The Senſibility of the SOUL ever Propor⯑tionate to that of the ORGANS.

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

Is the body endued with great ſenſibili⯑ty? The ſoul is ſo likewiſe: does it poſ⯑ſeſs but little of it? The ſoul ever poſ⯑ſeſſes it in the ſame degree.

The cauſe of this phenomenon is very ſimple.

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

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

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

The ſenſibility of the ſoul is ever pro⯑portionate to that of the body, and the ſenſations are ever more ſtrong at the in⯑ſtant they are received from the object, than when remitted from the memory^†. Hence it appears, that the moſt powerful artificial pleaſures, the moſt lively paint⯑ings of the imagination, muſt neceſſarily be weaker than the impreſſions of the ſenſes. However, when we compare the repreſentations of fancy with thoſe of na⯑ture, the brilliant paintings of love in the Adonis of Marini, with the merely phyſi⯑cal pleaſures of that paſſion, we are much more ſtrongly affected by the former than by the latter.

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

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

Why MAN is more ſenſible to Pain than Pleaſure.

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

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

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

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

Why the Character of the SOUL is ever con⯑gruous to the State of the BODY.

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

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

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

Let us explain this phenomenon.

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

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

From external objects, by the ſenſes.

From ideas, by thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That voluptuous ſenſation, which ariſes from the eaſy motion of the organs, is likewiſe much more reſtrained than the diſagreeable enſation which ſprings from a defect in their harmony. The former va⯑ries very little, becauſe one cauſe only pro⯑duces it; the latter, on the contrary^*, is [109]of different kinds, and each kind is dif⯑ferently diverſified. Thus the gay cha⯑racter is ever uniform, whilſt the melan⯑choly humour has as many gradations, as are found between the ſlighteſt and deep⯑eſt melancholy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In voluntary motion the ſame relation is obſerved.

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

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

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

Whilſt the body is languid, this action is feeble; for the ſame cauſes which pro⯑duce the vivacity of the impreſſions of objects, continue it whilſt it is propagated; and the ſame cauſes, which are neceſ⯑ſary to tranſmit to the ſoul the vivacity of the ſenſations of the body, are ſo like⯑wiſe, to tranſmit to the body the vivacity of the emotions of the ſoul.

Hence Macrocephali are more viva⯑cious than others, and Microcephali leſs ſo.

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

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

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

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

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

Organization renders the Temper conſtant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Organization renders MAN volatile or thoughtful; talkative or ſilent.

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

Organization renders MAN moroſe, cruel, communicative or benign.

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

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

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

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

Organization renders MAN ſuſpicious and miſtruſtful.

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

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

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

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

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

Organization characteriſes the AFFEC⯑TIONS.

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

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

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

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

Brilliant colours are pleaſing to robuſt perſons; ſuch are paſſionately fond of warlike muſic, penetrating odours and ſpirituous liquors. Perſons of delicate texture and great ſenſibility, on the con⯑trary, [125]love light colours, ſoft muſic and ſweet odours. In the pleaſure of the mind the ſame diverſity appears; the deli⯑cate and the ſenſible, fly thoſe noiſy a⯑muſements in which the robuſt and vigo⯑rous ſo greatly delight; they love refin⯑ed enjoyments, the ſweet effuſions of the mind, têtes à têtes, and every plea⯑ſure which ariſes from the tender union of hearts.

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

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

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

The ſentiments of love and hatred muſt therefore change with theſe rela⯑tions.

A weak ſight, or rather an eye ex⯑tremely ſenſible, delights not in glar⯑ing colours; ſuch being prejudicial to it. A delicate ear, delights not in vio⯑lent noiſes for the ſame reaſon: what⯑ever is injurious to the ſenſes, is pleaſing to no one. On the other part, every be⯑ing loves to be ſenſible of its own exiſt⯑ence. Thus, whenever any one avoids too violent ſenſations, he ſeeks thoſe on⯑ly which have a certain degree of vi⯑vacity.

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

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

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

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

But the affections of the ſoul are deter⯑mined by the organization in a manner yet more particular.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet the man, who is ardent in his de⯑ſires, is not ever impetuous in his actions. Vivacity of motion ſuppoſes only great organic elaſticity of the fibres: impetuo⯑ſity requires not only great organic elaſ⯑ticity of the fibres, but force and ſolidity of the organs likewiſe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From theſe obſervations let us conclude, that,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obſervations on the Manner in which Orga⯑ganization renders MAN obdurate and cruel, compaſſionate and humane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Organization characteriſes the Manners.

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

The love of happineſs is the great and only principle of all our actions, but ſen⯑ſibility is the ſource, or rather the ſtan⯑dard, of our vices and of our virtues.

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

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

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

The ſenſations, which the ſoul receives from the general organ of feeling, are not confined to agreeable and painful impreſ⯑ſions, the ſoul likewiſe perceives the vi⯑gour or languor of the body; and this ſenſe of vigour and languor greatly di⯑verſifies the moral character of Man.

The ſenſe of vigour^*, combined with ſenſibility, renders Man ardent in his de⯑ſires, precipitate in his deſigns, and im⯑petuous in his actions; whilſt that of lan⯑guor renders him weak in his deſires, ſlow in his reſolutions, and indolent in his conduct.

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

Thoſe who are weak and of little ſenſi⯑bility are timid, crafty, indolent and pa⯑tient.

Organization determines the Force of the SOUL.

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

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

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

Organization determines the Capacity of the MIND.

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

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

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

Paſſion therefore is the cauſe of this activity of ſoul, this perpetual fermenta⯑tion of reaſon^*; without it, the mind, unaffected, unſupported, falls into a lan⯑guor, and is immerſed in ſloth.

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

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

Let us inquire into the nature of theſe diſpoſitions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From a calculation of the number of the objects of the ſenſes, the organ of ſmelling appears to be the moſt confined, and that of ſeeing the leaſt ſo. The eye is of all the bodily organs the moſt com⯑prehenſive, and takes in the greateſt num⯑ber of objects; forms, dimenſions, co⯑lours, are all within its diſtrict; the va⯑rieties it perceives in each of theſe modi⯑fications of matter infinitely ſurpaſs all thoſe within the cognizance of the taſte, ſmelling, hearing, and feeling; that is, of ſounds^*, ſavours, odours, and ſenſa⯑tions [161]from the touch. This is evident during ſleep; for the many ſenſations which are retraced in the mind during reſt, are ſo many images of viſible objects. The ſight therefore contributes more to know⯑ledge than any of our other ſenſes.

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

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

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

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

By entering into an examination of the ſenſations which are employed in the ſe⯑veral ſciences, we might determine what particular ſtructure of the ſenſes is beſt a⯑dapted for each; but, in general, organs moderately delicate, adapted to compre⯑hend a moderate number of objects, and poſ⯑ſeſſed of every faculty (if I may be al⯑lowed the expreſſion) in a mean propor⯑tional degree, are the moſt advantage⯑ouſly conſtructed. In caſes where pene⯑tration depends on the number and diſ⯑tinctneſs of the ſenſations, and on the comparing the ſenſations together, he whoſe ſenſes are beſt conſtructed, muſt therefore have the greateſt natural quali⯑fications.

‘But we perceive not, ſays a celebra⯑ted philoſopher^†, that perſons whoſe ſenſes are dull, ſight imperfect, hear⯑ing [165]thick, and ſmelling greatly if not wholly decayed, have ſlower capacities than others.’

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

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

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

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

Organization characteriſes the MIND.

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

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

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

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

Organization aſſiſtant or an Hindrance to the unfolding of the MENTAL FACUL⯑TIES.

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

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

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

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

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

Attention is ſtrengthened by being con⯑centrated; it then ſuſpends all the other faculties of the mind, and ſeems to have intire poſſeſſion of the ſoul. On the con⯑trary, it is weakened by being divid⯑ed: when it has got half way in a geo⯑metrical demonſtration, if any ſingular object affect our organs, the mind is in⯑ſtantly diſtracted, ſuffers itſelf to be en⯑groſſed by this object, and after it has wan⯑dered a while, endeavours in vain to re⯑ſume the thread of its former thoughts. Thus every ſenſation foreign to the object preſent in the mind, diverts and deſtroys the attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is unknown whether the ſoul is re⯑ally fatigued; for our knowledge of things is not ſufficient to demonſtrate whether an immaterial ſubſtance is, or is not, naturally ſuſceptible of laſſitude; but without the leaſt doubt, the ſoul, when once it is unit⯑ed to the body, and during the whole con⯑tinuance of its union therewith, experi⯑ences a ſenſe of fatigue as frequently as the body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such are the phyſical cauſes of many diverſities of mind; cauſes which have hitherto been unnoticed by philoſophers, although they ſo naturally ariſe on exami⯑ning the phenomena I have now under⯑taken to explain. And here let us repeat our firſt principle, in order to a combina⯑tion of its effects, and that we may de⯑duce its proper conſequences.

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

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

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

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

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

Another effect of this organization of the body, which we could never have ſuſ⯑pected and ſcarcely believe, although it is demonſtrated, is, that it is abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary to delicacy of ſenſations and ideas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If we maturely conſider theſe pheno⯑mena, we ſhall find this pretended im⯑provement of the ſenſes^*, which is at⯑tributed [187]to exerciſe, to be very erroneous; for exerciſe neither changes the texture of our organs, nor adds to their delicacy. It is true that, by exerciſing the ſenſes, a greater quantity of nervous fluid is de⯑termined into their organs, whereby their ſenſibility is increaſed: but he, who en⯑deavours to view minute objects for the firſt time, has the organ of ſight equally tenſe with him who is accuſtomed to diſ⯑tinguiſh them at the firſt glance, although he can neither ſee nor remark any thing. It is not therefore to the organ but to the ſoul which receives the ſenſation, that we are to attribute the cauſe of this phe⯑nomenon.

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

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

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

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

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

Organization renders MAN rational or inſane.

The mind undoubtedly poſſeſſes the fa⯑culty of thinking; and although all men were equally endowed therewith, organi⯑zation would not the leſs regulate the ex⯑erciſe of this faculty: for thinking, when our thoughts are in regular ſucceſſion, re⯑quires tenſion of the fibres; the mind ne⯑ver can proceed alone, but requires the concurrence of the organs to form a ſound judgment of things, or to reflect. Thus depending on the ſenſes for its unfolding, on the organic elaſticity and force of the fibres for the character of its ideas; it likewiſe depends on the ſame organic elaſ⯑ticity of theſe organs, for the order of its thoughts and the mode of their ſuccceſ⯑ſion; this laſt dependency of the ſoul on the body is the cauſe of the principal di⯑verſities in minds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The different ſpecies of madneſs may be reduced to two; which are to be diſ⯑tinguiſhed not by thoſe vagaries of reaſon which are common to both, but by the character of the thoughts; they are de⯑ſigned under two general denominations; furious madneſs, when the thoughts are daring, and the emotions of the ſoul vehe⯑ment; inſanity or idiotiſm, when the emo⯑tions of the ſoul and the thoughts are weakly expreſſed.

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

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

The ſaline particles with which theſe liquors are impregnated, and the ſpirits with which they abound, when received into the ſtomach, firſt irritate its mem⯑branes, and, being conveyed into the in⯑teſtines, irritate their coats: this irrita⯑tion is immediately followed by a ſpaſm of theſe organs, propagated through⯑out the body, by the correſpondence of the nervous ſyſtem which affects every part, but more eſpecially the meninges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too great or too long application in⯑creaſes this tenſion, even ſo far as to ex⯑cite a ſtupor in the head, and kindle up a fever in the veins: ſtudious perſons fre⯑quently experience this, I myſelf have, many times.

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

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

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

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

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

I have now only to offer a few obſerva⯑tions on the ſubſequent phenomena, to confirm what has been ſaid on the ſame ſubject elſewhere^*. Certain hypochon⯑driacs ſee viſions at mid-day, and with their eyes open: ſome fancy they behold a continued ſeries of phantoms and hide⯑ous ſpectres, rapidly ſucceeding each other; others, a ſeries of agreeable objects, flit⯑ting ſhades, female forms, magnificent ſcenes, which offer themſelves in ſucceſ⯑ſion, and are ſeen like objects really ex⯑iſting; ſo that the deception of theſe vi⯑ſionary repreſentations is ſo ſtrong, that they believe them to be realities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus it is that the paſſions produce viſi⯑ons and trances; thus it is that enthuſiaſm is changed into a delirium, and thus it is that fanatic minds ſometimes fancy them⯑ſelves inſpired.

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

Organization renders Imagination the predo⯑minant Character of the MIND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Organization characteriſes the THOUGHTS.

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

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

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

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

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

What has been ſaid above concerning the imagination, is properly applicable to irregular thought only; its regular pro⯑ductions require the ſame phyſical diſpo⯑ſition which reaſon does.

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

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

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

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

I have proved, that reaſon is not eſ⯑ſential to the ſoul, and that the imagina⯑tion [235]depends on the elaſticity and force of the fibres, I ſhall now demonſtrate, that remembrance and recollection are modes of the ſoul's exiſtence, and wholly depen⯑dent on organization.

Remembrance and Recollection dependent on Organization.

Memory is almoſt always confounded with remembrance and recollection, qua⯑lities very different, and which ought to be carefully diſtinguiſhed^* Memory, or the faculty of retaining our ſenſations and ideas, is peculiar to the ſoul, and inde⯑pendent of every phyſical cauſe: but remem⯑brance and recollection (the one where⯑of is the faculty of diſcerning our ſenſati⯑ons and ideas, when re-produced to be thoſe which we have before received; and the o⯑ther, that of re-producing them at will) al⯑though intellectual powers, nevertheleſs wholly depend on organization.

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

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

Finally, in the hiſtory of the academy of ſciences of Paris, Année 1701, pag. 57. we find the caſe of a child, eight years of age, that loſt its^† memory by the ex⯑ceſſive heats of ſummer, and never reco⯑vered it whilſt the heats continued.

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

We ſhall be fully convinced of this truth, if we conſider, that every thing which im⯑pairs the tone of the ſolids, either by vi⯑tiating the ſecretion of the nervous fluid in the brain, or reſtraining its action, pro⯑duces [238]the ſame effect. The immoderate uſe of cooling liquors, ſpirits, opium, hy⯑oſciamum, and other narcotics, long and profound ſadneſs, fear, terror, and every other violent paſſion of the ſoul, too long continued watching, and too profound me⯑ditation, all which are adapted to deſtroy the elaſticity of the fibres, occaſion the loſs of remembrance and recollection. Fi⯑nally, the decay, and even the loſs of theſe powers, are often occaſioned by ex⯑ceſſive heat; in this caſe, it is viſibly pro⯑duced by the diminution of organic elaſti⯑city. Every thing concurs to eſtabliſh the loſs of elaſticity, as the cauſe of this phe⯑nomenon, as I have obſerved, in collect⯑ing the different obſervations made upon this ſubject, and reducing to fixed points their numerous variations.

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

But if the loſs of remembrance and re⯑collection be often produced by the relax⯑ation of the fibres; it is ſometimes occaſi⯑oned by their rigidity. In inflammatory fevers, in drunkenneſs, nothing is remem⯑bered, nothing recollected. How fre⯑quently are ſeen perſons when affected with either of theſe, that know not their friends, children, wives, and even forget their own name! How many have been reduced to the ſame miſerable ſtate from the irritation of the meninges by ſplinters of the crani⯑um, or by ſome extraneous body!

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

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

Hitherto I have ſhown how the differ⯑ent degrees of the elaſticity of the fibres contribute to the diverſity of minds, and [241]how this mechaniſm explains theſe phe⯑nomena, reconciles them to Nature, if I may be allowed the expreſſion, and diveſts them of the marvellous; this cauſe, how⯑ever ſimple it may appear, produces ma⯑ny other very ſurpriſing effects.

Organization renders MAN intelligent or ſtupid.

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

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

But even this will not ſuffice. To diſ⯑cover the relations of things, the mind muſt compare them in their different aſ⯑pects, and variouſly combine them. Ex⯑cept this, admitting every other qualifica⯑tion, the beſt organized ſenſes, the moſt [243]ardent deſire of attaining perfection; yet ſo long as Man continues unable to com⯑bine his ſenſations, it will be impoſſible for him to acquire knowledge. Penetra⯑tion therefore requires the ſame organic elaſ⯑ticity of the fibres as reflection.

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

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

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

But all idiots are not ſo by nature; ſome gradually arrive at that ſtate, the moſt in⯑genious equally with others. Acute diſ⯑eaſes of long continuance^*, and likewiſe chronic diſeaſes, impair the penetration. The conſiderable loſs of nervous fluid, ei⯑ther by coition, by its diſcharge from the tumor of the hernia ſpinalis, or by exten⯑ſive exerciſe, produces the ſame effects. Great drinkers, apoplectics, they who have undergone the operation of the tre⯑pan, they who have been recovered after hanging, remain very long without con⯑ception and without judgment.

Let us attend to the reaſon of theſe phe⯑nomena.

Microcephali are idiots, macrocephali ve⯑ry ſagacious. But if penetration be ever proportionate to the dimenſions of the brain, it is not from any particular orga⯑nization of this viſcus, as ſome have ima⯑gined. [245]The brain is only an organ of ſe⯑cretion, and is without relation to the ſoul, except by its ſecreting a greater or leſs quantity of the nervous fluid; and as its volume might more or leſs obſtruct the ori⯑gin of the nerves, by compreſſing the mem⯑branes which ſurround it; it is only in theſe reſpects, that the brain can influence penetration.

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

This inability in microcephali, and in thoſe who are extremely fat, to increaſe the organic elaſticity of their fibres, often deſtroys the penetration of the moſt ſaga⯑cious. To this is owing that ſtupidity which affects thoſe who have been reco⯑vered after hanging, apoplectics, thoſe who have ſuffered the operation of the trepan, and hard drinkers. It is this, like⯑wiſe, which, after acute and chronic diſ⯑eaſes, deprives men of the faculty of con⯑ception, and reduces them to a ſtate of infancy.

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

Hence the reaſon why the violent paſſi⯑ons, profound ſadneſs, and narcotics, pro⯑duce a kind of momentary ſtupidity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hence the mind can have only imper⯑fect notions of things, and all its know⯑ledge is but a confuſed huddle of errors and abſurdities.

Organization contributes to render MAN either prudent or inconſiderate.

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

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

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

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

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

To elucidate theſe phenomena, I ſhall not undertake a myſterious explanation, [256]which ſuppoſes us to be endowed with know⯑ledge which we have not; nor imitate the explanations of others, which are equally repugnant to reaſon and experience. All theſe phenomena, which appear ſo whim⯑ſical, and ſo impoſſible to account for, ac⯑cording to the ſyſtem of theſe philoſo⯑phers, are ſo very ſimple, according to that which is here eſtabliſhed, that the only thing to be wondered at is their ſimplicity. We have ſeen that reaſon, imagination, re⯑membrance, recollection, penetration, ſa⯑gacity, &c. are powers of the mind, de⯑pendent on the different tones of the or⯑ganic elaſticity of the fibres. It is there⯑fore evident, that theſe effects muſt diſ⯑appear with their cauſes. I ſhall attempt farther to develope this principle, and give it the cleareſt evidence of truth.

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

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

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

Thus Man may loſe the power of me⯑ditation, and retain that of reflection; he may loſe imagination, ſagacity, and pene⯑tration, and retain good ſenſe; laſtly, he may loſe judgment, and yet retain inſtinct.

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

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

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

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

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

Thus every thing in Nature is influenced by phyſical laws.

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

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

Such, in a word, are the true founda⯑tions, the ſolid baſis of a ſcience, where⯑in every thing appeared arbitrary, obſcure and myſterious.

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

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