 CHAPTER V. VELUPTUS OR PLEASURE. We came out of the grove. Men, said I to the prefect, are highly indebted to you for preserving love, degenerated as it is. If you did but know what avoid there is among them nowadays, their amusements are so few that the least of all must of them be very valuable. Love no longer makes their happiness, but it diverts them at least. What would the Babylonians do if love did not put in motion all those walking statues, which you see so busy about the women? They sigh, they complain, they request, they press, they obtain, they are happy or dupes. It is just the same thing, but time passes and that is enough for the Babylonians. In the beginning continued the prefect, Nature, ever attentive to the welfare of men, begot Veluptus. She was an unadorned native beauty, but full of those charms which characterizes whatever comes out of the hands of the common parent of all beings. Nature gave her a golden cup and said, Go among men, draw pleasure out of my works, present it without distinction to all mortals, but make them not drunk. Veluptus appeared upon the earth. Men flocked together in crowds, all drank largely of her cup, and quenched their thirst. None were intoxicated. Veluptus made herself desired, presented herself seasonably, and was always received with joy. As she offered herself with restriction, she was always cherished and never cloyed. Men, not being inveterated by excess, preserved to a very advanced age, all their organs in vigor, their taste remained, and old age still drank of Veluptus's cup. Nature has a rival, called Art, who incessantly employed in rendering himself useful or agreeable to society, strives to supply what nature cannot or will not do for men. He resumes Nature's works, retouches them, sometimes embellishes, often disguises and degrades them. Art failed not to observe the conduct of Veluptus, and to refine whatever she offered to mankind. He could not bear an interval between pleasures, and would have them succeed one another without intermission. He ransacked all the countries of the world, united all the objects of sensuality, and multiplied a thousand ways the pleasures of sense. Men, surrounded with so many alluring objects, thought themselves happy, and in their intoxications said, without Art, nature is nothing. But very soon their senses were cloyed. Satiety read disgust, and disgust made them indifferent to all kinds of pleasure. Nature Art nor Nature could affect them to any degree. From that time they have hardly been able to amuse or divert themselves. Veluptus has no longer any charms for them. CHAPTER VI. PERPETUAL YOUTH. There is no place, continued the prefect, where these dissipations, supposed to supply the room of pure pleasure, are more necessary than at Babylon. So there is no place where they are more frequent. The Babylonians are known, not made, for such thinking, and for good reason. It is not desired they should think. A wise policy is always proposed to keep as many employed as possible and to amuse the rest. For these last it is, that the arts of amusement are encouraged, that public walks are kept up at a great charge, that spectacles of all kinds are exhibited, and so many places tolerated, where gaming, drinking, and licentiousness serve for food to these heedless men, who, without these avocations, would not fail to disturb the society. These various avocations filled up the moments of life to such a degree that there is no time for recollection, and for counting the years that insensibly fly away. A man declines, decays, is bent under the load of years, and he has not once thought of it. Rather let us say, there is no old age at Babylon, for men of this kind. A perpetual youth runs through their life, the same agitations in the heart, the same dullness in the soul, and the same void in the mind. Youths of twenty-five and of sixty march with equal pace to the same end. The desires, eagernesses, sallies, excesses are the same. They'll forget themselves, still go on, and death alone is capable to stop the career of these decrepit youths. It is remarkable that one day one of those young old men bethought himself to make reflections. When a man, said he, is come like me, to a certain age, he does not fully live, he dies by degrees, and he ought successively to renounce whatever does not suit his state. There are things that become nobody, which however are contrived at in youth, but which make an old man ridiculous. What business have I now with this costly furniture, these splendid equipages, with this table served with so much profusion? Am I excusable for keeping a mistress, whose luxuriousness will not fail to ruin me in the end? Does it become me to appear still in those places, where the sensuousness carries inconsiderate youth? I will forsake a world for which I am no longer fit, and will embrace that peaceful and retired life to which my declining age invites me. What shall I retrench from my experiences? I will give to my nephew, who is coming into the world, and should sit out with some figure. Since I am dying by degrees, so by degrees he ought to inherit. This resolution being taken and well taken, a friend of his comes to visit him, sees him thoughtful, asks the reason and learns his design. What says he to him? Have you not still spirit enough to withstand reason? She knocks, and is it going to be opened. What do you mean? Reason may be of use to a young man, to curb the fury of his passions, but must be fatal to an old one, in totally extinguishing the little rally she has left for pleasures. What a fine sight it will be, to see Plutarch's morals, Nicole's essays, and Pascal's thoughts lodged in thy brain, closed by Boccacci's novels, La Fontaine's tales, and Rousseau's epigrams. Believe me, reason is good only for those who have cultivated it long ago, heads made like ours cannot suit it. For maxims and reasons are too contradictory, and instead of regulating, it would throw all into disorder and confusion. But, replied our new convert, dost thou know what thou art doing with thy extraordinary eloquence? Never was so much reason used to prove that we must act against reason. Come, let us go, my dear Marquis, a free supper awaits us at the, to the nymph, thou knowest, will complete my conviction. From thence we will go to the ball, to-morrow, champagne at your cousin the Countess's, and lands canette at our friend the President's. CHAPTER VII THE ITCHINGS We walk toward the south. On this side, Gephanthea ends in a point, and forms a little promontory, from which there is a large prospect. This promontory is covered all over with the plant. These boughs descend and creep every way. This is the production of the second kernel. The plant never bears either leaves or blossoms or fruit. It is formed by an infinite number of very small fibers, which branch out from one another. View carefully the fibers, says the prefect to me. Thus they'll see at their extremity, little longish bodies, which move so briskly. They are small maggots, which this plant breeds. Whether vegetation, carried beyond its usual bounds, produces them, or whether there comes at the extremity of the fibers, a sort of corruption, by which they are engendered. In time these maggots waste away so as to become invisible. But with all they get wings, and growing flies they disperse themselves over the earth. There they stick fast to men, and cease not to infest them with the sting given them by nature. And as the tarantula, with the poison which she leaves in the wound she is made, inspires in a moderate desire to leap and dance, just so these small insects cause, according to their different kinds, different itchings. Such are the itch of talking, the itch of writing, the itch of knowing, the itch of shining, the itch of being known, with a hundred others. Hence, all the motions men put themselves into, all the efforts they make, all the passions that stir them. The sensation they feel on these occasions is so manifestly such as we are describing, that when any one is seen in an uncommon agitation of body or mind, it is very usual to say, what fly stings, what maggot bites. Though nothing can be seen, it is perceived that this cause of so many motions is a stinging. A man often finds it by experience, and knows what it is owing to. When once men are troubled with these relentless prickings, they cannot be quiet. He, for instance, that is stung with the itch of talking, is continually discoursing with everybody, correcting those that do not need it, informing those that know more than himself. His visage opens, lengthens, and shortens at pleasure. He laughs with those that laugh, weeps with those that weep, without sharing the joy of the one or the grief of the other. If by chance he gives you room to say anything, speak fast and stop not, for in an instant he would begin again, and take care not to be interrupted. Never does he lend an ear to any one, and even when he seems to hold his tongue, he is still muttering to himself. He despises nothing so much as those silent animals, who hear little and speak still less. And he thinks no men, more worthy of envy than those who have the talent of drawing a circle of admirers, of raising the voice in the midst of them, and of saying nothings incessantly applauded. Sometimes the itch of talking is turned into the itch of writing, which comes to the same thing. For writing is talking to the whole world. Then these torrents of words which flow from the mouth change their course and flow from the pen. What number of babblers in these silent libraries! Oh how must those who have ears, and run over these immense collections, be stunned by what they hear! They are like great fares, where each author cries up his wares to the utmost of his power, and spares nothing to promote the sale. Come, says an ancient, come and learn of me to practice virtue and become happy. Come and draw from these pure fountains, those streams are polluted by the corruption of men. Come rather to me, cries a modern, time and observation have opened our eyes, we see things, and only want to show them to you. Mind them not, says the Romancer, seek not truth there, truth lies in the bottom of the Democritus as well. Come therefore to me for amusement, and I will help you to it. Come and read the life and exploits of the Duke of— The model of the court. He never attacked a girl without debauching her. He has embroiled above fifty families, and thrown whole towns into confusion. He must, it is plain, be one of the most accomplished men of the age. I have things to offer you, much more interesting than all this, says a versifier. I have the prettiest o's and finest songs in the world. All soft verses, nosegaze for iris, and a complete collection of all the riddles and symbolical letters, which for these ten years have puzzled the sagacity of the strongest heads in Babylon. Away with those trifles, says a tragic poet, and come to me. I manage the passions as I please. I will force tears from your eyes, transport you out of your senses, and make your hair stand on end. It is very kind indeed, says a comic poet, but I believe it will be better to come to me, who will make you laugh at all others and even at yourselves. I pity you all, says the man-hater, burn me all those books there and mine too, and let there be no mention of learning, arts, sciences, and the like-richet things. For it is I that tell you, as long as you have any reason, you shall have neither wisdom nor conduct nor happiness. I say nothing of the itch of knowledge, which should always proceed that of writing, and which commonly follows it at a good distance, and often never comes at all. At Babylon the itch of being singular is like an epidemical disease. It is pretty well known wherein the Babylonians are alike, but it would be the work of an age, to say wherein they differ. Babylon distinguishes himself by some remarkable stroke. Hence comes the mode of portraits, and the facility of drawing them. Draw them by fancy, you are sure they will meet with a likeness. Draw them after nature, you will never fail of originals. There are some for the pulpit, for the use of the orators who want grace. There are some for the theater. For the use of poets who want genius. There are some for writings of all kinds, for the use of the authors who want ideas. The most troublesome of all the itches produced by these insects is the itch of being known. Thou can't not conceive, what efforts are made by all the men stung with this itch. I say all the men, for who has not a view to reputation and fame? The artisan knows his work, the gamester his calculations, the poet his images. The orator his grand strokes, the scholar his discoveries, the general his campaigns, the minister his schemes. And even he that sees the nothingness of this chimera still contemplates his charms, and sighs after it. Just so a lover, with a troubled heart, strives to abandon a faithless mistress, from whom he cannot bear to part. What designs? What efforts of imagination to make one self talk of? How many things tempted and dropped? What hopes, fears, cares and follies of every kind? CHAPTER VIII. COMPENSATIONS What you tell me, says I, is very extraordinary. But I cannot see why the elementary spirits raise and cultivate this plant with such great care. They who wish us so much good. In this respect do very little. To behold men stung to the quick, acting like madmen, losing their senses for chimeras, is a thing, in my opinion, deserving pity. But perhaps it may be an amusement to the elementary spirits. Like many others, replied the prefect, thou judgest and seeest things but in one view. The itches have their inconveniences, but that is nothing in comparison of their advantages. Without the itch of talking and writing, would eloquence be known? Would the sciences have been transmitted and improved from generation to generation? Would not you be like so many untaught children, without ideas, without knowledge, without principles? Was it not for the itch of being known, who would take the pains to amuse you, to instruct you, to be useful to you by the most interesting discoveries? Without the itch of ruling, who would busy themselves in unraveling the chaos of the laws, in hearing and judging your quarrels, in watching for your safety? Without the itch of shining, in what kingdom would policy find event for those respectable knickknacks wherewith she adorns those she is pleased to distinguish? And yet, this kind of nothings are, for the good of the state, to be acquired at the price even of blood. Thanks to our flies there are some mad enough to sacrifice all for their sake, and others fool enough to behold them with veneration. Take away our insects and men stand stupidly, ranged by one another, like so many statues. Let our insects fly, and these statues receive new life, and are busy as bees. One sings, another dances. This reads his verses, and falls into an ecstasy, that hears him and is tired. The chemist at his furnace, the speculatist at his study, the merchant at sea, the astronomer discovers a new satellite, the physician a new medicine, the soldier a new maneuver. In fine the statues are men, and all this owing to his plant and our care. I beg, said I, to the prefect, we may stand at a distance from this admirable plant. I dread more than I can express the neighborhood of these volatiles. I rejoice much to see them authors of so many benefits, but I fear still more the uneasiness they create. END OF SECHTION VII SECHTION VIII OF GEPHANTIA BY CHARLES FRANCOIS TIPCHANIA DE LA ROCHE This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER IX NIL ADMIRARI Your fearlessness, says the prefect, surprises me. Tell me, I pray, what idea hast thou of what is called grandeur, dignities, and high rank in estate? I am in this world, answered I, like a traveller, who goes on his way curiously observing the objects but desiring none, as he is but a passenger. Moreover, if things are estimated according to the happiness they procure, I do not think that the highest places should be much valued, for I see they make no man happy, and are misfortune to many. What of riches, added the prefect. Pleasure, said I, is like a very rare commodity, which, however, every one would feign purchase. Among those that succeed, the rich buy it very dear. It comes cheap to the rest. One may as well be among the last as the first. Of the few pleasures that exist, the lower class enjoy as a largest share as the highest. Of what wit, genius, talents, says the prefect. One half of the world, replied I, study to amuse the other. The first class is formed of men of talents, whose brains are wound up by nature higher than ordinary. They are incessantly striving to please. If they fail, they waste away with grief. If they succeed, it is never fully. And a single censure creates them more pain than all the incomiums together give them pleasure. It is therefore better to be of the second class. I am meaning among those who are amused by the others. As far as I see, said the prefect, the aspect of the great and their pomp, of the scholar and his extensive genius, of the rich and his vast possessions, makes little or no impression on my mind. I confess, replied I, that no man was ever less dazzled with all this than myself. Wrapped in a certain coolness of sense, I am guarded against all strong impressions. I behold with the same eye the ignorant who know nothing, and the learned who know all, except truth. The protector who plans, though he knows his weakness, and the protected who cringes, though he perceives his superiority. The peasant that is disgusted with the simplicity of his diet, and the rich sensual, who with thirty niceties, can hardly make a dinner. The duchess loaded with diamonds, and the shepherdess decked with flowers. See which dwells in the cottage as well as in the palace, and upholds the low as well as the high, care which sits on the throne by the king, or follows the philosopher in his retirement. All the parts on the stage of this world seem to me no better than another, but I do not desire to act any. I would observe all and be taken up with nothing. Hence it is that I dreaded the neighborhood of these restless flies. And hence it is precisely, interrupted the prefect, that thou hast nothing to fear from them. Thou admirest nothing, it is sufficient. The flies can take no hold of thee. The first impression they must make is the impression of surprise and admiration. If they make not that, they miss their aim. The moment admiration is admitted, a crowd of passions quickly follow. For in the object of wonder, great hurt or great good is expected. Hence love or aversion, and all their attendance, restless desire which never sleeps, joy which embraces and devours its objects, melancholy which at a distance, and with weeping eyes, contemplates and calls for what it dreads, confidence which walks with head erect, and often meets a fall, despair which is preceded by fear and followed by madness, and a thousand others. If thou wilt, rest secure from their attacks, cherish thy coolness of sense, and never lose sight of the grand principle. Nile admirari. CHAPTER X. THE FANTASTICAL TREE After having walked some time by the sight of a rivulet, we came into a beautiful and spacious meadow. It was enameled with a thousand sorts of flowers, whose various colors were, at a distance, blended together and formed shining carpets, such as art has never woven. The meadow was bounded by a piece of rock, like a wall, against which grew a tree, like an espalier. It did not rise above a man's height, but spread itself to the right and left, the length of the rock above three hundred paces. Its leaves were very thin and very narrow, but in such abundance that it was not possible to see the least part, either of the trunk or of the branches, or of the surface of the rock. Thalcius said the prefect, the product of the third and last kernel. We give it the name of the fantastical tree. From this precious tree it is that inventions, discoveries, birds and sciences take their original, and by that mechanism which will surprise thee. Thou knowest that the fibers of the leaves of a tree are arranged uniformly on each of them. To see one is to see all the rest. Here this uniformity has no place. Each leaf has its fibers ranged in a particular manner. There are not two alike in the fantastical tree. But what is most wonderful? The fibers on each leaf are arranged with symmetry, and represent distinctly a thousand sorts of objects. One while a colonnade, an obliesque, a decoration. Another while mechanical instruments. Here geometrical diagrams. Algebraical problems. Astronomical systems. There physical machines. Chemical instruments. Plans of all kinds of works. Papers, prose, conversation, history, romances, songs and the like. These leaves do not fade. When come to perfection they grow by degrees prodigiously small, and roll themselves up in a thousand folds. In this state they are so light that the wind blows them away, and so small that they enter through the pores of the skin. Once admitted into the blood they circulate with the humours, and generally stop at the brain, where they cause a singular malady, the progress of which is thus. When one of the leaves is settled in the brain, it is imbibed, dilated, opened, becomes such as it was on the fantastical tree, and presents to the mind the images were with that is covered. During the operation the patient appears with his eyes fixed and a pensive air. He seems to hear and see what passes about him, but his thoughts are other ways employed. He walks sometimes at a great rate, and sometimes stands stock still. He rubs his forehead, stamps with his foot, and bites his nails. They who have seen a geometrician upon the solution of a problem, or a naturalist on the first glimpse of a physical explication, must have observed these symptoms. This violent state proceeds from the efforts of the soul to discern what is traced on the leaf. It holds longer or shorter, according as the leaf takes up more or less time in displaying and aptly presenting itself. The abatement of the malady appears by light emanations from the brain, such as some ideas suddenly conceived, some designs hastily thrown down on paper, some schemes sketched in a hurry. The soul begins to discern the objects, and contemplate at leisure the fantastical leaf. These last symptoms declare an approaching crisis, which quickly shows itself in a general evacuation of all that has been transmitted to the brain. Then verses flow, difficulties are cleared, problems are resolved, phenomena are explained, dissertations are multiplied, chapters are heaped upon chapters, and the whole takes the form of a book, when the patient is cured. Of all these accidents which afflicted him, there only remains an immoderate affection for the offspring of his brain, of which he was delivered with so much pain. CHAPTER XI. PREDICTIONS. Behold, added the Prefect, showing me the extent of the fantastical tree, behold leaves for a century of designs, of discoveries, and of writings. Thou mayest examine at thy leisure what, during that space, will torment above a million of heads. I drew near and attentively viewed a good while, the wonderful tree, especially those branches on which the science is vegetated, and after having examined it to the last bowels with all the attention and exactness I am capable of, I think myself qualified to make here some predictions. The historical branch has an admirable effect. All the events are painted like a cameu, as by the hand of the greatest masters. So many leaves, so many little pictures. What will most surprise is that these pictures, seen in different points of view, represent the same subject, but represent it very variously. And according to the manner of beholding it, the same action appears courageous or rash, zealous or fanatical, rational or silly, proud or magnanimous. So, according to the point of view, wherein these leaves present themselves to the brain of an historian, he will see things in a good or bad light, and will write accordingly. I would not have such works entitled, the history of what passed in such a time, but rather the manner in which such an author saw what passed. Moreover this branch is plentifully furnished, and should be so. As long as there are men there will be ambition, traitors, disturbers of the public peace, merit will be forgotten, and the worthless preferred, virtue will be oppressed, vice will be triumphant, countries will be savaged, cities will be sacked, and thrones will be dyed in blood. These are the food of history, excellent school for youth to learn lessons of humanity, candor, and sincerity. The metaphysical branch is almost equally furnished, but its leaves are very thin, and their fibers so excessively small that they are hardly perceivable. I greatly pity the brains where they will settle. I see but one way to give them ease, and that is to treat the most thorny questions after the modern manner. I mean to supply the want of clear ideas and deep reflections, by bold and confident assertions, which may serve to impose. The moral branch droops and receives scarce any sap, its withered leaves declare an approaching decay, alas it is dying. The plans on it are quite effaced. This is too visible from the works that are published of this kind. The ideas of good and evil are confounded, virtue is so disguised as hardly to be known, nor is it easy to discern what is to be called vice. And yet the whole is not said. There remains many arguments to be published against the obsolete notion of justice, many jests to be passed upon by those who still talk of probity in the old-fashioned style. Refresh proofs to demonstrate that national, private, and especially personal interest should be the sole rule of conduct. At these so fine lessons the Babylonians will clap their hands and cry, in truth all the world was blind, and men did not see clearly till this present time. The poetical branch is in a very bad state. There are only a few bowels left. Among others the dramatic bow, and that so very weak, can hardly support itself. There will appear from time to time at Babylon some tragic poets, but no comic. I suspect the reason. Formerly the Babylonians were only ridiculous. They were brought upon the stage and people laughed. Now they are almost all vicious, but vicious upon principle, and such objects by no means raise laughter. The manners begin to be no longer theatrical. The panagerical branch is very considerable, and bends under its load. There will be panagerics applicable to a great man from whom some favor is expected. To an author who having flattered receives homage for homage. To another who is flattered, in order that he may flatter again. There will be some commercial ones, which will be sold, to one for his protection, to another for his table, to a third for his money. There will also be some and in great plenty for those who beg them. But there will be hardly any for those that deserve them the most. With good sense alone, and the simplest notions which abound of the philosophical branch furnishes, and which teach to estimate the things of this life according to their value, there will be formed, among the people, a number of practical philosophers. Wills among the men of letters, all the penetration imaginable, all the knowledge they think they have, all the wed in the world will form only imperfect philosophers. They will avoid praises, but so as to attain them by some roundabout way. They will profess the most ardent zeal for all the citizens, nay, for all men in general, but they will care only for themselves. They will decide upon the most complicated, the most obscure, the most important questions, with an astonishing confidence. But in deciding everything they will clear up nothing. They will wear outwardly the most reserved modesty. Inwardly they will be eaten up by ambition. Now shall we call such persons philosophers? It is thus that we give the name of stars to those meteors, which kindle sometimes in the upper region of the air, make ablaze, and instantly vanish. In general, I thought, I saw upon a great number of leaves, things entirely contradictory. The century will slide away, and the sentiments upon the same objects will not be reconciled. According to custom, each will speak his opinion and attack the rest. Disputes will arise, and the most bitter ironies, the strongest invectives, the most cutting, raileries. Nothing will be spared to raise the laughter of the crowd, and the pity of the wise. CHAPTER XII THE SYSTEM Of an infinite number of plans of different works, that I saw drawn on the leaves of the fantastical tree, I remember three. In the first, the point in question is very abstract, but treated in so a singular manner that perhaps it will not be disagreeable to give here a slight sketch of it. When I have examined matter, it has appeared to me that it could not think, and I have readily admitted beings purely spiritual. It is true the least ideas of such substances have never been formed. This proves the sagacity of man does not reach very far. But does it prove there is nothing beyond? When I have considered the animals, I have not been able to help thinking them intelligent, and that so much ingenuity was not without some understanding. They are, therefore, said I, provided with a spiritual substance. But what? These insects, these worms, these microscopic animals, who increase without numbers in the shortest space, have they each a spiritual, that is to say, an unchangeable immortal soul? I do not imagine any such thought ever entered into a sound head. Then calling to mind that intelligent being diffused through the whole earth, and perhaps farther, that immense spirit of whom some ancient philosophers have talked, under the name of the universal soul. I have thought that, without multiplying infinitely spiritual substances, that soul was very proper to supply their place, and alone sufficient to give life to all the animals. I have, therefore, embraced the opinion of the ancients, but with one restriction. They were persuaded that every thinking-organized being is animated by a particle of the universal soul. That cannot be. If this soul is capable of perceptions, it is spiritual and indivisible, and if it is indivisible, it cannot separate itself from any part to go and animate any being whatever. If this spirit informs different bodies, it is because it operates at the same time in different places, and not because it sends anywhere some emanation of its substance. Farther, the ancients believe that man, like the animals, derived from the universal soul all the intelligence he is endowed with. Another mistake. If we consider a man, that hidden principle which carries him so effaciously to follow the impressions of sense, though ever so repugnant to reason, we shall agree with the ancients that this principle must be the same with that which animates, rules, and directs the animals. The pure, sensitive nature of the universal soul is visible in it. But when I perceive in man another agent, which tends to subject all his actions to the rules of justice, which so often opposes the senses, though seldom with success, which, even when it succeeds not to hinder the sin, never fails to sting him with remorse and repentance. I cannot help thinking that besides the universal spirit, there is in man another principle of a superior order, a principle known by the name of rational soul. It is manifest by the clashing between the passions and reason, that there are in us two contradictory beings which oppose one another. If I may be allowed to compare things of so different a nature, I should say that everything which partakes of the universal soul is like a sponge soaked in water, and immersed in the sea, and, if moreover, the body is endued with a reasonable soul, which is the case of man. It is like the same sponge soaked in water, but in which a drop of oil has found its way. In fine the ancients believed that the universal soul was diffused everywhere, but neither can that be. Perhaps it pervades the terrestrial globe, or it may be the whole solar system, or even farther. But still it is certain, it has its bounds, it has got a loan that fills immensity. But how shall the existence of a thinking being be admitted, which bounded as it is, has however so prodigious an extension? What ideas can be formed of its capaciousness and its limits? How can it animate so many bodies physically separated one from the other, and forming so many individuals? Let us fathom, as far as in us lies, these depths of obscurity. Since spiritual substances have no solidity, they are penetrable, and take up no room. From their penetrability it follows that several spirits may exist in one and the same place, and that a body may also be in the same place. From their taking up no room it follows, that they have neither length nor breadth nor depth, that they have no extension properly so called. But still a spirit is a real being, a substance, though it takes up no room, it is necessarily somewhere, and though it has no extension properly so called, it has necessarily its bounds. So in a metaphysical sense, all spiritual beings may be said to be more or less extended, to contain and to be contained. And then we may turn to our companion of the sponge, penetrated by a drop of oil, impregnated with water, and immersed in the sea. On the other hand, by some virtue of the laws of combination, the result of the unions necessarily differs from the substances that are united, and it does not appear that the soul and the body should make an exception. When the spirit and matter are united, think not that the spirit the same as before. It is in some measure materialized. Think not the matter such as it was before, it is in some measure spiritualized. From this mixture results a new being, different from pure spirit, though it retains its noblest virtue, different from brute matter, though it partakes of its qualities. It is a particular being, forming an individual and thinking apart. In fine it is such a being as you that are reading, such as I that am writing. Therefore what perceives in us is properly speaking neither the universal spirit nor the rational soul, nor organized matter, but the compound of all three. Just as when a lion roars, it is not the universal soul, that is, in a rage. It is the compound of that soul and the brain of the lion. Hence it comes that each animal forms a separate thinking individual, though all the animals think only by virtue of one and the same spirit, the universal soul. Let us proceed without losing sight of the faint light which guides us through these dark paths. We have seen that, to form an animal, there needs only a combination of organized matter and the universal soul, and to form a man there must be another union of organized matter, universal spirit and rational soul. If the universal spirit was wanting, ever obedient to the dictates of the rational soul, we should see none but the virtuous and spotless men, such as are nowhere to be found. If the rational soul was wanting, abandoned to its instinct of the universal spirit, which always follows the allurements of sense, we should see none but monsters of vice and disorder. The rational soul is united to the human body, the instant the motion essential to life is settled there. It is separated the instant that motion is destroyed. And once separated, it is known to return no more. It departs forever, and enters into a state of which there is to be no end. The universal soul is united and separated in the same circumstances, but it is not always separated forever. Let, in any person, the motion essential to life, after having totally ceased, come to be renewed, a thing which every physician knows to be very possible, and what will be the consequence. The rational soul which departed upon the ceasing of the vital motion cannot return, but the universal soul, always present, cannot fail of reuniting with the organized body set in motion again. The man is dead, for his soul is separated from his body. He preserves, however, the air of a living man, because the universal soul is resettled in his brain, which it directs tolerably well. Such to you appears a person perfectly recovered from an apoplectic or lethargic fit, who is but half come to life. His soul is flown, there remains only the universal spirit. Excess of joy or of grief, any sudden opposition may occasion death, and does occasion it, in fact, oftener than is imagined. What a fit of jealousy or passion affect you to a certain degree. Your soul, too strongly shocked, quits its habitation forever. And let your friends say what they please, or say what you will yourself. You are dead, positively dead. However, you are not buried. The universal soul acts your part to the deception of the whole world, and even of yourself. Do not complain, therefore, that a relation forgets you, that a friend forsakes you, that a wife betrays you. Alas, perhaps it is a good while since you had a wife, or relations, or friends. They are dead, their images only remain. How many deaths of this kind have I seen at Babylon? Never, for instance, did contagious distemper make such havoc as the late Pius Broiles. It is true, the Babylonians are so constituted, that their soul sits very loose. The least shocked part sit from the body, and it is confirmed by observation. Call to mind their notorious quarrel about music, their rage, their fury. How few heads were untouched. They are mad, said some reasonable people, but for my part I knew they were dead. God rest the soul of the author of the Petite Letras, Adi Gran's philosophies. He had long been declining, and at last died some months ago. Instantly the universal soul, possessed of his brains, dislodged some shreds of verses, jumbled them together, and framed that lifeless comedy, the indecency of which gave a fence to all the Babylonians that remained alive. I shall now speak of the signs by which the living may be distinguished from the dead. And doubtless, the reader sees already what these signs may be. To behold wickedness with unconcern, to be unmoved by virtue, to mind only self-interest, and without remorse, to be carried away with the torrent of the age, are signs of death. Be assured, no rational soul inhabits such abandoned machines. What numbers of dead amongst us, you will say. What numbers of dead amongst us, will I answer? As there are signs which declare that such a particular person, who thinks himself and whom you think full of life, is however deprived of it. So there are signs which show the ravages, these concealed deaths have made in the world. For instance, there must have been, of late years, a great mortality among the learned. For if you observe almost all the productions of modern literature, you will find only a plain with words, destructive principles, dangerous assertions, dazzling hints. Alas, our authors are manifestly but machines, actuated by the universal soul. And very lately have we not had fresh proofs of this mortality. What is meant by these libles unworthy of the light? These whims, these ifs, these what-ya-calls, these wherefores. And I not know how many more with which we are deluged. Be not persuaded that rational souls are capable of such excesses. I will conclude with opening a door to new reflections. Suppose a man like so many others, vegetates only, and is reduced to the universal soul, I demand whether the race of such a man is not in the same state. If so, I pity our posterity. Rational souls were scarce among our forefathers. They are still more so among us. Surely there will be none left among our offspring. All are degenerating, and we are very near the last stage. CHAPTER XIII. LETTER TO THE EUROPEANS The second of the works of which I remember to have seen, the plan delineated on the leaves of the fantastical tree, was digested into the form of a letter, addressed to all the nations of Europe, the substance of which is as follows. O ye powerful nations of Europe, nations polished, ingenuous, learned, warlike, made to command the rest, nations the most accomplished upon earth, the times are come. Your profound schemes for the happiness of man have prospered. You enjoy it at length, and I congratulate you upon it. In nature's infancy, those uncivilized ages wherein men wandered in the fields, were fed with the products of the earth, a perfect security, easy pleasure, profound peace, or rather languishing indolence benumbed all the faculties of the soul. But when the sweets of property had flattered the human heart, when each had his enclosure and could say, this is mine, then all was in motion. A man had too much of one thing, and too little of another. He gave the superfluity for what he wanted. And trade was established. It was at first carried on among neighbors, then from country to country, and at last from one of the quarters of the world to the other three. In that time mankind have formed but one numerous family, whose members are incessantly employed in cheating one another. The spirit of distrust, fineness, and fraud have displayed all the springs of the soul. The talents have shown themselves, the arts have taken birth, and men begin to enjoy the full extent of their understanding. How well these profound specialists have conjectured, who have told us, would you have a state flourish? Encourage populousness, for real strength and riches consist in a great number of citizens. To encourage populousness enlarge trade more and more. Set up manufacturers. Introduce hearts of every kind. And to consume superfluities. Call in luxury. Let the names of those who have opened this admirable way be carefully preserved in our calendar. It is true by following this method you have missed your aim, which was populousness. What fortune soever a man may raise is consumed by the boundless expanse of luxury, which always exceeds the revenues. There is nothing left for the education and settlement of children, and means must be used to have a small number, or even none at all. Young races suit only those remote times when your ancestors, plentifully furnished with necessaries, were so unfortunate as to have no idea of pageantry. It is no wonder if people so barbarous as not to know silk, lace, tea, chocolate, burgundy, champagne, should so increase in the northern regions as to overrun, like a torrent, all your countries should found monarchies and dictate laws which are revered to this day. But what signifies populousness and multitude? Rejoice, O ye fortunate nations, for you have coffee and snuff, cinnamon and musk, sugar and furs, tea and china! How happy are you! And how composed should your minds be? It is true, toils, hunger, thirst, shoals, storms, soon or later destroy these insatiable traitors, who transverse the seas to bring you these precious superfluities. But with how many advantages are these petty inconveniences repaid? The face of Europe is entirely new, even to your constitutions all is changed. Thousands of quintals of spices circulate in your blood, carry fire into your inmost nerves, and give you a new sort of gene. Neither your health nor your diseases are like those of your forefathers. Their robust constitution, simplicity of manners, their native virtues, are they comparable to the advantages you enjoy. That sensibility of your organs, that delicacy of mind and body, whose universal lights those vices of all kinds. What will it be said, are vices also to be reckoned among the actual felicities of Europe? Yes, without doubt, it is not daily proved, that virtue here to fore might be useful to the prudent economy of your ancestors, but that for enlightened citizens, who no longer walk by the old rules, vice is absolutely necessary, or rather changes its nature and becomes virtue. Another advantage that you owe to the depth of your policy and extensiveness of your trade is, that perpetual occasions offer to show your courage, and to practice your military virtues. When formerly your countries were under that vast dominion, which swallowed up all the rest, they sunk into indolence. You had only short wars and long intervals of peace, everything languished. But since, out of the wrecks of that unwieldy empire, a hundred petty states have been formed, everything has revived. The Europeans have incessantly quarrelled and fought for little spots of land. The grand art of heroism is returned, the art sacking provinces and shedding blood. And that balance of power so much talked of, is at last established, which puts all Europe in the arms of the motion of the least of its parts, and by means of which a single spark is sufficient to set the whole earth in a flame. Let us not regret those times so productive of warriors, when country heroes, each at the head of two or three hundred vassals, continually harassed one another. The seeds of dissension, which were grown scarce in your climates, have been sought in the farthest parts of the earth, and from the bosom of the two Indias, commerce has brought fresh seeds of enmity, discord, and war. These fertile sources are not exhausted. There still remain countries to be discovered. O ye indefatigable nations, is your courage abated? What, should you confine yourselves to your late progresses, as if there remain no unknown lands? Will you never go and hoist your standards and build forts directly under the poles? Rouse yourselves, there are still left riches to plunder, trees to waste, blood to spill. But why should you cast your eyes on such objects? Are not your possessions immense? Is not your luxury carried to the utmost height? Are there still new vices to be introduced among you? And do not you begin to shake off the troublesome yoke of every sort of duty? Without doubt you are very well, nor were you ever better. The little way you have to arrive at perfection will soon be gone over. When modern wisdom, which timorously conceals herself still in the shade, shall appear in broad day, when she shall have raised her proud head, and shall see all Europe at her feet, universally adopting her maxims, then you will have neither religious nor moral principles, you will be at the summit of felicity. CHAPTER XIV THE MAXIMS The third work of which I remember to have seen, the sketch on the fantastical tree, was entitled Rules of Conduct for the Eighteenth Century, addressed to a young Babylonian, who is coming into the world. It contained the following maxims. Every country has its customs, every age its manners, and in human wisdom the only unchangeable maxim is, to change with the times and places. The most unquestionable maxim of the Babylonians and of the present times are such as these. To have true merit does not much signify, but to have small talents is essential. To make one's court, for example, and pretty verses, is sufficient to prosper, and even farther than can be imagined. Great fault shall be forgiven you, but the least ridiculous ones are unpardonable. You think right and say excellent things, but take care you do not sneeze. It will be such an end to quorum, that all the Babylonish gravity would not be able to hold, and you might speak still better things, and not a soul hear you. Be particularly careful to act entirely with reference to yourself, and to talk always with reference to the public good. It is a fine word, that public good. If you would, it will never enter into your heart, but it must always be in your mouth. Seek not the esteem of the Babylonians in place. That leads to nothing. Seek to please. What, think you, will esteem do for you? It is so frozen a sentiment, has so distant a relation to self. But amuse their highnesses, and their eminences. You will then be prized. They will not suffer you out of their sight. They will do all for you, and think they can never do enough. Wait not to solicit for a place you may be fit for. Probably you will not succeed. But ask without distinction, for whatever shall offer. It is a secret to you, but you must know, that it often enters into the depth of true policy, to prefer unfit persons, and remove those who are capable. Then fine, if you prosper, turn according to circumstances, flatterer, like a dedication, quack like a preface, verbose like a book of art or science, enthusiast like a demo-philosopher, liar like an historian, foolhardy like an author who is resolved to be talked of. These are the true principles of wisdom. And remember, it is the Babylonian wisdom of the eighteenth century. CHAPTER XV The Thermometers As I was attentively examining a leaf of the fantastical tree, on which I perceived grand projects and insufficient means, I saw another, so small and curled as to be almost invisible, fly off a neighboring bow, and suddenly disappear. At the same instant I felt a slight pricking in my forehead, a sort of restlessness in my head, which I cannot describe, and which has not left me ever since. Certainly this leaf has entered my brain, and is laboring to unfold itself. Some new invention will result from it, one time or other. I even begin to suspect of what kind, and I imagine it will be a mechanical affair. If I am not mistaken it is this. The different tempers, the different talents, the different dispositions depend upon the heat and motion, more or less considerable, of the animal spirits. This is a settled point among the physicians. I shall not appeal from their judgment. The question would be to find a mechanical instrument, to discover in each person the degree of heat and motion of this animal liquid, in order to discern what any one is fit for, and to employ him accordingly. This is what I am seeking, and what the leaf, which is busy in my brain, when unfolded will not fail to show me. I will compose a quintessence analogous to the animal liquid, and instead of spirits of wine, I will fill thermometers with it. On the inside of the tube, in the room of the different degrees of the temperature of the air, there shall be an enumeration of the objects, about which men are usually employed. Instead of cold, temperate, hot, and very hot, etc., shall be put good for history, good for physics, good for poetry, good for the gown, good for the sword, good for the miter, good for the baton, good for bedlam, etc. When a person shall put his hand upon the file, the liquor will be condensed or dilated, and rising or falling in the tube will show what the person is good for. I will present thermometers to sovereigns, that they may choose generals, ministers, counselors, and especially favorites, who love them enough to tell them the truth. I will give to some bishops to fill their beneficies and dignities, for I observe and those who are appointed to watch, should themselves be watched. I will give some to fathers, that their children may be wisely disposed of. We shall not see them gird, with a sword or a son whom they ought to educate to the altar, or bury in a cloister a daughter who would have been the delight of a husband, and the happiness of a family. I will give some to the great, that they may discern those who deserve their protection. They will grant it no more to a base flatterer, to a supple intriguer, to an ostentatious mean person who has pretensions, but to true merit, which is seldom seen by them, and never with all its advantages. I will give some to those tender-hearted, virtuous girls, made to enliven the small number of our pleasures, and to allay the multitude of our troubles. With my thermometers they will choose husbands worthy of their affection, if any such there be, and they will not see themselves given up to men born for the plague of their sex, those men without morals, whom marry for life, and espouse only for six months. Then fine, I will give some to particular persons, that each may examine himself and act accordingly, for I observe, that generally every one does what he should not do. I see none but what arm is placed. I am now soliciting for a pension, to defray the vast expanse that I must evidently be at in making thermometers, even though I should give them only to such as most want them. It is true, that reflection might serve instead of my liquid and glass tubes, but reflections are known to be very rare. For example, it is now at Babylon as on the real stage, all is action, nothing is thought, and my thermometers may become a necessary piece of furniture. CHAPTER XVI. THE LENTLES The sap which circulates in the fantastical tree, said the prefect, is exhausted in burying and nourishing leaves. Let it be considered, how many plans, views, projects come into men's heads. The prodigious quality of leaves that this tree must furnish will be astonishing, and it will be no longer wondered, that this whole substance is wasted in their production. Meanwhile, the sap, passing into the philosophical branch, makes more progress there than anywhere else. It produces blossoms, and sometimes fruit. These blossoms are of a singular form and color, that is to say, admirable to some eyes, and very odd to others. Their odor is very penetrating, few love it, many cannot bear it. To like it requires a strong head, and a brain organized on purpose. These same blossoms are extremely delicate. The leaves change of the air disorders their economy. They generally fade without leaving any fruit. In fine, the fruit is very late, and seldom comes to perfect maturity. The shell is almost round, divided within two little cells, and ended up the top in a crown. The little cells of the philosophical fruit are full of seeds, transparent as crystal, round and flattened like a lentil, but infinitely smaller. When the fruit is ripe, it bursts and the cells open, the seeds come out. But as they are very light, they are suspended in the air, and the wind blows them every way over the surface of the earth. One thing would astonish thee if thou wasst not a little versed in chemistry and optics, and that is, these philosophical grains have a particular analogy to the eye. They will not stick to any other substance, but as soon as they come within the reach of certain eyes, they never fail to fasten on them, and that just before the sight of the eye. As they are perfectly transparent, they cannot be perceived, but they are discovered by their effects. He that has a seed of this kind before his eyes sees things as they are, and he cannot be imposed upon by Khmeras. What used to appear to him great is prodigiously lessened, and what appeared to him little is magnified in the same proportion, so that to his eyes everything is upon level or nearly so. In general, men appear to him very little, and those lords over others whom he beheld before as Colossuses seem to him so little above the rest that he hardly perceives the difference. He sees the extent of human knowledge, and he finds it so near to ignorance that he does not conceive how learning can breed vanity or ignorance cause shame. He sees without disguise the phantom of immortality, the idol of the great and the gist of the wise. He sees the celebrated names penetrate a little more or less into faturity, and then stop like the rest and sink into eternal oblivion. He sees what is low in the most sublime, the dark part of what casts the most luster, the weak side in what appears the strongest. And his imagination presents to him nothing dazzling, but wherein his reason discovers all the defects. He sees the earth as a point in the boundless space, a series of ages, as an instant in eternal duration, and the chain of human actions as the traces of a cloud of flies in the aerial planes. In fine he respects virtue, and as to the rest whatever he perceives all around him, even to the most minute things, seems to him all alike. He esteems nothing, he despises nothing, he prefers nothing, and accommodates himself to everything. Such a man cannot be conceived to be susceptible to all those little sallies of joy which affect others, but then he is screened from all those little mortifications which trouble them so much, and, in my opinion, he is a gainer. CHAPTER XVII. THE SUBTERRANIUS ROAD I have one more thing, said the Prefect, to show thee. Prepare thy eyes and thy ears, and be frightened at nothing. The rivulet, by the sight of which we walk to the fantastical tree, receives several streams as it flows along, and, as if it left with regret so beautiful a residence, after forming a thousand serpentine windings in the meadow, it glies gently towards its mouth. In that place, a hole, formed by an opening of the earth, receives and transmits it through subterraneous channels. We came to the place where it was broadest. The bottom was of smooth gravel, and the water not above an inch deep. The Prefect went in and I followed him. I had gone but a few paces, when the bottom gave way. I sunk, but it was only to my waist, and I remained in that posture, without being able to get to one side or the other. Fear nothing, says the Prefect, calmly enjoy the last spectacle I have reserved for thee. I then gave myself up to the efforts of the waters, which carried me away, and I soon entered into the subterraneous cavities, where they were lost. At a little distance, the rivulet flowed into another, and soon after, both ran into a river. I was carried from stream to stream. I crossed glyphs, lakes, and seas. As long as a faint light permitted, I contemplated the internal frame of the earth. It is a labyrinth of immense caverns, deep grottos, irregular crevices, which have a communication with one another. The waters that flow in these subterranean places spread themselves sometimes into vast basins, and seem to stagnate. Sometimes they run with a rapid stream through narrow straits, and dash against the rocks with such impetuosity as to produce the phosphorus and flashes of lightning. Very often they fall from the top of the vaults with a dreadful noise. The dazzled eye sees, as it imagines, the foundations of the earth shake. One would think that the hole was turned upside down and falling into chaos. When the glimmering light which I had enjoyed some time came to fail, I found myself buried in a profound darkness which increased the horror I had conceived at what I had seen. A hideous noise, mixed with the murmuring of the streams, with the whistling of the gulfs, with the roaring of the torrents, threw me into great perturbation of mind, and my troubled fancy form to itself a thousand frightful images. I went on a good while in this darkness, and I know not how far I had gone when a faint light struck my eyes. It was not like that which precedes sunrising, or follows sunset, but that melancholy light, which a town on fire spreads at a distance in the shade of the night. I was some time before I saw whence it came. At last I found myself close to the most terrible of all the sights. A vast opening exposed to my eyes an immense cavern, an abyss of fire. The devouring flame rapidly consumed the combustible matter with which the arched roofs and the abyss were impregnated. A thick smoke mixed with fiery sparks diffused itself to a great distance. From time to time the calcined stones fell down by pieces, and liquefied metals formed flaming streams. Sometimes whole rocks, rent from the tops of the vaults, gave passage to water, which poured down in boiling streams. The moment the water touched the calcined matters and melded minerals, it caused most shocking detonations. The concavities of the globe resounded, their foundations were shaken, and I conceived that such was the cause of those terrible earthquakes that have destroyed so many countries and swallowed up so many cities. I was soon in darkness again, for I still went on. Every moment I should have been destroyed if the prefect of Gafanthia had not watched over me. I saw him no more, but his promise was with me. And the dangers I had escaped, heartened me against those I still had to undergo. By degrees I took courage, and came away so easy as to make some reflections. Alas! said I, through a frightful desert I came into the most beautiful mansions in the world, and I am now going hence through gulfs, abysses, and volcanoes. Good and evil closely follow one another. It is thus the light of the day and darkness of the night, the frosts of the winter and the flowers of the spring, the gentle zeffers and the raging storms succeed one another. However, by this strange concatenation is formed the enchanting prospect of nature. Let us not doubt it. The natural world, notwithstanding its disorders, is the masterpiece of infinite wisdom, the moral world, in spite of its stains, is worthy of the admiration of the philosopher. And Babylon, with all its faults, is the chief city of the world. At last, after many days of subterranean navigation, I once more saw the light. I came out of these terrible vaults, and the last current landed me upon a maritime coast. The serenity of the air was not ruffled with the wind, the calm sea shone with the rays of the rising sun, and like a tender wife who stretches out her arms, and sweetly smiles on a beloved husband, the earth seemed to resume new life at the return of that glorious orb from whence springs all its fertility. By degrees my troubled senses were calmed. I looked round me, and found myself in my own country, six hundred furlongs northwest from Babylon, to which city I address and dedicate this narrative of my hazardous travels. End of Section 10. End of Gafantia, or A View of What Has Passed, What Is Now Passing and During the Present Century, What Will Pass in the World? By Charles Francois, Tipshanya Delaroche.