their whole conduct. When once it gets poſſeſſion of the heart, it governs with an abſolute ſway, continually impelling it to the purſuit of its object, independent of all the ſubordinate paſſions which oppoſe its career.

Every paſſion is grounded on love or hatred. Sometimes the paſſions are wholly confined to theſe ſentiments; at [175]other times theſe ſentiments are found u⯑nited with ſome others; as fear, hope, eſ⯑teem, contempt, relatively to our ſitua⯑tion in reſpect of the object of our love or hatred, and to the merit of the object with which we compare ourſelves. Such is pride, a paſſion compoſed of the ſenti⯑ments of love and eſteem for ourſelves ex⯑cluſively: ſuch is anger, a paſſion com⯑pounded of the ſentiment of ſadneſs, oc⯑caſioned by misfortunes, and of hatred for the authors of them.

The ſimple paſſions of hatred and love aſſume different denominations, according to their objects. Love becomes avarice, friendſhip, luſt, ambition; according as it is directed towards riches, a friend, wo⯑men, honours.

And as every paſſion has ſome object, which affects either the ſenſes or the mind, we further diſtinguiſh them into ſenſual and artificial paſſions.

To the former claſs belong luſt, glut⯑tony, drunkenneſs; to the latter, vanity, love of glory, and of all thoſe phantoms which opinion eſteems bleſſings, and which ſelf-love ſo earneſtly hankers after.

[176]He muſt never have reflected on the ob⯑jects of the paſſions, who knows not, that all men of good conſtitution agree as to the former claſs of the paſſions; although in the other they differ widely. All men deſire, in a greater or leſs degree, the pleaſures of the table, of the ſex, of muſic, odours, painting; but there are ſome men entirely without ambition, and others in⯑ſenſible to glory. One chiefly eſteems the trifling advantage of beauty, and ſpends his life in admiring his bodily advantages: another takes a pleaſure in diſplaying his large poſſeſſions, and is delighted with the extreme pain he gives thoſe who envy his glory and happineſs: another finds charms in an indolent life, or in the ſilent contemplation of the wonders of na⯑ture. Thus all are engroſſed by artificial pleaſures, and of theſe, each has ſome plea⯑ſure peculiar to himſelf.

He muſt likewiſe never have reflected on the objects of our diſterent affections, who knows not, that the number of the artificial paſſions greatly exceeds that of the ſenſual. The latter are limited to the number of our ſenſes; whereas the for⯑mer, being the effect of opinion, are infi⯑nite; [177]for the mind is inceſſantly active, and ever prone to invent novelties. The ſenſes, as it were, chain us to the earth, whilſt the imagination tranſports us above it, and, being limited by no ſpace, raiſes us above our equals, and exalts us to angels or Gods.

Refutation of a Sophiſm of HELVETIUS.

It has been ſaid, that the paſſions are only the voice of the ſenſes; and a phi⯑loſopher of the preſent age has vainly tortured his brain to explain this paradox.

It is certain, that many paſſions are de⯑pendent on the ſenſes, from the nature of their object; and many likewiſe are, in ap⯑pearance, continued onwards to the ſoul by means of ſome falſe relations, con⯑cerning which, we may eaſily undeceive ourſelves: but how many of the paſſions are wholly dependent on the mind? And how many of them have only imaginary objects?

The chief happineſs in a Roman tri⯑umph was no more than the pleaſure the victor took in dragging at his car vanquiſh⯑ed monarchs loaden with chains, and in [178]diſplaying to the gazing populace the tro⯑phies of his proueſs; and the repeated ac⯑clamations of the public? The charms of love conſiſt ſolely in the idea of being beloved by the object of our paſſion. Sen⯑ſual love has merely groſs enjoyment for its end; but true love is only ſatisfied with the heart.

Let us leave the ſophiſtical author de l'Eſprit, to deduce every paſſion from phy⯑ſical ſenſibility; but he never can deduce from thence the love of glory, that vain incenſe which ignorance and wretchedneſs offer at the ſhrine of power, valour, and genius, and whereof great minds are ſo covetous.

To prove this, I will not plead that wit, genius, virtue, and the different ways men purſue to attain glory and fame, are not the paths which lead to fortune; that great talents are almoſt always the objects of en⯑vy; nor that, with the generality of man⯑kind, credit is preferred to deſert; that the pleaſant companion and flattering paraſite, are more careſſed than the Man of genius and the Man of virtue. But noble ſouls, ſouls eager after glory and fame, the ſage and the hero, have been almoſt always [179]known to flouriſh in poor countries; and if virtue has ever ſhone forth with luſtre, it has been among thoſe nations where they had no rewards, but honours, to beſtow. But of thoſe who have run in the career of glory, how many have reſiſted the temptations of luxury, diminiſhed the num⯑ber of their wants, inſtead of purſuing the gratification of the ſenſes, and en⯑deavouring to remove the inconveniencies which are the conſtant attendants on po⯑verty? The Cynic, who ſpurned the pur⯑ple and luxury of kings; who was content with frugal nouriſhment, and the tattered garb of indigence; who rolled himſelf in the burning ſand during the extreme ſummer heat, and in ſnow, during the ſevere cold in winter; and who threw away his wooden bowl, when he found he could do without it, certainly did not covet thoſe pleaſures of the ſenſes he ſo much deſpiſed: all he coveted was to be admired. How many others are there, who, ſo far from looking for the pleaſures of the ſenſes in the admiration and eſteem of mankind, have even reſigned preſent gratifications for ſame?

[180] Heraclitus ^*, that he might the more entirely dedicate himſelf to ſtudy, reſign⯑ed his crown to his brother, and devoted himſelf to an irkſome and diſagreeable kind of life, which required great regularity and ſeverity of manners, with continual application; in a word, he abandoned all the pageantry and all the pleaſures of em⯑pire, to live in ſolitude and in a rigid fru⯑gality. Was his love of the ſciences ow⯑ing to his paſſion for the gratification of the ſenſes? What pleaſures can the ſage propoſe to himſelf from reputation, which this monarch did not already enjoy when he wore the diadem? What advantages could he promiſe himſelf, which were not infinitely ſurpaſſed by thoſe he volun⯑tarily reſigned?

The ſon of the tyrant Miſo, in the ſame manner renounced his father's crown with all the pleaſures of ſovereignty, that free from the incumbrance of public cares, he might retire from the world, and in⯑dulge himſelf in meditation and ſolitude. What charms of phyſical ſenſibility are to be found in the auſtere lives of Zeno, Ca⯑to, Socrates, and other great ſouls of for⯑mer [181]ages, inflamed with the love of glory? What other want beſides that of fame can any one have, who, though poſſeſſed of ſuperfluous riches, and though raiſed to the higheſt degree of human greatneſs by the advantages of birth, deſires to become learned? If the Man who is in⯑veſted with the purple of kings, had not an higher motive than the hope of ſenſual enjoyments, would he not rather ſlumber away his life on the throne? Of what ad⯑vantage was the public eſteem to Caeſar? Or is there a pleaſure attendant on virtue and knowledge, which power cannot give? To what other cauſe ſhall we attribute this eagerneſs after glory which he wiſhed to enjoy after death? From what motive did Annibal, Alexander, Auguſtus, Trajan, Charles the Fifth, Richelieu, Chriſtina, not content with the glory they poſſeſſed as monarchs or as heroes, aſpire to that of authors? Why did they covet to ſhade their brows with the laurels of genius? Be⯑cauſe they were greedy of honour and delicate in their choice of eſteem. Though ſurround⯑ed with the ſplendor of a throne, they found they had not yet attained ſolid glory: and from a perſuaſion that the ſucceſs of [182]military atchievements and victories which flattery attributed to the general or the king, often depended on circumſtances, on the ignorance or cowardice of the enemy; they diſdained a reputation they believed they had not deſerved; aſpired to that glory which is founded on perſonal merit, and ſought it in ſcience. Let us then con⯑clude, that ſouls which hanker after glory are only inflamed with the love of that which is pure and ſolid, and covet praiſe merely for its own ſake. But why go back into re⯑mote times for proofs of a truth, whereof we have ſo many ſhining examples within our own knowledge. What but the love of fame, the deſire to hear our names mention⯑ed with honour, and to have them record⯑ed in the annals of hiſtory, could have pro⯑duced, in our own times, ſo many actions of valour, conſtancy, and heroiſm? What but the love of whatever is noble and praiſeworthy, which begets in the heart of the wiſe an inexhauſtible found of deli⯑cate ſentiments, and enables him to poſ⯑ſeſs, amidſt the diſorder of the elements and the ſhock of nature, that ſerenity which no misfortune can deſtroy? What but the imagination alone gives us, when [183]we converſe with thoſe to whom we are connected by the endearing ties of friendſhip, that delicate enjoyment which is conveyed to the heart without any com⯑munication with the ſenſes? What but the imagination alone can produce that pleaſing languor, which delicate minds experience in the embraces of love, ſo ſu⯑perior to the tranſports, enjoyment, and phrenzy of the ſenſes? What Man is ſo unfavoured by nature, as never to have enjoyed the pleaſures of the imagi⯑nation? What ſoul ſo rude and unculti⯑vated as to be inſenſible to their charms? Even the miſer acknowledges their power: and when he gathers the fruit which he has planted and carefully foſtered with his own hand, does he not invite his friend, and importune him to eat of it?

Of comparative Force of the PASSIONS of the SENSES and MIND.

Man is not only ſenſible to the pleaſures of the imagination: not only there are ſome actions which belong not to phyſical ſenſibility, but the paſſions of the imagi⯑nation may overpower the ſenſual, and do ſo very often.

[184]Does not the coquette prefer the plea⯑ſure of being admired to the pleaſure of enjoyment? Does ſhe not rather chuſe to excite the paſſions of her admirers, to poſ⯑ſeſs them with fears, envy, and diſquie⯑tudes, and to triumph over their ardour, than to receive the tender embraces of a paſſionate lover!

Soldiers ſelected by the general to pierce through the battalions of the enemy; proud of the honour of this diſtinction, ruſh on the arms of their opponents, con⯑front danger and death, and prefer that glorious occaſions of ſignalizing their va⯑lour in ſight of the army, to every other conſideration.

No ſacrifice is too much to purchaſe glory; the ſavages of America ſuffer the moſt cruel puniſhments without a groan; without a tear, and fear the torments of body leſs than the imputation of cowar⯑dice. Thus the gladiators at Rome, on receiving a mortal wound in the arena, viewed the effuſion of their blood with a diſdainful air; they contended with pain, and were not ſo much afraid of death, as of the diſgrace of uttering a ſigh or ſhed⯑ding a ſingle tear; and even in their laſt [185]agonies they carefully maintained the warlike poſture, which they had been taught by the maſters in their art.

The image of pleaſure is ſweet under whatever form it appear. The proſpect of a fine country, the coolneſs of a ſtream of water in the heat of ſummer, the harmo⯑nious melody of birds, always produce pleaſure; the joys of love ever affect the heart with a gentle delirium; yet none but pleaſures of imagination fire the heart, raviſh the ſoul, and occaſion its tranſports.

Of the Unfolding of the Powers of the SOUL.

Let the ſoul exiſt, if any one will have it ſo, before the body to which it is united; and even in that pre-exiſtent ſtate poſſeſs a different mode of perception and un⯑derſtanding; yet is certain that, when it has once become ſubject to the laws of this union, it no longer retains any of its former ideas, not even the conſciouſneſs of its pre-exiſtence.

We diſtinguiſh in the ſoul five facul⯑ties, none of which is unfolded at our birth. Our ſenſibility is not then de⯑veloped, neither is the underſtanding, eve⯑ry idea being founded on ſenſation; the [186]memory and the will are alſo undiſtinguiſh⯑able; for, to remember objects, they muſt firſt have been perceived; and to will, we muſt have perceived, known and remem⯑bered them. None of theſe faculties has a determinate object, not even inſtinct; for although it is ſufficient that it per⯑ceive its object, to have a propenſity to⯑wards it, yet it certainly muſt have per⯑ceived it. The ſenſitive principle muſt therefore be firſt unfolded in the mind; but the ſenſibility of the ſoul being a purely paſſive faculty, it would for ever continue unexerted, if external objects did not produce their impreſſions by the aid of the ſenſes. Deprive the body of theſe organs, convert it into an inſenſible machine, and imagine the ſoul for ever confined in this machine; that inſtant, all theſe faculties are loſt, and the ſoul it⯑ſelf is reduced to a ſtate of inſenſibility. The ſenſibility of the ſoul muſt therefore receive objects from the ſenſes, before it can receive them from the underſtanding; hence it is evident, that the ſoul muſt firſt perceive by means of the body, before it is capable of perceiving of itſelf.

[187]Hence, though poſſeſſed of the faculty of perceiving, judging, recollecting and chuſing, the ſoul could neither perceive, re⯑collect, judge, nor chuſe, unleſs united to an organized and ſenſible body; it would not even be conſcious of its own exiſtence, for it is only by reflecting on its ſenſa⯑tions, it acquires this conſciouſneſs.

Next after ſenſibility is unfolded inſtinct; then memory; after that the underſtand⯑ing, and laſt of all the will: however ſingu⯑lar this gradation may appear, it is how⯑ever the order obſerved by nature in the unfolding of our faculties.

With regard to the time when this un⯑folding is accompliſhed, it varies with the conſtitution of each individual; but this variation is inconſiderable. While the in⯑fant is in the womb, its organs are not in a ſtate adapted to receive a perfect ſenſation; beſides, in the fluid wherein it is contained, it is incapable of receiving any ſenſa⯑tion, not even that of the fluid; juſt as we perceive not the air when calm, ſe⯑rene, and of equal temperature. But in a few days after birth, its ſenſes are in a ſtate adapted to receive the impreſſion of objects; the ſenſitive principle then ex⯑pands, [188]and begins to exert itſelf. The ſenſitive faculty is ſoon ſucceeded by that of the memory; the underſtanding pre⯑ſently follows; the infant compares its ſen⯑ſations as ſoon as it acquires the uſe of its ſenſes, and in a ſhort time is able to diſ⯑tinguiſh them. All this is done in about forty days; by this time the infant already knows its nurſe. The unfolding of the will immediately ſucceeds; for it is not long till the infant can diſtinguiſh the dif⯑ferent objects of its ſenſations, and know pleaſure and pain: from this inſtant the innate deſire of happineſs has its deter⯑minate object, and the will purſues ſome known good. Thus all the faculties of Man are rendered active a ſhort time after birth; but there paſſes a conſiderable ſpace of time before they are perfectly develo⯑ped. The infant has at firſt only parti⯑cular ſenſations; objects appear uncon⯑nected, and it diſtinguiſhes them only by their different ſenſations: when the num⯑ber of theſe ſenſations are multiplied, the child compares them, perceives their iden⯑tity or difference, begins to range them in certain claſſes according to analogy, and to form ideas.

[189]I have diſtinguiſhed the operations of the underſtanding into reaſon and imagi⯑nation: by the former the ſoul perceives the real relations of objects; by the latter, it invents imaginary ones. Theſe diffe⯑rent operations require very different qua⯑lities in the perſon who judges. To judge of true relations, it is ſufficient to exa⯑mine objects; the mind then determines ſpontaneouſly: but to invent ſuch relations as are directed to ſome end^*, a great num⯑ber of things muſt be firſt known; we muſt then retire within ourſelves, and ſi⯑lently combine them in many different ways; as this requires reflection, it is impracticable in the early part of life, an age entirely engroſſed by phyſical ſen⯑ſibility and by ſleep. The imagination cannot therefore be developed very early in life, and a longer ſpace of time ſtill muſt elapſe, before any moral ideas can be acquired.

Every relation perceived between dif⯑ferent objects forms an idea; every idea is an abſtract ſenſation, but every kind of ideas is not equally acquired.

[190]The firſt that offer to the mind are thoſe which have for their objects the phyſical relations of beings; afterwards thoſe which have for their objects moral relations, ſo difficult for mature age to acquire, and impoſſible for infancy, although this age give many apparent ſigns of theſe ideas^*.

Of the Exerciſe of the Powers of the SOUL.

Each of theſe powers has its ſeparate functions, but they cannot act ſeparately: for, to produce thoughts, deſires or paſſions, they muſt unite and act in concert. Thus all the powers of the ſoul act in conjunc⯑tion, and their operations are produced by their combination.

It is of conſequence that the point which ſeparates the operation of the different mental powers be exactly defined, which no one has hitherto done.

Although the unfolding of the faculties of the ſoul conſtantly require the aſſiſ⯑tance of the ſenſes, yet when the ſenſa⯑tions [191]are once received, theſe faculties can perfect the whole without their concur⯑rence. Obſerve thoſe who walk in their ſleep: you will ſee them get out of bed, go backwards and forwards, traverſe dif⯑ferent apartments, act, ſtand in a muſeful attitude, and go about their affairs as when awake. All the powers of the ſoul are at that time in action, ſenſibility, inſtinct, ſelf-love, memory, judgment, will, all but the organs of ſenſe; ſuch perſons be⯑ing without any knowledge of their ac⯑tual ſituation, and ignorant of the danger that attends them. During the whole time, the ſoul ſeems detached from the body, and man appears an automaton in motion^*.

Although the faculty of thinking is inherent in the ſoul, it nevertheleſs does not always think. How frequently, in the courſe of our lives, is the mind en⯑tirely engroſſed by ſenſibility, while all its other faculties are ſuſpended? Upon hear⯑ing any dreadful news, the blood chills, the [192]heart violently contracts, reaſon is extinct, and the ſoul recoils within itſelf, and is inſenſible to every thing but its cala⯑mity. In acute pain we have no internal ſenſation but that of our ſufferings. Hence there are moments, when the ſoul does not think, and theſe are ſome⯑times ſufficiently long. Have you never obſerved the ſurprize of a clown, when he firſt enters the theatre; at the riſing of the curtain, ſtruck with the wonders which preſent themſelves to his ſight, abſorbed by objects ſo uncommon, and as if he were beſides himſelf in that en⯑chanted place, he never once reflects, but is entirely employed in contemplating the ſcene, and his whole ſoul reſides in his eyes.

We can likewiſe ſuſpend the activity of the judgment at pleaſure, and leave ſenſi⯑bility to act alone. A lover of harmony, or eloquence, on hearing a beautiful paſſage, or pathetic deſcription, retires within himſelf, and is, as it were, concen⯑trated in his ſenſibility. Does not an enthu⯑ſiaſt, in the heat of devotion, ſometimes ſuſ⯑pend the activity of his judgment, that he may indulge himſelf in the enjoyment of a temporary ſentiment that charms him? [193]What man, who has been accuſtomed to think, is not convinced of this truth from his own experience?

Senſibility may alone occupy the ſoul entire; the underſtanding never can: for, to enable the underſtanding to judge, there muſt be at leaſt two ſenſations pre⯑ſent in the mind, the ſubject and the at⯑tribute^*. The underſtanding and ſenſi⯑bility are then united into one ſingle act, in all our judgments. Memory is added thereto very often; for the underſtanding judges equally of paſt and preſent ſenſa⯑tions.

The memory cannot at any time operate alone; for all things being diſpoſed in this receptacle, are, as it were, in a ſtate of non-exiſtence, till the underſtanding re⯑calls them to the mind: this faculty there⯑fore [194]always requires the concurrence of the underſtanding in its operations.

Finally, as the will is often directed by the underſtanding, it always requires an object to be ſupplied by ſenſibility, or by the memory; it cannot act, unleſs at leaſt one of theſe faculties concur.

Of the Exerciſe of SENSIBILITY.

Senſibility can not only occupy the whole ſoul, and muſt not only concur in every operation of the mind, but is inceſſantly in action. While the ſoul continues united to the body, it is con⯑tinually affected with ſome ſenſations, ſome new ſentiment, or ſome ſentiment reproduced. We may eaſily be convin⯑ced of this, by obſerving what paſſes within ourſelves.

The ſoul may be affected with many different ſenſations at once; becauſe ma⯑ny ſenſes can be affected, and the ſame ſenſe may alſo be affected many ways, at the ſame time.

The number of theſe different ſenſa⯑tions is very great; neither is it poſ⯑ſible to determine where it ends, as it is impoſſible to fix the number of different [195]objects, which may act together on the ſenſes; but the number of different ſen⯑ſations, with which the ſoul may be af⯑fected without confuſion at the ſame time, is much more confined. On hearing a very complex muſical compoſition, the ear is affected by every ſound of the ſe⯑veral inſtruments, but without being able to diſtinguiſh them^*. But whatever their number may be, to enable the ſoul to diſ⯑tinguiſh the different ſenſations which af⯑fect it at the ſame time, they muſt not be very lively; for if, among theſe ſenſations, there be one much ſtronger than the others, it weakens them to ſuch a degree, as nearly to annihilate them, and this with an energy proportioned to its ſtrength. There is likewiſe in ſenſations a degree of force which abſorbs all our ſenſibility, as if in theſe moments the heart could not divide itſelf. It is thus, whilſt in the arms of a beloved miſtreſs, that ſo many agree⯑able ſenſations ariſe ſucceſſively; but in [196]that happy moment which is the acme of our pleaſures, amidſt the delights in which we are loſt, the ſoul is only ſenſible to the moſt ecſtatic, viz. to the prolific fluid as it is diſcharged through the numerous cir⯑cumvolutions of its veſſels.

When the ſoul is abſorpt by any ſtrong ſenſation, it continues in that ſtate until this impreſſion inſenſibly decaying comes to be perfectly extinct, or until a ſenſa⯑tion yet more ſtrong takes place.

The ſoul cannot be affected by many ſentiments at one time, as it is by many ſenſations; for the ſenſes, which com⯑municate the impreſſions of objects to the ſoul are many, whilſt the underſtanding, which diſcovers their relations, is but one. And it has been proved, that ſenti⯑ments ariſe in the ſoul by the relations which Man perceives between himſelf and other beings. The ſenſes may like⯑wiſe be affected many ways at the ſame time, whilſt the underſtanding can fix on one relation only, as I ſhall hereafter prove. There is, therefore, at one time, but one ſentiment in the ſoul, although it appear to be affected with a thouſand emotions at once. But as this operation of the un⯑derſtanding [197]is performed with inconceiv⯑able velocity, theſe ſentiments ariſe, and are ſucceeded with ſuch rapidity, that it is often impoſſible to diſtinguiſh the in⯑finitely ſmall interval which ſeparates them, whatever attention we may give to what is at that time tranſacting in the mind.

This is the reaſon why a thouſand ſad and agreeable ſentiments ſeem to divide the ſoul between them, and why we ſup⯑poſe it to be at once diſtracted with pain, and tranſported with joy.

However impoſſible it may be to diſtin⯑guiſh, by the internal feeling, the interval ſeparating theſe rapid emotions, it is more ſo to diſtinguiſh them by their external ſigns; becauſe the impreſſions of the ſen⯑timents, made on the corporeal organs, are much more durable than thoſe made on the ſoul, Hence when the ſoul is ſuc⯑ceſſively under the power of impetuous emotions, which rapidly ſucceed each other, their different impreſſions on the body con⯑tinue together. Obſerve the unhappy father, who conducts his only ſon to the altar of death; at the very time when the fear of the gods arms his hand, and he ap⯑plies the knife to the boſom of his child, [198]paternal affection ſuſpends the ſtroke, and he melts into tears.

If the ſucceſſion of the ſentiments of the ſoul be often imperceptible, it never⯑theleſs may ſometimes be perceived. There are but few who are accuſtomed to examine what paſſes within them, who have not ob⯑ſerved, that often, amidſt the agitations of the mind, a ſentiment ſhall ariſe and de⯑ſtroy that which preceded it; that though the ſentiments are ſucceſſively effaced in a diſturbed mind, they yet ſpring up again inſtantly after; and laſtly, that the ſoul, unſettled, wavers between its different emotions: juſt as, in a ſea agitated by the winds, we obſerve the waves break one againſt the other and inſtantly re⯑appear.

In the conflict of the different ſentiments with which the ſoul is ſucceſſively agitat⯑ed, as in the concourſe of the ſenſations, the ſtrongeſt always weakens the others, deſtroys them, and reigns alone in the ſoul.

When the friends of Pombey lamented his defeat after the dreadful ſlaughter at Pharſalia, ſeized with fear at the approach of the Egyptian veſſels, their grief made them dumb; each ones particular danger [199]prevented his being concerned for the common misfortune; they thought only of encouraging the ſailors, and ſeeking their ſafety by flight: as ſoon as their fears were removed, the loſs they had ſuffered again came into their minds, and they again melted in tears. Thus nothing but extreme pleaſure can entirely deliver the ſoul from profound grief; nor can any thing but intenſe pain create ſadneſs in an heart overflowing with joy; every weaker affection glances, as it were, on the ſoul, and makes no laſting impreſſion on it.

But when theſe ſentiments are nearly of equal force, the ſoul, as if unſettled and wavering between contrary emotions, knows not which to reſolve on; its deſires deſtroy each other; ſcarce is it freed from its troubles, when it is involved in them anew; this indetermined ſtate does not always terminate to the advantage of the moſt powerful ſentiment. After a long conflict, the ſoul, wearied out with the efforts it has made, gradually loſes its ſen⯑ſibility and force together; and finally yields to the laſt impreſſion, which thus remains maſter of the field.

[200]There is this difference between the ſucceſſion of ſenſations and that of ſenti⯑ments: in the ſucceſſion of new ſenſations, only the ſenſibility of the ſoul and the or⯑gans of ſenſe are in action: but in that of the ſentiments, ſenſibility, underſtanding and memory, muſt always concur: for it is the underſtanding, which, by the aſſiſt⯑ance of analagous ſenſations, furniſhed by the ſenſes or by the memory, gives riſe to our ſentiments, and occaſions their ſuc⯑ceſſion. When the ſenſations which thus ſucceed each other, inſtead of being then newly produced, are only renewed, the ſame faculties are in action as in that of the ſentiments.

The duration of ſentiments is very long when theſe emotions are violent, and ex⯑tremely ſhort when they are weak; but in general their duration is not near ſo much confined as that of the ſenſations. Anger and fury are of longer duration than the ſtrongeſt impreſſions of objects on our organs^*. Avarice, that ſordid [201]ſentiment which day and night engroſſes thoſe baſe minds which are infected with it, is of yet longer continuance. The ſame may be ſaid of jealouſy, that tyrani⯑cal ſentiment, and the conſtant companion of ſuſpicion, which haunts the wretch it has taken poſſeſſion of, and ſuggeſts to him the idea of diſhonour though in the embra⯑ces of the beloved object of his deſires, ſo that he groans under a load of bitterneſs even when the ſenſes are laid a ſleep.

Of the Exerciſe of the UNDERSTANDING.

Let us here diſtinguiſh exactly what is peculiar to the underſtanding while in exerciſe, from that which is peculiar to the other faculties. Thinking is a pro⯑perty of the underſtanding, but the un⯑derſtanding alone is not ſufficient to pro⯑duce it. The judgment is employed in determining the relations of things, and as we may either judge of abſent objects or of thoſe which are preſent, ſenſibility and memory therefore are combined with the underſtanding in forming our judg⯑ments, as has been already obſerved: in theſe two faculties the underſtanding perceives objects, in the ſame manner as [202]we behold ourſelves in a glaſs, if I may be allowed to make the compariſon.

Our judgments are often formed with⯑out our concurrence, and ſometimes in ſpite of our utmoſt efforts to the contrary; in ſuch caſes, the will has no ſhare. But if thought ſometimes take place without the concurrence of the will; at other times, the will concurs with ſenſibility and memory in the excerciſe of the under⯑ſtanding; for the underſtanding is a fa⯑culty, the exerciſe whereof we can ſuſ⯑pend and govern as we think fit. We can at will, determine the ſoul to the conſi⯑deration of external objects, and after⯑wards turn our thoughts inwards with⯑in the mind, in order to compare and combine them in different manners at plea⯑ſure, and judge of their relations. The exerciſe of the underſtanding is therefore both voluntary and involuntary. I have diſtinguiſhed two different powers in the underſtanding: that of perceiving, exa⯑mining, and comparing objects; and that of judging of their relations. It is the firſt only of theſe powers which concurs with the will; for we cannot refrain from judging of any relation which preſents it⯑ſelf [203]to the mind. If, however, we at times can ſuſpend our judgment, it is by prolonging the exerciſe of the former of theſe powers, without which there can be no judgment, and not by employing the other.

The voluntary uſe of this power con⯑ſtitutes attention; for what is the atten⯑tive confideration of any object, but the fixing the exerciſe of this intellectual fa⯑culty on its impreſſion, communicated to the ſoul by the organs of ſenſe, or pre⯑ſerved by the memory?

As we can perceive a certain number of ſenſations at once, our attention may be ſhared among a certain number of objects; but the ſmaller this number of objects is, coeteris paribus, the ſtronger is the atten⯑tion, and vice verſa. This is evident in abſence of mind, but much more ſo in the catalepſy^*, a diſorder wherein the [204]ſoul being entirely ingroſſed by intenſe thought, appears to have no communica⯑tion [205]with the body. Undoubtedly the force of attention depends on the number of objects which the underſtanding conſiders at once; yet it likewiſe depends on the force of the [206]will; for the will is ſuſceptible of dif⯑ferent degrees of intenſeneſs, as are the motives determining it. We can at pleaſure uſe efforts more or leſs violent, to conſider an object; we can diminiſh attention, or augment it to ſuch a degree, that it ſhall appear entirely to engroſs the ſoul.

Some perſons, like the prieſt of Cala⯑mes ^*, have the faculty of being ſo affec⯑ted at will, as to become inſenſible of what happens to the body.

The faculty of judging is natural to the ſoul, but is properly free only when ſen⯑ſibility [207]is not affected by any object beſides thoſe of our judgments: when the ſenſa⯑tions are ſtrong, they always diſturb the exerciſe of thinking; when extremely ſo, they deſtroy it entirely. In this latter caſe, there is no judgment; becauſe the mind is entirely engroſſed by a new object: in the firſt caſe there is, it is true, a judg⯑ment, but this is an erroneous one. The new ſenſations, not having ſufficient force entirely to engage the attention, divide it; being thus obliged to employ it on diffe⯑rent objects, the mind cannot ſufficiently conſider thoſe of which it is to judge; ſo that it confounds them, and forms falſe and abſurd judgments. This is very evi⯑dent in perſons agitated by paſſions. Amidſt their emotions, the ſoul cannot come to any prudent determination; ſometimes it forms a multitude of weak reſolutions, and extravagant projects, and is unreſolved which to prefer: at other times, full of the object by which it is affected, it con⯑founds every thing in the judgments it makes with this object, and is no longer attentive to reaſon. This is the cauſe why profound meditation takes place only when [208]the paſſions are calm, in ſilence and in ſolitude.

The exerciſe of the underſtanding is either reſtrained or interrupted when ſen⯑ſibility is ſtrongly affected; and, by a ve⯑ry ſingular phenomenon, when the under⯑ſtanding is cloſely employed, the impreſ⯑ſions of external objects upon the ſenſes appear weakened, ſometimes null, as we obſerve in abſent perſons^*, in thoſe who walk in their ſleep, and in cataleptics. Hence, if our thoughts be not perfectly free, except when our ſenſibility is not engroſſed by any ſenſations, beſides thoſe which are the objects of our judgments; ſo neither are the ſenſations in their full force, except when the underſtanding is totally inactive. Not that the exerciſe of this faculty inter⯑rupts the commerce of the ſoul with the body, as ſome have ſuppoſed; the under⯑ſtanding neither adds to, nor takes from the force of theſe ſenſations, and they re⯑main perpetually the ſame; it is becauſe we judge not until the underſtanding has [209]conſidered the objects of which it is to judge; that is, we never judge without employing attention: and becauſe with⯑out attention, the impreſſions of objects on our organs, and even the ſenſations renewed by the memory are, to the ſoul, as if they had no exiſtence: it therefore appears, that the ſoul cannot be attentive to ſenſations from without, when it is immerſed in profound meditation.

There may be many ſenſations in the ſoul at one time, but never more than one judgment; the faculty of judging not being diviſible like that of perceiving. It is in ſenſibility, and in the memory that the underſtanding perceives the ob⯑jects of its judgments; and the number of theſe objects may be as great, as that of the different ſenſations, which the ſoul can receive at the ſame time. The mind may very eaſily perceive all theſe objects at once, but to judge of their relations, it muſt compare them, examine them one after another, in ſome determinate point of view, and reduce them to a fixed ſtan⯑dard: now the mind can examine objects, but in one point of view at a time. Thus the underſtanding can, at the ſame time, [210]perceive only one of their relations, and there can be only one judgment at a time in the ſoul.

Natural Succeſſion of the THOUGHTS.

Since the underſtanding in its operations is combined with the will, the mind can transfer at pleaſure its thoughts to different objects, without any connexion of ideas, and form what we may term ſeparate judgments; but this is not the order which the mind purſues in thinking, when left to itſelf.

When we reflect on the almoſt imper⯑ceptible connexion obſervable in the ſuc⯑ceſſion of our ideas, and obſerve their de⯑pendencies, we evidently perceive, that the mind, in its progreſs, always proceeds by analogy. When we are alone walking in the fields, if a voice much reſembling that of a friend, ſtrike the organ of hear⯑ing, or a colour like that of his coat oc⯑cur to the ſight, his image immediately preſents itſelf to the mind, we recollect ſome peculiar circumſtance, and recall ſome former diſcourſe.

Thoſe analogies, which conſtitute the aſſociation and link of our thoughts, are [211]not always perceived; but they rarely eſ⯑cape us, if we recollect ourſelves, and leiſurely obſerve the progreſs of the un⯑derſtanding. I have frequently entered into an examination of what paſſed with⯑in me, and have, if I may venture the expreſſion, caught the ſoul in the act, on the relations which formed the aſſociation of my ideas. Hence it is evident, that the mind proceeds only by analogies, both when it is wrapt in profound meditation, and when abſorbed within itſelf; and never appears to rove from thought to thought, nor from one ſubject to another, however extravagant or unconnected its thoughts may appear; ſome relation, either ſlight or ſtriking, forms the tranſition, and ſome analogy perceived, either real or appa⯑rent, preſents the new object to the mind; if we except the ſingle inſtance when the ſoul, forced from its preſent thoughts by ſome violent and fudden ſenſation, inter⯑rupts the ſucceſſion of ideas, and the pro⯑greſs of the underſtanding. Thus all our ideas are connected by an immenſe chain, all the links whereof have ſome common relation.

In what Manner THOUGHT becomes REA⯑SON or IMAGINATION.

I have ſaid that reaſon judges of the true relations of objects, and that the ima⯑gination invents ideal ones.

To judge of the true relations of ob⯑jects, they muſt be always preſent in the mind, and be ſubject to attentive examination; but attentive examination is not always neceſſary to invention; for in theſe caſes it is ſufficient to connect the qualities of one ſubject to thoſe of ano⯑ther, and to confound them in the ſame whole. If we attentively follow the pro⯑greſs of the underſtanding, we ſhall be convinced, that thought always becomes imagination when it ceaſes to be reaſon, and that in the point where the one ends, the other begins. When attention is diſ⯑continued, the object which engaged us is no longer fixed; it therefore changes to the firſt ſenſation with which the ſoul is afterwards affected; the mind employed on this new object combines it with every thing that offers, as it happens in thoſe indeterminate reveries, into which the ſoul falls after long meditation, or in thoſe [213]gentle dreams which ſucceed laborious exerciſe. Hence thoſe extravagant fic⯑tions, and phantaſtic ideas, we have in our dreams.

The object of our thoughts changes with every new ſenſation which affects the ſoul; but, for want of the action of ex⯑ternal objects on our organs, this ſenſa⯑tion is almoſt continually ſupplied by the ſoul itſelf, led by a ſecret bias towards the moſt alluring object. The imagination is therefore directed to its object by the paſſion, and the nature of its thoughts is determined by that of the ſentiment which affects us. Whilſt the ſoul is under the power of any gentle emotion, the mind employs itſelf in augmenting its pleaſures; then retiring within itſelf, it ſecretly com⯑bines this ſentiment with ſome analogous object, from which it derives ſimilar ideas. Theſe are thoſe pleaſing fancies, and flat⯑tering deluſions, which conſtitute the chiefeſt enjoyments and principal happi⯑neſs of our tranſitory exiſtence. This is the caſe in the delirium of love: during its continuance we enjoy a flattering dream; the mind is for ever recalling the object of its paſſion; it engroſſes our whole [214]thoughts, until ſome more powerful ſen⯑ſation awaken us from our trance, and bring us back to ourſelves whether we would or no^*

I have ſhewn how judgment becomes reaſon or imagination, according to the manner in which the mind judges of the relations of objects; and alſo how it ceaſes to judge of their true relations, when at⯑tention is diſcontinued. Hence the under⯑ſtanding is always ſubordinate to the will, in reaſon, as it is likewiſe ſometimes in ima⯑gination, and ſometimes it is wholly free.

Farther Obſervations on the Exerciſe of the UNDERSTANDING.
Of WISDOM and MADNESS.

Thinking is a power inherent in the mind, but is, in its natural ſtate, without rule, choice, or attention: all our judgments are at this time irregular and incoherent, nor is there any neceſſary connexion be⯑tween the ſubject and the attribute. This is obſerved during ſleep: when the ſenſes are at reſt, the mind diſports with diffe⯑rent [215]objects, and forms, by an aſſemblage of thoughts and ſenſations, thoſe wild rambling fictions, which are the uſual illuſions of the night.

When the underſtanding continues to operate in Man when awake, in the ſame manner as when he is aſleep, this acci⯑dental ſtate thus become permanent, is termed madneſs: but when our judgments are regular, and there is a connexion between the ſubject and attribute, this order of our thoughts is called wiſdom. What conſtitutes the whole of the difference between wiſdom and madneſs is there⯑fore attention, which is always attendant on the latter, but never on the former; for we may indeed think without this diſ⯑poſition of the mind, but cannot reflect. If the child that prattles, and the old man who dotes, are both of them incapable of reaſoning, it is not becauſe they have no ideas, as ſome have imagined, but be⯑cauſe they are equally devoid of attention: one has never poſſeſſed it, and in the other, it is^* decayed.

[216]This want of attention, which is the cauſe of madneſs, is manifeſt in thoſe extra⯑ordinary perſons who extravagate upon one ſubject only. I have known ſome diſ⯑courſe with great good ſenſe on all kinds of ſubjects, one particular topic excepted: in ſuch caſes, the mind, engroſſed by the object which affects it, loſes ſight of every other, and taking this object for the ſub⯑ject of its judgments, annexes to it every kind of attribute indiſcriminately.

The ſame phenomenon likewiſe appears in violent paſſions, which occaſion a kind of momentary madneſs. Moraliſts men⯑tion another ſpecies of madmen; a name which they apply to thoſe whoſe diſcourſe is unfaſhionable, and conduct altogether ſingular; that is, whoſe madneſs is out of the common road: in this ſenſe Democritus, Diogenes, Hera [...]litus were madmen; with others of peculiar modes of thinking and living, in every age.

Of regular THOUGHT, conſidered relatively to the Degrees of Attention it requires.

The faculty of perceiving, comparing, and examining objects, in conjunction with the will, is the cauſe of reaſon and regu⯑lar [217]thought^* Regular thought takes different denominations, according to the different degrees of attention the mind requires in forming its judgments, com⯑bined with the nature of their objects, and the direction of the exerciſe of the un⯑derſtanding. It retains the generic appel⯑lation of thought, when this degree of at⯑tention is ſmall, whatever may be the ob⯑ject of our judgments and duration of this exerciſe. It is called reflection, when this degree is more conſiderable; and meditation, when it is extreme.

To reflect, is to think attentively; but reflection differs from thought, in ſo far, as the latter is applied to every kind of object indiſcriminately; whilſt the former takes place with regard to abſent objects only; that is, with regard to thoſe which are re⯑newed by the memory: for to reflect, is to examine whether our thoughts be true; it is the comparing our judgments with their objects, and aſcertaining known re⯑lations. Thus, after having applied our ſoul to the perception of external objects, we retire within ourſelves to conſider, [218]compare, and combine them after various manners.

Meditation has the ſame objects which reflection has, but it differs therefrom not only in the degree of attention, as I have already obſerved, but alſo in the duration of thought: reflection is the aſſemblage of many thoughts in ſucceſſion; medita⯑tion is a long ſeries of deep reflections.

Regular thought is a painful and irk⯑ſome ſtate of the mind. If our inward feelings afford not ſufficient documents of this, it will be eaſily proved by what paſſes within us in conſequence of our ex⯑ternal actions.

Examine Man during infancy: whilſt at liberty, he indifferently follows every path that leads to pleaſure, obeys every im⯑preſſion of external objects, amuſes himſelf with exerciſe, goes, comes, runs, ſtands ſtill, and acts ever without any purpoſe, and from no motive whatever; he thinks very little, reflects yet leſs, and never meditates at all. If at any time he reſt, or direct his acti⯑ons to ſome end, or if he reaſon ever ſo lit⯑tle, it is always by compulſion, becauſe he hears his maſter's voice, and feels the yoke of neceſſity. But as ſoon as he is out of [219]the ſight of his troubleſome guardians, he reſumes his character, and thinks no more than juſt what he cannot help, and then only that he may give full ſwing to the im⯑pulſe of the ſenſes: thus a ſpring com⯑preſſed regains its elaſticity, when the com⯑preſſing power is removed.

Neceſſity obliges Man to reflect in in⯑fancy; the ſame cauſe likewiſe obliges him to reflect when arrived at maturity. No⯑thing but the ſenſe of preſent, and the apprehenſion of future wants, can impel the mind to reflection. It is the paſſions which give riſe to the productions of ge⯑nius, and to the wonders of art: without theſe powerful incentives, the mind would languiſh in liſtleſs indolence; and men, like ſavages, would ſpend their lives in a momentary contemplation of the objects ſurrounding them, or elſe, in ſleep.

But if thought be painful, it is only in proportion to the degree of attention it requires, and to the efforts more or leſs ſtrong, which are neceſſary to the know⯑ledge, or to the formation of relations. Thus the ſtudy of geometry, of the ma⯑thematics, and of every ſcience which re⯑quires cloſe attention, are extremely toil⯑ſome; [220]whilſt thoſe which require but lit⯑tle application ſcarcely give any fatigue.

Of PENETRATION, STUPIDITY, SAGA⯑CITY, and DULNESS.

From the faculty of judging, combined with the number of our ſenſations and ſentiments, and from the chain of our ideas, reſults a greater or leſs aptitude to diſtinguiſh the relations of things, deno⯑minated penetration and ſtupidity.

All objects are naturally unconnected, nor is there any connexion between them perceptible to Man, when firſt he takes a view of nature, even ſuppoſing all his fa⯑culties to be perfect: the admirable chain connecting every part, is evident to him only, who has compared a multiplicity of things in many different ways; in ſhort, is only diſcernible by a philoſopher. But as the knowledge of a ſingle relation re⯑quires a great number of ſenſations, it is very evident, that the man who poſſeſſes but a few, muſt neceſſarily be ſtupid, and that his apprehenſion muſt be the more acute, in proportion as their number is greater.

[221]Suppoſing Man without ſenſations, and at the ſame time endued with the faculty of thinking, he muſt neceſſarily be ſtupid; he muſt likewiſe be ſtupid, with the faculty of thinking, and tho' he have many ſenſations and ideas depoſited in the memory, if he be deſtitute of the power to recall them. It is the underſtanding only which, by the aid of analogy, recalls our ſenſations and ideas; but their reproduction, which takes place in the natural ſucceſſion of our ideas, being without relation to any fixed deſign, conduces nothing to penetration. No ſenſation, ſentiment, or idea, tranſmitted to the memory, has any effect, if the power of recalling thoſe which are neceſſary to diſ⯑cover the relation we deſire to know be wanting. Penetration therefore depends on the power of recalling thoſe ſenſations and ideas which are analogous and correſpond with each other.

Penetration, combined with the time which the mind requires for diſcovering the relations of objects, becomes either ſagacity or dulneſs. Sagacity, when the time is extremely ſhort^*; dulneſs, when very long.

[222]Sagacity depends on the choice which the underſtanding makes of ſenſations and thoughts; and on the order in which it arranges them in the memory. The greater analogy theſe ſenſations and theſe thoughts have to the relations ſought, the more eaſily the mind diſcovers theſe re⯑lations.

A mind, ſagacious in the ſmalleſt de⯑gree, eaſily ſolves certain abſtract queſti⯑ons, with which it has been converſant for ſome time. It is ſurprizing to think how rea⯑dily it gives the ſolution of them, notwith⯑ſtanding the numberleſs obſtacles which op⯑poſe its progreſs: on the contrary, if you propoſe, to a genius of the firſt claſs, a queſ⯑tion, which may be ſolved with little diffi⯑culty, and about which he has been lit⯑tle converſant, he will heſitake like a very dunce.

Newton, whoſe ſagacious mind ſoared to heaven with a bold and rapid flight, and diſ⯑covered the ſyſtem of the univerſe, was as ignorant in religious matters as any among the vulgar; and it is certain, that they who apply themſelves to the ſtudy of enig⯑mas, unravel them much more readily than the moſt ſubtil philoſophers.

Some ſingular Phenomena explained, con⯑cerning the Effects of the Paſſions on the UNDERSTANDING.

How different is the proſpect of na⯑ture, according to the different ſentiments which affect us!

In the horror of deſpair, rage and fe⯑rocity are accounted heroiſm. In the fury occaſioned by ſlighted love, we look on every woman as perfidious; if a miſtreſs prove falſe to us, from her we eſtimate the whole ſex; then, all the ſex are ſlaves to vanity and ſelf-intereſt. In the gloomy paroxiſms of jealouſy, a rival appears in colours much leſs amia⯑ble in our ſight, than when our heart was free from that illiberal paſſion. How frequently does terror conceal the object which cauſed our fears!

A man, when agitated by any paſſion, ſees not objects, or if he ſees them, it is not in the ſame light as when he was free from their influence; but what is moſt ſingular, in the ſame paſſion, we always ſee objects in the ſame manner. Does the ſoul overflow with joy? We find charms unknown before in every object near [224]us; they change their nature in our eyes, and become more pleaſing and more beau⯑tiful than before.

The garden where the diſgraced cour⯑tier endeavoured to forget his cares, on re⯑ceiving the news of his recal, ſeems the haunt of ſome beneficent being, who has drawn aſide the veil, which before con⯑cealed its beauties from his ſight; the flowers appear of a richer hue, their forms ſeem more agreeable, and their odours more delicious; the air is embalmed, an uni⯑verſal change ſucceeds, and all is full of grace and beauty.

Is the ſoul affected with ſadneſs? Nature is covered with a gloomy veil; its defor⯑mity is enhanced, and all its beauty fades.

Whatever ſentiment may affect us, the cozenage of the paſſions always ſubſiſts, the face of nature is perpetually changing in our eyes. If we love, the object of our paſſion acquires additional charms. Obſerve an ardent lover, let the perſon of his miſtreſs be ever ſo homely, every part is beautiful, charming, divine! The black is a ſprightly brunette. The gigantic a majeſtic; the meagre a delicate beauty. And if his paſſion be extreme, this home⯑ly, [225]brown, gaunt, meager creature, ceaſes to be a woman; ſhe becomes an angel.

When hatred on the contrary takes poſ⯑ſeſſion of the heart, the object of our indigna⯑tion becomes diſagreeable; and our enemy, whatever merit he poſſeſſes, is then ill fa⯑voured and odious. And even the ob⯑jects formerly our delight are altered and disfigured by it. When the ſlighted lover, who imagined his miſtreſs an angel while his affection continued in its force, ceaſes to love, the illuſion inſtantly vaniſhes, and the ſight of the lovely face, which before excited ſo many pleaſing emotions, now produces a very oppoſite effect: his mind being reſtored to its former ſtate, views with aſtoniſhment the former object of his love, and is ſurprized how he could fix his affections on ſuch features. He aſks himſelf how he could poſſibly ad⯑mire her; and all thoſe bewitching charms, all thoſe heavenly graces are either not ſeen, or ſeen with indifference. But if hatred ſucceeds, the object changes yet more, the few beauties that remained are obſcured, elegance becomes deformity, and by a kind of prodigy, hatred degrades an object as much as love exalts it. Such in general [226]are the deluſions of the paſſions; were I to repeat their many ſpecies, I ſhould never have done.

The proſpect of nature ever varies with the paſſion, and always in the ſame pro⯑portion: if this change gradually, that alſo varies inſenſibly; if this change is inſtan⯑taneous, the other is altered with the ſwiftneſs of lightning. Thus the ſenti⯑ment we are poſſeſſed with, conſtantly changes the face of nature; like a magi⯑cian, paſſion extends its deluſive enchant⯑ments to every object, and never ſuffers us to view them but through a falſe per⯑ſpective. Whence ariſes this phenome⯑non? And what is this hidden charm, which the paſſions ſpread over all nature? Wherefore does love embelliſh, and ha⯑tred disfigure its objects?

Of the authors who have attempted to account for theſe phenomena, ſome attri⯑bute it to the imagination; others to the ſenſes.

The former ſay, ‘That in love, for inſtance, the imagination repreſents to us thoſe images which are analogous to the ſentiment in the mind; that the paſſionate lover, while his paſſion con⯑tinues, [227]ſees not in his miſtreſs her true image, but a creature of the fancy, and takes the beauty, which he himſelf ſtamps thereon, to be really that of the object.’ But if we carefully examine what paſſes in our minds at that time, we ſhall be convinced, that this illuſion is not the effect of the cauſe to which it is here attributed; and ſhould this internal feel⯑ing not convince us, it would be very eaſy to ſatisfy ourſelves thereof, by exa⯑mining facts.

The colourings which the paſſions com⯑municate to objects, always change as the paſſions: if the paſſion changes by de⯑grees, theſe colourings vary inſenſibly: if the paſſions are inſtantaneouſly altered, the colourings change with equal rapidity. The ſame cauſe which produced the illu⯑ſion in this latter caſe, is that which pro⯑duced it in all the other caſes. It is there⯑fore clear, that in this ſudden change, the illuſion is not the effect of imagination, ſince no idea has entered the ſoul whilſt the change is making; the underſtanding has not even time to act, nor the imagi⯑nation to form any picture.

[228]They who attribute theſe phenomena to an alteration in the ſenſes, occaſioned by the emotions of the mind, reſt on no better grounds; for objects continue al⯑ways the ſame, they in like manner al⯑ways produce on our organs ſimilar im⯑preſſions, and theſe impreſſions are com⯑municated to the ſoul always in the ſame manner. Neither do the ſenſes undergo any change, and their organic conſtitu⯑tion is always the ſame. It is therefore evident, that theſe phenomena neither have their cauſe in the organ which re⯑ceives this impreſſion, nor in the organ which propagates it; but only in the ſoul which receives it.

The colourings, which the ſame paſſion communicates to objects, are always the ſame in all caſes; and whether the paſſion change by imperceptible degrees or inſtan⯑taneouſly, the colourings change in the ſame manner; the paſſion and the illu⯑ſion decay one after the other by the ſame gradations. Hence, ſince objects are ever the ſame, and ſince the ſame object changes with the ſentiment in the mind, theſe phenomena are to be imputed to the paſſion only. It is love only, therefore, [229]which decks out the idol of our hearts, and lends it its charms without our per⯑ceiving it.

But what is the cauſe of this deceitful charm, which paſſion communicates to objects? If we attentively conſider the matter, we ſhall diſcover the ſimple and evident cauſe of this ſurpriſing phenome⯑non to be in the ſentiment we then enter⯑tain.

It is evident, that the ſoul ſees not ex⯑ternal objects out of the body; it does not even ſee them in the organs of the ſenſes, but in itſelf; and there the proſ⯑pect of nature is ſeen^*.

Whatever ſentiment affects the mind, the illuſion of the paſſions almoſt conti⯑nually embelliſhes or deforms objects, and increaſes or diminiſhes their impreſſions. On the other hand, the impreſſions of objects are confined to the producing a⯑greeable or painful ſenſations^† of dif⯑ferent [230]kinds, all of them in different de⯑grees, but for ever retaining theſe two characteriſtics. Theſe ſenſations are con⯑tinually exciting in the ſoul; the one, ſen⯑timents of joy, the other, ſentiments of grief.

Thus the ſentiment which poſſeſſes the ſoul whilſt under the influence of any paſ⯑ſion, and that which ariſes from the im⯑preſſion of objects, being analogous, the ſentiment reſulting from their union muſt be ſtronger than either of them ſingly, and ſtronger in proportion to the ſtrength of the paſſion, and to the number of ana⯑logous ſenſations. But obſerve, that in every new ſenſation, this compound ſen⯑timent is wholly felt, and the ſoul then ſuppoſes it to be the effect of a ſimple ſenſation: the underſtanding, ſuppoſing that to be a particular effect, which is the effect of ſeveral cauſes, attributes to the impreſſion of objects that which ſhould only be attributed to the diſpoſi⯑tion [231]of the ſoul. It is thus that paſſion embelliſhes, deforms, magnifies, and al⯑ters objects, and communicates its colour⯑ings to every thing in nature. Let us endeavour to render this truth more evi⯑dent, by applying it to ſome example.

In every paſſion ſome ſtrong ſentiment prevails in the ſoul; in happy love, for inſtance, joy predominates. If, whilſt engroſſed by this pleaſing ſentiment, the ſoul be affected by any agreeable ſenſa⯑tions beſides; the pleaſure ariſing from them, is always accompanied with the in⯑ternal ſentiment which then occupies us; thus augmented, the pleaſure appears more ſtrong, and the ſenſations more agreeable. In the ſelf-ſame manner, joy, whilſt the ſoul is affected with love, com⯑municates its pleaſing influence to the im⯑preſſions of the ſenſes; thus too it em⯑belliſhes its object, and lends it new charms. Hence in a ſtate of convaleſ⯑cence, the joy of having recovered a good we had loſt, gives the country a more pleaſing appearance, and renders the view of it more affecting, than when we are in health. The ſoul, for a long time op⯑preſſed by a violent diſeaſe, expands upon [232]the return of health, and gives a looſe to the pleaſing proſpect of prolonged ex⯑iſtence: and hence ariſes that delightful ſentiment, which produces the agreeable emotion we then feel at the proſpect of nature^*.

If the ſentiment, which predominates in the ſoul during the continuance of a paſſion, renders more ſtrong the impreſſion of thoſe objects, which are analogous to it, it muſt needs impair that of objects which are of a contrary kind. Hence it is, why in ſadneſs nature appears cover⯑ed with a gloomy veil, and is leſs agree⯑able to the ſight. This is the cauſe why jealouſy diminiſhes the merit of a rival, and why hatred disfigures objects as much as love adorns them^†.

Although the ſentiments, which proceed from the paſſions and ſenſations, be recipro⯑cally [233]cally impaired, when they are of an oppoſite nature, yet they do not deſtroy each other but when they are nearly of equal force; otherwiſe, the conteſt terminates always to the advantage of the ſtronger. Thus when hatred is weak, we allow our enemy ſome ſmall ſhare of merit, and likewiſe in ſlight pains, we ſometimes yield to the impulſe of pleaſure, and when grief is not exceſſive, a ſmile will ſometimes eſ⯑cape us.

Although the ſentiments, reſulting from paſſions and the impreſſions of exter⯑nal objects, be more lively when the paſ⯑ſions and impreſſions are analogous, and weaker, when the reverſe; they are only ſo, when moderate; for when either is extremely violent, their reſpective ſen⯑timent abſorbs all attention, and reigns alone in the ſoul. This is the cauſe of that blindneſs obſerved in perſons ſtrongly affected with any paſſion: and this is the reaſon why terror oftentimes conceals the object which occaſioned it; why joy makes no impreſſion on a ſoul overwhelmed with ſadneſs, and why grief finds no admit⯑tance into a heart which is always en⯑groſſed by joy.

[234]Paſſion frequently renders us blind, deaf, inſenſible, and objects continually receive their colourings from the diſpoſi⯑tion of the ſoul; but there is ſomething yet more ſurprizing in the illuſion of the paſſions, for they can make us even ſee objects which do not exiſt. Fear ſome⯑times produces ſingular deceptions of the ſight: it is fear which repreſents to the credulous, the dead riſing from their tombs; which, to the benighted traveller, who wanders through ſolitary woods, transforms trees into men, ſets before his eyes, in the thickeſt darkneſs, ghoſts and goblins, and makes him imagine he hears the groans of perſons in the agonies of death.

In a fit of enthuſiaſm, they who are ſaid to be inſpired, at times, enjoy heavenly viſions, they converſe with houris and an⯑gels, whilſt a thouſand phantaſtic beings are ſeen by them as clearly as if they re⯑ally exiſted.

This phenomenon has long perplexed philoſophers, nor have they ſucceeded bet⯑ter in their explanation of this, than of the preceding; they pretend, that ‘the nervous fluid in this caſe commands [235]the ſoul, and that, particularly in the organ of ſight, it ſucceſſively takes all the modifications, repreſentative of ob⯑jects by which it has formerly been af⯑fected.’ I would willingly know on what they built this ſtrange opinion. By what means are they aſſured that the fluid of the nerves communicates to the ſoul the image of objects, without the con⯑currence of the objects themſelves? Is not this a mere ſuppoſition? But theſe philo⯑ſophers diſcover the marvellous in things, which are in themſelves the moſt ſimple. This phenomenon, which is ſo ſingular when theſe viſions are taken for the effect of the impreſſions of the ſenſes on the ſoul, ceaſes to be ſo when we conſider that the proſpect of nature is in the ſoul. We muſt neither ſeek, out of ourſelves, nor in the organs of ſenſe, but in the ſoul it⯑ſelf, for thoſe monſtrous images, thoſe ſpectres, and phantoms, which the an⯑cients fancied to be departed ſouls or ghoſts, eſcaped from Acheron, and which modern philoſophers look upon as ſenſa⯑tions, reproduced on the ſenſes by the fluid of the nerves.

[236]Whilſt preyed on by any violent paſſion we may, indeed, direct our ſight towards the objects which ſurround us, but we do not perceive them^*, or rather we are al⯑together unconſcious of their impreſſions. Full of the preſent ſentiment, the ſoul is engroſſed by one object, and is inattentive to every other; it cannot then oppoſe truth to error, and illuſion is inevitable; for it is only by the attention we give to objects, that we can diſtinguiſh in the ſoul their real impreſſions from their images repro⯑duced, which the underſtanding then pre⯑ſents to us and aſſociates with them. This is the reaſon why, in extreme terror, man cannot compare his ſenſations with the objects which ſurround him, nor recollect the circumſtances, according to which his apprehenſions may be either real or ima⯑ginary. Incapable of conſidering whether theſe objects be real or only ideal, he takes the illuſory images which preſent them⯑ſelves to the mind for objects really exiſt⯑ing. Thus ſleep lends to the phantaſms of a dream all the characteriſtics of reality: whilſt the ſenſes are at reſt, and attention is ſuſpended, the images of the objects [237]which have formerly affected us, are re⯑traced in the mind, and that with ſo great exactneſs, that we frequently imagine we ſee and hear thoſe who have been long dead. In the ſame manner we fancy we ſee the ſun in his meridian luſtre, ſurround⯑ed with thick darkneſs. And in the ſtill ſilence of the night we imagine we hear ſounds, and that we are tranſported to a different climate. Thus the lover believes he ſees the miſtreſs of his affections, that he hears her charming voice, and that he claſps her in his arms; ſometimes his dream changes, and the dear object of his deſires vaniſhes and deludes his eager em⯑braces. And many times the ideal ſcene is ſo ſtrongly painted, that we undergo violent agitations, ſtretch out our arms, riſe from our beds, and purſue the empty viſions, till awaking, we recover our ſenſes, and are ſorry to find ourſelves undeceived.

Such are the true cauſes of thoſe ſingu⯑lar phenomena which have baffled philo⯑ſophers, and which no one as yet has been able to account for.

Of the Exerciſe of the MEMORY.

The ſoul may be affected at the ſame time with many ſenſations, and never but with one idea; but what an immenſe number of ſenſations, ſentiments, and ideas, are retained at once in the memory!

As the memory is a merely paſſive faculty, all thoſe ſenſations, ideas, and ſentiments, which are depoſited in this magazine, are as if non-exiſtent, till the underſtanding preſent them to the mind. Without this intellectual power, the memory would be wholly uſeleſs, our thoughts being always effaced one by the other, the fruit of our experience would be loſt to us; and the paſt, for ever obliterated by the preſent, would be as if it had never been.

We can indeed chuſe the object we would depoſit in the memory, by apply⯑ing the ſoul to it with attention; but we cannot modify any thing depoſited in the memory, nor exclude that which is once admitted there.

I have demonſtrated how this faculty, combined with ſenſibility, underſtanding and will, becomes recollection and remem⯑brance; [239]I ſhall not here repeat what I have ſaid elſewhere upon this ſubject, but confine myſelf to obſervations of a differ⯑ent kind.

The exerciſe of the memory depends on the underſtanding; theſe two faculties in this reſpect are ſubject to the ſame laws. It is only by the aid of ſome relations between the preſent ſenſations or ideas, and thoſe which are paſt, that the latter are retraced in the mind. In a delirium, in folly, in dreams, where all things ap⯑pear unconnected, and diſordered, the renewing of our ſenſations or ideas is perfected only by the means of analogy, juſt as when we are awake, although their connection be not preceived; for whatever objects we recollect, they have always ſome relation to ſubſequent or preceding objects.

Senſations and ſentiments are always more active in the inſtant when we receive them, than when renewed by the memo⯑ry; hence the ſtrength of the paſſions is augmented by the preſence of their object.

When Coriolanus, with an heart full of reſentment, marched againſt his coun⯑try, no obſtacle could reſtrain him: threats [240]and intreaties were in vain; he ſat down to beſiege Rome. The ſight of his na⯑tive city, recalled the idea of the wrongs his fellow citizens had done him, and gave it new vigor: his fury was inflamed, ſo that he breathed nothing but revenge, and was on the point of carrying fire and ſword into the bowels of his country. Whilſt theſe emotions prevailed, his mother, wife, and children, preſented themſelves before him in tears; the ſight of theſe dear objects inſtantly awakened in his heart the ſentiments of tenderneſs, which be⯑fore had given place to revenge; his firm⯑neſs relented; all ſentiments of hatred became extinguiſhed, and the cruel plea⯑ſure of revenge was ſucceeded by the love of his family, his friends, his coun⯑try, and his Gods.

A thouſand other examples of this kind, equally convincing, might be adduced: the man who has long lived in adverſity, if fortune ſuddenly become propitious, on hearing the happy change in his condition, can hardly reſtrain his joy; and during all the while that he is detained from the poſſeſſion of his trea⯑ſure, his imagination is continually occu⯑pied [241]with the pleaſures he promiſes him⯑ſelf; he enjoys no reſt, no quiet: obſerve how his eyes gliſten at the ſight of the ſacred metal; tranſported with joy, the emotions affecting him can no longer be confined within the ſoul; but notwith⯑ſtanding all his efforts to ſuppreſs them, they break out in quick and ſudden mo⯑tions.

In like manner, in a criminal condemn⯑ed to die, fear continually increaſes his terror, gathers ſtrength as the hours elapſe, and the fatal inſtant approaches; brought to the place where he is to ſuf⯑fer, he ſhakes with horror at the ſight of what he is to undergo, his blood congeals in the veſſels, and his ſtrength fails him with exceſs of fear.

The paſſions derive additional force from the preſence of their object. It is by a con⯑ſequence of this law that ſo many projects expire in their birth, that ſo many ſecret reſolutions prove abortive, and that we re⯑frain from all freedom of diſcourſe when the tyrant appears. It is this law which aug⯑ments the trouble of a guilty mind, as well as the inward ſatisfaction of a truly peni⯑tent [242]heart, as they approach the great day of account.

Hence the impreſſions of objects, which are ſo ſtrong when firſt received, being tranſmitted to the memory, gradu⯑ally decay in proportion to the interval be⯑tween the time when they are firſt receiv⯑ed, and that when they are recollected. Time, which deſtroys every thing, ſeems to exerciſe the ſame power on our ſouls: our ſenſations, ſentiments, ideas, like characters engraven on marble, gradually wear out, and at laſt are wholly oblite⯑rated.

Of the Exerciſe of the WILL.

We can fix our ſenſibility on any object; we can ſelect thoſe we will to depoſit in the memory, and apply the underſtand⯑ing to the conſideration of any of theſe at pleaſure: theſe faculties of the ſoul are therefore in this reſpect dependent on the will.

The ſame laws appear in the regular exerciſe of the faculties which are obſerved in the voluntary and mechanic motions of the body; the ſoul can employ them in any determinate deſign, can attend at pleaſure [243]to any particular object of its choice, and requires only a ſimple determination of the will to continue this attention. Sen⯑ſibility, memory and underſtanding, in cer⯑tain reſpects are dependent on the will, but this in its turn is alſo ſubject to ſen⯑ſibility. Examine the will in any relation you pleaſe, you will ever find it to be di⯑rected by ſentiment, by the love of plea⯑ſure and averſion to pain, even when it ap⯑pears to ſeek this, and to renounce the o⯑ther.

The love of happineſs, is what makes the unfortunate feel the vanity of this life, arms his hand with the inſtrument of fu⯑ry, and turns it againſt himſelf. The ſame cauſe excites the fanatic and devotee to faſtings, mortifications and ſelf-denial of every kind: from this proceeds that holy rage, which makes them ſhed their own blood, and expire in the agonies of ſelf-inflicted torments.

All our faculties are therefore differently connected, the one with the other. Sen⯑ſibility, always ſubject to the impreſſion of external objects, is ſometimes influenced by the will. Memory has for its baſis the ſenſations and ideas, and never appears [244]without the aid of ſenſibility and of the underſtanding. The underſtanding con⯑tinually requires the concurrence of ſen⯑ſibility, of memory, and frequently of the will. The will likewiſe is itſelf ſub⯑ject to ſentiment. Such is the connexion of our intellectual faculties, a moſt admi⯑rable connexion, whereby theſe different powers unite in the ſame operations, in a manner ſo gentle, ſo imperceptible, as to require a conſiderable degree of ingenuity to perceive it.

Particular OBSERVATIONS on the SENSATIONS.

I have obſerved, that there may be many moderate ſenſations in the ſoul at one time, but never more than one extremely powerful ſenſation. The force of the latter muſt therefore be much greater than the force of the others combined. This is not becauſe their multiplicity impairs the ſenſitive principle, and that they really acquire force, in proportion as their num⯑ber is diminiſhed; but becauſe a very ſtrong ſenſation occupies the whole ſoul, and wholly engages its attention; at that time [245]the others are of no effect; they undoubt⯑edly are tranſmitted to the ſoul, but are no longer admiſſible there. Hence the leſs ſenſibility is divided between different ſenſations, the greater is the force of each particular ſenſation. The ſenſations, therefore, muſt be unconnected, to retain their full power.

It is not ſo with the ſentiments of joy and ſadneſs, which are produced in the ſoul by theſe ſenſations. In the concur⯑rence of analogous ſenſations, which to⯑gether affect the ſoul, their union produces the moſt powerful effects; for the ſecond object which the ſoul diſcovers, adds to the pleaſure produced by the firſt, and this pleaſure is yet farther increaſed, by the charms of the next new object which ſucceeds it. The more theſe ſenſations are multiplied, the ſentiment formed from their combination muſt be the more ſtrong, the ſoul being at once affected in many different parts.

A tempeſt ſtrikes the ſpectator with horror, but this horror is much in⯑creaſed, if the atmoſphere appear on fire, if the winds are in their fu⯑ry, [246]and peals of thunder ſhake heaven's concave.

The proſpect of a fine country, illu⯑mined by the ſetting ſun, and gilded with his departing rays in the evening of a ſerene day, imparts joy to the ſoul; the coolneſs of the air, the delightful melody of birds, the murmurs of ſome gentle ſtream, the odours of flowers and eaſy motion of the fanning zephyrs, enhance the pleaſure of the ſcene, and wholly en⯑gage the heart.

In the pleaſing, as in the terrible, the concurrence of analogous ſenſations com⯑poſe all that is great and magnificent in the ſcene, and the irregular aſſemblage of pleaſing and frightful objects, together with the variegation of the whole, forms an engaging proſpect, which charms the heart or terrifies the ſoul by means of the ſenſes.

We have ſeen that different ſenſations muſt be unconnected to produce their full effect; but by a ſingular phenomenon, the united force of the analogous ſenſa⯑tions, which affect the ſoul at the ſame time, is incomparably greater, than that of the ſame ſenſations when they act ſingly. In [247]the inchanting proſpect of a fine landſcape at ſun-riſing, not only every new object, every new ſenſation, adds to the pleaſure produced by the others; but what is more to be admired, every ſenſation becomes more intenſe, and every object is embel⯑liſhed with the charms of that which ſuc⯑ceeds it; the odours of flowers renders their colour more agreeable, and the ſweet breath of zephyr adds harmony to the warbling of the birds. Each of theſe ſenſations therefore acquire force by their union and mutual concurrence. The cauſe of this phenomenon is very ſimple; for to the pleaſure produced by one, is uni⯑ted that of the others. The ſentiment of pleaſure, formed from theſe particular ſentiments, muſt then be more power⯑ful, and the impreſſion of the ſenſation more efficacious, as I have proved elſe⯑where. Analogous ſenſations therefore gain by their union, as much as contrary ſenſations loſe thereby. Hence the reaſon why wine is more pleaſing, if, beſides its flavour, it be of a brilliant colour, and yet more agreeable, if drank out of a veſſel of chryſtal than if out of a veſſel of ſtone. This is the cauſe why, in thoſe places of [248]public entertainment where people go to kill time, the want of proper decorations renders the performance leſs intereſting; and why a dreſs, which has been long in wear, degrades the merit of an actor, and leſſens the enjoyment ariſing from the re⯑preſentation.

Of the Force of the PASSIONS.

The ſource of every paſſion is the love of ſelf, and this ſentiment is of equal force in every individual; for nothing can be conceived ſuperior to that love which every one entertains for himſelf: this ſen⯑timent has likewiſe the ſame degree of force in every individual; as Man never prefers another to himſelf. The paſſions, however, are not of equal force in every perſon; as they derive not their power from their ſource, but from ſenſibility; by which both pleaſure and pain is eſti⯑mated. If it be a law of nature to love that which is beneficial, and to hate that which is hurtful to us, it is likewiſe a law of nature to love or hate objects, in pro⯑portion to the good or ill they do us. The force of the paſſions is then propor⯑tionate, in every individual, to his ſenſibili⯑ty: but that is not the only cauſe of their [249]difference; their force varies likewiſe with the nature of their objects.

Every paſſion is a conſuming fire which carries its heat into the ſoul, and animates it with new vigour; but all the energy and power of the ſoul is owing to the ar⯑tificial paſſions only. That voluptuous emotion which renders one ſex neceſſary to the other, is gentle^* and moderate in the ſtate of nature, that is, when imagi⯑nation is excluded; the luſtful ardour, which renders that harmleſs animal, the ſtag, furious, is not perceived in Man. Is the body over-charged with prolific fluid? Man feels the impulſe of nature, and yields to its ſuggeſtions with delight, but is never furious. It is only, when conſide⯑rations of a kind entirely different from his phyſical conſtruction happen to be added to this impulſe, and when the ima⯑gination, finding in the object thoſe ideas of beauty and merit which are of our own creating, magnifies the allurements thereof, makes us believe our ſovereign [250]good depends on the poſſeſſion of it, and by this means turns the gentle ſenti⯑ment of love into an immoderate paſſion. Like a devouring fire, it inceſſantly preys on him who is inſpired with it, and makes him endure all ſorts of hardſhips, encoun⯑ter every danger, and even ſpill his blood for its gratification: ſo that this terrible paſſion, when in its fury, ſeems rather cal⯑culated to deſtroy, than to preſerve the hu⯑man ſpecies.

The other ſenſual paſſions are not more violent than love, in the ſtate of nature; as they may then eaſily be curbed, they put us to little trouble for their gratifica⯑tion^*: whilſt the moſt aſtoniſhing effects have been produced by the artificial paſſi⯑ons in all ages. It was the love of glory, [251]which produced thoſe ancient heroes, whoſe actions ſo greatly aſtoniſh us, Alex⯑ander, Caeſar, Gengiſcan. It was the love of glory that made thoſe yet more wonderful men, Thales, Zeno, Socrates, ſacrifice all the pleaſures of life, and paſs their days in the painful exerciſe of the moſt auſtere duties, continually exerciſing their ſouls by ſelf-denial, thus keeping them always prepared for the ſtrokes of adverſe fortune.

It was the Amor Patriae, that inſtigat⯑ed the Decii, the Curii, the Poſthumii, to devote themſelves for its preſervation. It was this love which prompted the pacific and juſt Ariſtides, to a very uncommon in⯑ſtance of moderation: made him reſpect the liberty of his ungrateful country-men, when it was in his power to have enſlaved them, and be contented with the condition of a private citizen, when he might have been maſter of the commonwealth; for this, he continually governed himſelf by the laws of rigid virtue, and preſerved, through the courſe of his life, a mind unſullied by the conſciouſneſs of an ill action. To the ſame love is to be attributed the incor⯑ruptible virtue of Cato, that image of the [252]gods, declared enemy of tyranny, and guardian of his country, who undertook the cauſe of expiring liberty after the death of Pompey, revived the drooping ſpirits of the people, made them take up arms, applied to the remoteſt parts for aſſiſt⯑ance, traverſed frightful deſerts, de⯑ſpiſing danger, fatigue, ſingly ſupporting the whole burden of a civil war, not to purchaſe a kingdom, but from his ruling paſſion, the ſource of all his actions, the love of his country and of liberty, ever regardleſs of his own intereſt, and watch⯑ful for that of the public. Yet this invin⯑cible ſpirit fell a victim to grief, when he perceived his efforts to be vain, and when he found grief too flow to deſtroy him, had recourſe to his ſword, ſtabbed him⯑ſelf, and tore out his bowels, that he might not be the ſad witneſs of his coun⯑try's ſlavery.

The artificial paſſions produced all thoſe great actions, whoſe ſplendor dazzles our imperfect ſight, and all thoſe great perſon⯑ages, whoſe aſtoniſhing actions appear fabulous to us, in theſe times when virtue is no longer in its ancient eſteem.

Of the Combination of the PASSIONS.

Every paſſion is founded on the love of pleaſure, and hatred of pain, two ſenti⯑ments which are common to all men; the ſame ſoul is therefore ſuſceptible of every paſſion indiſcriminately, yet they all can⯑not prevail in it at once, and ſome paſſions exclude others, and vice verſa: thus avarice excludes love of pomp, as the love of glo⯑ry excludes that of reſt.

There is never more than one paſſion predominant in the ſoul, at the ſame time, though it is frequently diſtracted by many different paſſions: but the great⯑er the number of theſe paſſions is^*, the leſs is the force of any particular one. Not that the ſenſibility of the ſoul is di⯑vided by their multiplicity, for each one, acting ſeparately, occupies the ſoul entire; but as theſe paſſions act in ſucceſſion, no one of them has time to make any ſtrong impreſſion thereon. It is the imagination which adorns the idol of our hearts, and is continually ſetting it off with new charms; by degrees its beauties are [254]improved to ſuch a degree, as to daz⯑zle and bewitch the mind, and we fool⯑iſhly adore the work of our own hands, pant after the poſſeſſion of this phan⯑tom, and waſte a conſiderable part of life in the purſuit of it.

Deſire is formed in the ſoul, as ſoon as the underſtanding has perceived the rela⯑tions between the poſſeſſion of an object and our happineſs; but it decays not im⯑mediately after its formation; it even con⯑tinues a while, without diſordering the or⯑dinary courſe of our thoughts.

Our deſires are reciprocally combined in different manners, according to their ana⯑logy and diverſity. The paſſions, which reſult from objects which are unconnected, act in ſucceſſion; the mind paſſes from one to another, however imperceptible this tranſition may be, and is then divid⯑ed between contrary emotions, ſo that this action is weakened thereby.

Of this nature is the pain a lover feels, on quitting his miſtreſs to join the army and engage in war: ſuch as the poet re⯑preſents the departure of Achilles from Deidamia, to the ſiege of Troy: agitated by contrary emotions, his ſoul long wa⯑vers [255]betwixt love and glory; he goes at laſt, but not without grief, and in a man⯑ner which evidently demonſtrates his irre⯑ſolution.

Contrary paſſions ariſing in the mind reci⯑procally weaken each other. Thus in queſ⯑tions about matters incapable of demonſtra⯑tion, and merely probable, the certainty of the mind is leſs when the underſtanding is divided by contrary ideas. But in the ſuc⯑ceſſion of analogous paſſions, the ſucceed⯑ing ſentiment acts in concurrence with that which is already acting on the heart, and their united force communicates a double impreſſion to the ſoul.

Whilſt Rome, yet free, could boaſt ſhe had within her walls citizens, who had en⯑riched themſelves with the ſpoils of van⯑quiſhed nations, the love of liberty and glory, together with the deſire of pre⯑ſerving the wealth they had acquired, was the ſource of the ſuperior courage of that people^*.

[256]What a triumph for a young Spartan to be at once the object of public honours, and of the deſires of beauty! How irreſiſti⯑ble the love of glory (that powerful and de⯑licate ſentiment, which unites the love of grandeur and ſublimity, with all the ener⯑gy of pride) when increaſed by the allure⯑ments of pleaſure.

The force of the paſſions, ever propor⯑tionate to the degree of ſenſibility, is therefore increaſed by the union of ana⯑logous paſſions, and the more ſo, in pro⯑portion to the number of thoſe ſentiments which are collected into one. Thus a tor⯑rent, whoſe waters flow with a gentle motion, whilſt divided into many ſtreams, when united in the ſame channel, ruſhes with the greateſt impetuoſity; ſo that neither dams, nor rocks, nor banks, can ſtop its fury.

Of the Duration of the PASSIONS.

If we diſtinguiſh the emotions of the ſoul by their duration, we ſhall find, that all the ſenſual paſſions are of a momen⯑tary nature, and, on the contrary, all the artificial paſſions laſting.

[257]When love is no more than the volup⯑tuous emotion which inclines one ſex to the other, it is periodical, and is felt only when the body is overcharged with pro⯑lific fluid: Man therefore waits the impulſe of nature ere he reſigns himſelf thereto; his want ſatisfied, he has no longer deſire, and love is extinct. The duration of pleaſure can only ſubſiſt in the imagina⯑tion, not in the ſenſes, however ardent thoſe of lovers may be. During their ſhort delirium, their greedy eyes, and im⯑patient hands, know not which charm to ſelect; in the moment of enjoyment they eagerly claſp the object of their deſires, and in an univerſal tremor, impreſs the moſt paſſionate kiſſes: at the approach of that delicious ſenſation, the ſummit of pleaſure, their tranſports, how greatly in⯑creaſed! Their embraces how furious! Over-powered with exceſſive pleaſure, their ſouls meet on their eager lips, and preſs each other, as if they would grow together. But the moment the prolific fluid is ejected, the fire which before conſumed them is extin⯑guiſhed, until, recalled to pleaſure by new deſires, again they kindle, again love over⯑whelms the ſoul: after a few paroxyſms [258]of this paradiſaic delirium, and a few mo⯑ments enjoyed in fluttering from flower to flower, a frigid languor ſucceeds, and the happy pair, now without paſſion and without deſires, ſigh for repoſe, and are eager to part.

How different is the caſe when the imagination lends charms to love! When the beauties of the beloved object are ex⯑aggerated in the lover's eyes; when imagi⯑nation repreſents his miſtreſs as the perfect model of every excellence, and holds forth to his eyes his whole and only felicity as centered in the poſſeſſion of her. Then only the lover becomes an enthuſiaſt, and a flame is lighted up within him, which continues unextinguiſhed for years. When at length he has enjoyed the object of his deſires, the tender emotions of his heart continue after enjoyment, the charm re⯑mains when the delirium of the ſenſes is no more. Refined charm! Delightful ſentiment! Begotten by admiration, and foſtered by eſteem and reſpect; it forms a chain which time cannot diſſolve.

When cruel deſtiny has deprived a ten⯑der miſtreſs of her lover, her wounded heart demands him from heaven; in the [259]exceſs of her grief, ſhe attaches herſelf to his ſhade, moiſtens his cold aſhes with her tears, and preſſes to her ſad boſom, the urn in which they are incloſed.

The duration of the paſſions is likewiſe relative to their degree of force; for the ſucceſſion of ſentiments is ever in propor⯑tion to their vivacity, as is that of phyſi⯑cal ſenſations. This is evident from the predominant paſſion, that furious deſpot which reigns uncontrouled in the ſoul, where he keeps the ſway for years, and even till the body drops into the grave.

Of the Life of the SOUL.

Deprive Man of the deſire of happineſs, of the love of pleaſure, and of averſion to pain; he is eaſy in the preſent moment, unconcerned for the future and devoid of care: he will neither take the trouble to think nor reflect, and having no intereſt to prompt him, will continue inactive, and his ſoul ſink into a lethargic indolence. The paſſions are the life of the ſoul, and the ſoul of the moral world, impart mo⯑tion to our faculties, and give activity to every ſenſible being. It is averſion to pain that rouſes animals from their repoſe, [260]and prompts them to ſeek for food; the horſe, the green herb, and Man his prey. It is love of pleaſure that excites every animal to delight in the ſociety of his own ſpecies, that impels the ſexes to ſeek each other, and unite in nature's myſtic rites. The love of gold tempts Man to expoſe himſelf to the fury of the waves, makes him venture acroſs oceans, and is the incen⯑tive which urges him to continual toils. The love of glory warms the heart of the philoſopher and hero, prompts them to conſume life, the one, in the ſearch of wiſdom, the other, in the toilſome exerciſe of virtue. The thirſt of fame, ambition, avarice, fear, love, hatred, or all the paſſi⯑ons united, intice men to take arms, in⯑flame them with mad fury, rouſe them to battle, till ruſhing on each other, ſword in hand, the earth is ſtrewed with dead bo⯑dies, and the fields are glutted with ſlaughter.

Like an impetuous wind, the paſſions raiſe their voice, impel man to action, and inceſſantly urge him to buſtle, in ſpite of all thoſe allurements of a quiet and pacific life, which would have kept him inactive.

Abſurd Opinion of Philoſophers on the Force of the SOUL.

The life of the ſoul conſiſts in its being animated with the paſſions; the force of the ſoul conſiſts in reſtraining and ſubdu⯑ing them to reaſon: but in what manner does the ſoul govern them? Hear what the philoſophers ſay, ‘Two principles prevail in Man; the paſſions to rouſe, and reaſon to controul him: this go⯑verns, that animates him; the paſſions impel the ſoul to action; reaſon directs it and reſtrains them; by this the paſ⯑ſions are curbed, and the ſoul preſides.’

Vain declamation! Let us leave theſe philoſophers to make paſſions and reaſon two contrary principles, and ſuppoſe them as oppoſite in their natures as they pleaſe, they will never be able to make calm rea⯑ſon a counterpoiſe to impetuous deſire and ſtrong ſentiment.

To conquer a paſſion, nay, even to will it, the ſoul muſt conſider and examine the reaſons why it is to act in this manner, and why it ought to refrain from acting; it muſt ſhew the ſuperior advantage of reſt to action; but as the impulſes of ſenti⯑ment [262]are rapid, ſo the arguments which reaſon ſuggeſts proceed but ſlowly, and the paſſions have already determined Man, before he can deliberate on what he ought to do. For the paſſions feel the preſent good; and reaſon only foreſees in the conſequences of things, the good which is to come: the objects of the paſ⯑ſions ſtrongly affect us, as being preſent to the ſight; whilſt thoſe of reaſon are im⯑paired by their remoteneſs, and always yield to the impreſſions of the paſſions.

O reaſon! thou boaſted recourſe of the wiſe, how can thy feeble voice prevail againſt the violence of the paſſions? What effect can it produce on a ſoul in diſpair, or overpowered by the fury of the ſenſes? Since the aſſiſtance thou giveſt appears ſo little efficacious, allow me to doubt, whether at that time, thou art capable of adminiſtering any.

When affected with the tumultuous paſſions, the ſoul does not reflect, nor can the voice of reaſon be heard^*: like a pi⯑lot in a veſſel that has loſt its anchor, and is toſſed at the pleaſure of the winds; over⯑come by the fury of the tempeſt, he quits [263]the helm and lets it drive, and is himſelf an uſeleſs incumbrance in the veſſel which he can no longer govern.

Such is the boaſted power of reaſon! How vain then is wiſdom, ſince it leaves Man defenceleſs in the time of danger, and only affords him aſſiſtance when it is not wanted!

In the impetuous paſſions, the ſoul, un⯑able to make any oppoſition, gives way to their violence, calm reaſon is ſilent; or, if it retain any ſmall ſhare of activity, it ſerves only to render them yet more ungo⯑vernable. Wholly intent on ſome pre⯑ſent enjoyment, like the predominant ſentiment, it is ſeduced by the allurements of voluptuouſneſs, and acts in concert with it, in purſuing the ſame object. A paſ⯑ſive ſlave during the tempeſt, no ſooner is it ſubſided, when, inſtead of adminiſ⯑tering comfort in our misfortune, it joins with the ſenſe of our unhappineſs, and aſſiſts it in depreſſing the heart. An help⯑leſs friend in danger, it abandons us in our neceſſity, goes over to the enemy, and re⯑turns not till after we have ſuccumbed, and then only, to add to our confuſion. Thus ever applauding or cenſuring, when it is too [264]late, it can only ſerve to give its ſanction to our errors^*, or to puniſh us, when we have committed them, with an uſeleſs re⯑morſe. Thus the ſoul, having no defence againſt the paſſions, is carried away by their violence, and Man is neceſſitated to ſur⯑render to ſentiment. The empire of rea⯑ſon therefore conſiſts altogether in our hav⯑ing no paſſions either to repreſs or ſubdue.

To how little an extent is this power of the ſoul reduced! How trivial this prero⯑gative, in the enjoyment of which philo⯑ſophers have ſo greatly exulted!

A right Judgment of the Force of the SOUL.

In the courſe of human life, wherein Man is ſo variouſly affected, the paſſions are the only principle of his actions; but it is not action which conſtitutes the force of the ſoul, it is the reſiſtance which the ſoul oppoſes to the paſſions.

Who then can properly be ſaid to be endowed with force of ſoul? Not a boiſ⯑terous [265] Achilles, regardleſs of every dan⯑ger; not an ambitious Alexander, who laid waſte the globe with fire and ſword; not an auſtere Cato, who tore out his bowels with his own hands^*: as they were alike unable to withſtand their paſſions, ſo they all fell victims to them; the firſt, to his ambition, the ſecond, to voluptuouſneſs, and the laſt, to grief. The man who deſ⯑piſes pleaſure and pain, faces danger without fear, receives, with indifference, the ſtrokes of adverſe fortune, and ſuſtains them with an eaſy firmneſs, He, in my opinion, is truly endowed with force of ſoul. In morals as in phyſics, force is diſtinguiſhed into active and paſſive; but let us diſtinguiſh ever ſo often the facul⯑ties of the ſoul from each other, and the ſoul itſelf from its faculties, we ſhall ne⯑ver perceive any thing like theſe two kinds of power in Man; we may, indeed, per⯑ceive an active power, viz. ſentiment, but never any counterpoiſe. Not that it is impoſſible to reſtrain the impetuoſity of [266]the paſſions; this may be done, doubtleſs, by oppoſing the one againſt the other, that is, by ſubjecting the ſoul to many, in or⯑der to deliver it from the tyranny of one. Man, therefore, being thus the feeble ſport of his paſſions, is continually neceſſitated to ſubmit to their tyranny; juſt as a ſlave, condemned to perpetual ſervitude, is ever changing his maſters, and has it not even in his power to chuſe what tyrant he will ſerve.

Let us then conclude, that if the force of the ſoul conſiſts in commanding our paſſions, none can, properly ſpeaking, be ſaid to be endued therewith: whatever has been advanced on that head is ab⯑ſurd; for to deſtroy the empire of the paſſions, we muſt deſtroy ſenſibility itſelf.

Of the feigned Force of the SOUL.

‘Were not Socrates, who calmly drank the poiſoned bowl; Seneca, who ex⯑pired in the bath, converſing with his friends; Zeno, who overcame both plea⯑ſure and pain, and denied himſelf every thing which might enervate the ſoul, endued with this force of the ſoul?’ Do you imagine theſe ſages did not act [267]under a maſk? Do you think that Socrates or Seneca met death without apprehen⯑ſion? From the bitter reproaches which one of them uttered againſt the tyrant, who had commanded his execution, is it not evident, that he yielded unwillingly to his deſtiny? And even, if the other had not demeaned himſelf ſo as to plead his cauſe, and if his ſoul, prepared by the continual exerciſe of wiſdom, had not given that mark of timidity, who can al⯑low himſelf to believe, that Socrates did not act a borrowed part? In vain he en⯑deavoured to conceal his inward feelings, under an air of ſerenity, and an unfaulter⯑ing voice; the ſoul trembled within him, and his trouble muſt have appeared, not⯑withſtanding this vain diſguiſe, to a diſ⯑cerning ſpectator. The proſpect of a pain⯑ful death will always ſtrike terror; none can view it without ſhrinking: the wretch who, overwhelmed in deſpair, has reſolv⯑ed to take away his own life, and calls on death to help him to ſtrike the blow, he⯑ſitates; his arm, though lifted up, refuſes to ſtrike, and he is forced to inflame his reſolution with the recollection of his mi⯑ſery, till ſummoning all his reſolution and [268]deſpair itſelf, at laſt he perpetrates the deed, but not without turning his head aſide from an act which he dares not be⯑hold.

The force of the paſſions is proportion⯑ate to the degree of ſenſibility, and the degree of ſenſibility is only known by the force of the paſſions. When the heart is free from every connection, and all ſenſi⯑bility is centered in the mind, Man ap⯑pears inſenſible; he can even believe him⯑ſelf to be ſo.

When the object of the paſſion affect⯑ing the ſoul is ſuch, that it may be en⯑joyed in ſilence, as that of pride, Man even then appears inſenſible; but it is to others only, for his ſenſibility is not un⯑known to himſelf. We cannot perceive the paſſions of others but by their exterior appearance, yet they exiſt not the leſs for their not being viſible. What would become of the principle of human actions, were Man diveſted of ſenſation and ſentiment? What motive taken from their own fund could tardy wiſdom or calm reaſon ſupply.

When Man has diſcovered the ſecret of reſtraining the paſſions, by making them act one againſt the other, and of forming them [269]in battle array, and, as it were, front oppoſed to front, in the heart, he has found that of balancing the ſoul, preſerving it in an equi⯑librium, concealing his inward ſmart un⯑der a ſerene outſide, and imitating that true calmof the heart, which participates of the na⯑ture of inſenſibility; outwardly he appears tranquil, but trouble rages within. Thus Camillus concealed his reſentment; Fa⯑bius, his thirſt of fame; and Decius, the love of life under love of their country. Thus the auſtere ſtoic, tranſported with the love of glory, conceals, under an haughty indifference and diſdainful gra⯑vity, his love of pleaſure and averſion to pain.

It was not force of ſoul that prevented Socrates from revealing his trouble and venting his tears,—it was a noble pride. After ſo many paſt efforts, he muſt ſuſtain his character to the laſt, make a virtue of a neceſſity, and terminate victoriouſly a life of perpetual conflicts.

‘The whole world have their eyes up⯑on thee, be mindful of thy glory; thy long life has been ſpent in making a parade of bearing adverſity with firm⯑neſs; down, down, my grief, deprive [270]me not at my exit from life, of the ſole reward of my conſtancy.’ Thus ſaid Socrates tacitly to himſelf, and would have ſpoken it aloud, had he dared.

Let Man do his utmoſt, in vain will he pretend to be exempt from fear, and from the yoke of the paſſions; he obeys them continually without perceiving it, even at the time when he is enjoying his imaginary triumph.

When Diogenes crowned himſelf with his own hands at the Iſthmian games, and proclaimed himſelf ſuperior to pleaſure and every human vanity, he was the ſlave of pride.

Let us then conclude, that the force of the ſoul is a merely apparent quality, is often even nothing but weakneſs under the maſk of ſtrength. Such is the nature of this ſo much boaſted and fallacious virtue, in which the ſhadow is often ſubſtituted for the ſubſtance, and the appearance, for the reality.

Man is perpetually the ſlave of his paſ⯑ſions; however, all men are not under this univerſal ſervitude in an equal degree; their ſubjection is greater or leſs in pro⯑portion as the paſſions are more or leſs vio⯑lent, [271]as they are in a greater or leſs com⯑bination, and as theſe combinations are more or leſs ſtrong; for the force of the ſoul is in an inverſe proportion to ſenſibility. Heroes, who are celebrated for being en⯑dued with force of ſoul, are more the ſlaves of their paſſions, than the indolent and the fickle, who are agitated by the flux and reflux of opinion, conſtantly waver⯑ing between contrary impreſſions; their minds not having even the choice of their ſhackles, nor the power of changing them.

But what is more ſurpriſing, thoſe ſages ſo greatly renowned, and who pretend to poſſeſs this force of mind, are really the weakeſt of men. During the time they believe themſelves ſuperior to every paſſion, and are boaſting of their victory, they are ſubject to the moſt imperious maſters; for reaſon can never counterba⯑lance one ſentiment but by its oppoſite, nor reſtrain one paſſion but by a ſtronger: that is, it muſt free the ſoul from one kind of ſervitude, by ſubjecting it to ano⯑ther yet more ſevere.