Chapter V: Part THE SECOND (1)

CHAP. I.
THE REPAST.

My zeal has carried me farther than I should have imagined, added the Prefect; it is time to think of what concerns thee. The air of Giphantia is lively and full of active corpuscles; it keeps up the spirits; and, in spite of the fatigues, thou hast endured in the desart, it does not suffer thee to have the least sense of weariness, However, thou hast need of a more solid food. I have ordered thee a Repast, and I will regale thee after the manner of the elementary spirits.

We went out of the gallery; and the Prefect conducted me to a grotto, of which the architecture was so strange, that I dare not venture to describe it. The whole furniture was a marble table and a cane-chair, on which he bid me sit down.

Whatever I saw at Giphantia was extraordinary, the Repast to which I was invited was not less so. Thirty salt-sellers filled with salts of different colours, were placed on the table in a circle round a fruit, much like our melons. There was also a glass decanter full of water, round which other salt-sellers formed another circle.

These preparations were not very tempting; I never had less appetite. However, not to affront a host, to whom I was so much obliged, I tasted the fruit that he offered me. The purest chymical earth purged of all foreign matter, would have more taste. I forced myself to swallow a few bits. I drank a glass of water: And I told the Prefect, that my strength was more than sufficiently recruited, and if he pleased, we would continue to visit the rarities of Giphantia.

Thou hast had (said he) the complaisance to taste the fruit and the liquor, thou wilt farther oblige me to season them both. The salts which stand round them have, perhaps, more virtue than thou art aware of. I invite thee to try.

Upon these words, I viewed the salt-sellers more attentively, I saw that each had a label; and I read upon those that surrounded the insipid fruit, salt of woodcock, salt of quail, salt of wild-duck, salt of trout, _&c._ Upon the others, I read, concrete juice of Rhenish, of Champagne, of Burgundy, of Usquebaugh, of oil of Venus, of Citron, _&c._

Having taken a small slice of the fruit, I spread upon it a grain of one of those salts; and putting it to my mouth I took it for the wing of an ortolan. I looked upon the salt-seller from whence I had the salt, and saw the word _ortolan_ on the label. Astonished at this phænomenon, I spread upon another slice salt of turbot, and I thought I was eating one of the finest turbots the channel ever produced. I tried the same experiment upon the water; according to the salt I dissolved in it, I drank wine of Beaune, of Nuis, of Chambertin, _&c._

My lord, (said I to the Prefect) you have shewn me the columns, the globe, the mirrour, the pictures; I have admired the mechanism of these masterpieces, and the wonderful skill of the elementary spirits; but now, my admiration is turned to desire. Is a mortal allowed to enter into the physical mysteries of the spirits? May I learn from you, this invaluable secret of your saline powders.

Now-a-days more than ever, (added I) men (especially the Babylonians) seek with eagerness whatever can please the senses; and one of the things which raises the greatest emulation, is to have a table covered with exquisite dainties. Their fore-fathers did not look upon a good cook as a _person divine_. The most simple preparations sufficed for their food: they thought no wines excelled those of their own country; and sometimes those good men made a little too free with them. The modern Babylonians disgusted at this simplicity, and hating hard drinking, have taken a different method. They are become sober, but of a sensual and ambitious sobriety, which, by unheard of extracts and mixtures, perpetually creates new tastes. They search in the smallest fibres of the animals for the purest substance, and, under the name of essences, they inclose in a little phial the produce of what would suffice for the nourishment of the most numerous families. The most exquisite wines cannot satisfy their palate; they esteem nothing but what is owing to a violence done to the order of nature’s productions. They extract the most active spirit of wine, and thereto add all the spices of India: And, with such liquors, seeds of fire, collected from all the countries of the world, flow in their veins.

You see (continued I) that with the secret of your savoury crystalizations, I should be able to satisfy the nicest palates, and please the most curious lovers of variety. But what is much more important, these saline extracts, which are not prepared by the pernicious arts of the distiller and cook, these extracts, I say, would not spoil the stomach in pleasing the taste; high health would revive among us; the primitive constitutions would be restored by degrees; and mankind would resume a new youthful vigour; in all respects, a man might be a glutton without danger, and, that is saying a great deal of a vice, which is become incorrigible.

I was not refused: In less than half an hour, the Prefect taught me the whole art; I actually resolve the savours, with the same ease that Newton did the colours. From all the fruits that go to decay, from all the plants of no use, from even the herbs of the field, in a word, from all bodies whatever, I extract all their savoury parts; I analyze these parts; I reduce them to their primitive particles; and then uniting them again in all imaginable proportions, I form saline powders, which give such a taste as is desired. I can inclose in a small snuff-box, wherewith to make in an instant a complete entertainment, courses, ragouts, fricassees, deserts, coffee, tea, with all kinds of wine and other liquors. From a single bit, though ever so insipid, I produce at pleasure the wing of a partridge, the thigh of a woodcock, the tongue of a carp, _&c._ From a decanter of water, I draw Tomar, Ai, Muscadine, Malmsey, Chian wine, Lacryma Christi, and a thousand others.

My secret should have been publick before now; but all the advantages accruing from it do not remove a fear, which, as will be seen, is surely not without foundation. I am apprehensive that certain gentlemen, incessantly busied to open new channels to convey to them the substance of the people, may lay their greedy hands upon my salt, and undertake to distribute it, charged with some light tax. These light taxes are known always to grow heavier, and end with crushing; much like those snow-balls, which, rolling down from the top of the mountains, and soon growing immensely large, root up trees, throw down houses, and destroy the fields. Let these gentlemen give in our newspapers, a positive assurance that they will never meddle with the management of my savours; the next day, I will publish my secret, distribute my powders, and regale all Babylon.

I think I know the world: these gentlemen, you will see, will keep silence, and I my salt, and so nobody will be regaled.

CHAP. II.
THE KERNELS.

My dinner ended and my lesson learnt, we sate out again. Let us (said the Prefect) take the benefit of this long shady walk, and go to the grove at the end of it. By the way, I will explain some matters relating to what I am going to show thee.

Adam had just been driven out of Paradise, (continued the Prefect:) The tree, from which the fatal apple was gathered, disappeared: Innocence, everlasting peace, unmixt pleasure vanished; and death covered the earth with her mournful vail. Witnesses of Adam’s sin and punishment, the elementary spirits remained in a consternation mixt with astonishment and fear. All was silent, like the dreadful calm, which, in a gloomy night, succeeds the flashes of lightening.

One of our spirits perceiving on the ground the remains of the fatal apple, hastily took them up, and found three Kernels: these were so many treasures.

The forbidden tree, which was the cause of Man’s misery, was to have been the cause of his happiness. It contained the shoots of the sciences, arts, and pleasures. The little, men know of these things, is nothing in comparison of what this mysterious tree would have disclosed in their favour. It was to vegetate, blossom, and bear seed for ever; and the least of these seeds would have been the source of more delights than ever existed among the children of men.

We took great care of the three Kernels, which had escaped the total ruin just then befallen mankind; this was not sufficient to repair their unhappy fate, but it helped to soften it. As soon as we were returned to Giphantia, we consulted upon what we could do in favour of mankind so terribly fallen. Most of the spirits took the office of governing the elements, and, as far as lay in their power, of directing their motions, according to the wants of men. Those that remained at Giphantia, were entrusted with the sowing of the three Kernels, and carefully to mind what they produced.

CHAP. III.
ANTIENT LOVE.

As we were talking we entered into a pretty large grove, in the midst of which, I perceived a star formed by most beautiful shrubs. From every part of these shrubs there darted forth a luminous matter, whereon were painted all the colours of the rain-bow. Thus the sun, viewed through the boughs of a thick tree, seems crowned with sparkling rays, on which shine the liveliest and most variegated colours.

The first Kernel taken from the fatal apple and committed to the ground, (said the Prefect of Giphantia) produced a shrub of the nature of those thou seest. Its leaves were like those of the myrtle. Its purple blossoms, speckled with white, were raised round their stalks in form of pyramids. Its boughs were thick and interwoven with one another in a thousand different ways. It was the most beautiful tree, nature had ever produced, therefore it was her most favorite object. A soft zephyr, gently moving its leaves, seemed to animate them; and never were they ruffled by the impetuous north winds; never was the course of its sap obstructed by winter’s frost, or its moisture exhausted by summer’s scorching heats; an eternal spring reigned around it. This singular tree, was the Tree of Love.

It is well known what influence the extraneous particles of the air have upon us. Some accelerate or retard the motions of the blood, others dull or raise the spirits, sometimes they brighten the imagination, and sometimes they cloud it with the gloomy vapours of melancholy. Those that were exhaled from the tree of Love, and dispersed over the earth, brought the seeds of the most alluring pleasure. Till then, men, left to a blind instinct, which inclined them to propagate their species, shared that advantage (if it is one) with the rest of the animals. But, like a flower which opens to the first rays of the sun, their hearts soon yielded to the first impressions of love, and instinct gave place to sentiment.

With that passion they received a new life; the face of nature seemed changed; every thing became ingaging; every thing touched them.

The other passions disappeared, or were, in respect of this, like brooks to a river in which they are going to be lost.

Superior to all events, love heightened pleasure, asswaged pain, and gave a charm to things the most indifferent. It enlivened the graces of youth, alleviated the infirmities of age, and lasted as long as life.

Its power was not confined to the creating a tender and unchangeable attachment to the object beloved; it inspired also a certain sentiment of sweetness, which was infused into all men, and united them together. Society was then as an endless chain, each link was composed of two hearts joined by love.

The pleasure of others was a torment to none: Gloomy jealousy had not possessed the human heart, nor envy shed her venom there. Concord multiplied pleasures: A man was not more pleased with his own, than with the happiness of others.

Mankind was yet in infancy, and unacquainted with excesses. Adversity did not depress them to annihilation, nor prosperity puff them up to the loss of their senses. Their wants were few, the arts had not increased them. Frightful poverty appeared not among them, because they knew not riches; every one had necessaries, because none had superfluities. Utter strangers to the ridiculousness of rank, they were not exalted with insolence, nor did they servilely cringe; no man was low, because no man was high. All was in order, and men were as happy as their state would admit of. O nature! why dost thou not still enlighten us with those days of peace, harmony, and love!

CHAP. IV.
THE GRAFTS.

The stinging nettle and wild briar increase and are renewed, (continued the Prefect) the tree of Love had not that privilege. Its blossoms vanished without leaving a kernel, and its shoots planted in the ground did not take root; they died and nature groaned.

Mean while, this only tree was going to decay; its sap withdrew from most of the branches, and the faded leaves withered on their boughs.

The elementary spirits were sensible how valuable the treasure was, that the sons of men were going to lose, and were under the deepest concern for them. They studied therefore to find the means to fix love upon earth, and imagined they had succeeded.

They took from the languishing and exhausted tree, its best shoots and grafted them upon different stocks. This precaution saved love, but at the same time, altered its nature. Nourished by an extraneous sap, these shoots and their emanations quickly degenerated: So the exotic plants which grow in our gardens by the assiduous care of the gardiner, change their nature, and lose almost all their virtues.

Love then existed among men; but what love? It sprung from caprice, was attached without choice, and vanished with levity: It became such as it is at this day amongst you. It is no longer that common band which united mankind, and rendered them happy; it is on the contrary, an inexhaustible fountain of discord. Formerly, it was stronger alone than all the passions together; it was subject only to reason: Now, it is overcome by the weakest passion, and hearkens to any thing but reason.

To say the truth; it is no longer Love: Phantoms have taken its place, and receive the homage of men. One in the highest ranks only finds objects worthy his vows; he thinks it love, it is only ambition. Another fixes his heart where fortune is lavish of her gifts, he imagines, love directs him, but it is thirst of riches. Another flies from where delicateness of sentiments calls for his care and regard, and runs where an easy object hardly gives him time to desire. What is the ground of his haste? a depraved appetite for pleasure. Of pure, sincere, and unmixt love there is none left; the grafts are quite spoiled.

At Babylon, degenerated love varied with the fashions, the manners, and every thing else. At first it gave into the Romantick: This was in the days of our good Knights Errant. It was all fire, transport, extasy. The eye of the fair was a sun, the heart of the lover was a volcano, and the rest of the same stamp.

In time, it was found, that all this was departing a little from nature; in order therefore, to make it more natural, love was dressed like a shepherd with a flock and pipe; and spoke the language of a swain. In the heart of his noisy and tumultuous city, a Babylonian sung the refreshing coolness of the groves, invited his mistress to drive her flock thither, and offered to guard it against the wolves.

The pastoral language being drained, the sentiment was refined, and the heart analysed. Never had love appeared so subtilised. To make a tolerable compliment to a girl beloved, a man must have been a pretty good metaphysician.

The Babylonians, weary of thinking so deeply, from the height of these sublime metaphysicks fell into free speeches, double-meanings, and wanton stories. Their behaviour was agreeable to their talk; and love, after having been a valiant knight-errant, a whining shepherd and a sublime metaphysician, is at last grown a libertine. It will soon become a debauchee, if it is not so already; after which, nothing remains but to turn religious; and this is what I expect.

Moreover, the Babylonians flatter themselves with being a people the most respectful to the ladies, and boast of having it from their ancestors. In this respect, as in all others, two things must be distinguished at Babylon, the appearance and the reality. In appearance, no place where women are more honoured; in reality, no place where they are less esteemed. Outwardly, nothing but homages, inwardly, nothing but contempt. It is even a principle at Babylon, that the men cannot have, in an assembly, too much respect for the sex, nor, in private too little.

CHAP. V.
VOLUPTAS 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 a void there is among them now-a-days! Their amusements are so few, that the least of all must be to them 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 Voluptas. She was an unadorned native beauty, but full of those charms which characterises 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; quench their thirst, but make them not drunk.”

Voluptas appeared upon earth. Men flocked together in crowds; all drank largely of her cup; all quenched their thirst, none were intoxicated. Voluptas 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 enervated by excess, preserved to a very advanced age, all their organs in vigor; their taste remained; and old age still drank of Voluptas’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 Voluptas, 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 intoxication, said: _Without Art, Nature is nothing_. But very soon their senses were cloyed; satiety bred disgust, and disgust made them indifferent to all kinds of pleasure. Neither Art nor Nature could affect them to any degree. From that time, they have hardly been able to amuse or divert themselves. Voluptas has no longer any charms for them.

CHAP. 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 to be made for much thinking, and, for good reason, it is not desired they should think. A wise policy has 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 incouraged, that publick 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 fill 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 an equal pace to the same end. The desires, eagernesses, sallies, excesses are the same. All forgetful of themselves, still go on; and death alone is capable to stop the career of these decrepid 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 connived 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 licentiousness 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 I shall retrench from my expences, I will give to my nephew, who is coming; into the world, and should set 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 it is 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 relish he has left for pleasures. What a fine sight will it be, to see Plutarch’s morals, Nicole’s essays, and Pascal’s thoughts lodged in thy brain, close by Bocace’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. Our maxims and reason’s 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 waits us at the ... where the nymph, thou knowest, will compleat my conviction: From thence we will go to the ball. Tomorrow, champagne at your cousin the countess’s, and lansquenet, at our friend the President’s.”

CHAP. VII.
THE ITCHINGS.

We walked toward the south. On this side, Giphantia ends in a point, and forms a little promontory, from whence there is a large prospect. This promontory is covered all over with a plant, whose 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 thin small fibres, which branch out of one another.

View carefully the fibres (says the Prefect to me.) Dost thou 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 fibres, a sort of corruption, by which they are engendered. In time, these maggots waste away so as to become invisible: But withal 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 a sting given them by nature. And as the tarantula, with the poison which she leaves in the wound she has made, inspires an immoderate 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 the 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 restless prickings, they cannot be quiet. He, for instance, that is stung with the itch of talking, is continually discoursing with every body, 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 any thing, 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 those torrents of words, which flow from the mouth, change their course and flow from the pen ... what numbers of bablers in these silent libraries! Oh how must those who have ears, and run over these immense collections, be stunned with what they hear! They are like great fairs, where each author cries up his wares to the utmost of his power, and spares nothing to promote the sale. Come (says an Antient) come and learn of me to practice virtue and become happy; come and draw from these pure fountains, whose 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 a Romancer) seek not truth there; truth still lies in the bottom of Democritus’s 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 odes and finest songs in the world, little soft verses, nosegays 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 an end.... That 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 a Man-hater) burn me all those books there and mine too; and let there be no mention of learning, arts, sciences, and the like wretched 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 precede 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. Every one 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 theatre, 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 canst 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 shows 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 chimæra, still contemplates its 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’s self talked of! how many things attempted and dropt! what hopes, fears, cares, and follies of every kind!

CHAP. 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 so great care. They who wish us so much good, in this respect do us 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 seest 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 unravelling 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 a vent for those respectable knick-knacks 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 fools 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 as busy as bees. One sings, another dances, this reads his verses and falls into an extasy, that hears him and is tired: The Chymist is at his furnace, the Speculatist in his study, the Merchant at sea, the Astronomer discovers a new satellite, the Physician a new medicine, the soldier a new manœuvre; in fine, the statues are men; and all this is owing to this 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 neighbourhood of these volatiles. I rejoice much to see them authors of so many benefits; but I fear still more, the uneasiness they create.

CHAP. IX.
NIL ADMIRARI.

Your fearfulness, (says the Prefect) surprises me. Tell me, I pray, what idea hast thou of what is called grandeur, dignities, and high rank in a state?

I am in this world (answered I) like a traveller, who goes on his way curiously observing the objects, but desiring none, because 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 a misfortune to many.

What of riches? added the Prefect.

Pleasure (said I) is like a very rare commodity, which, however, every one would fain 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 large a share as the highest.

What of 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 encomiums together give them pleasure. It is, therefore, better to be of the second class, I mean 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 thy mind.

I confess, replied I, that no man was ever less dazzled with all this than myself. Wrapt 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; vanity, 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 one 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 neighbourhood of these restless flies....

And hence it is precisely, interrupted the Prefect, that thou hadst 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. But 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 attendants; 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,

NIL ADMIRARI.

CHAP. X.
THE FANTASTICAL TREE.

After having walked some time by the side of a rivulet, we came into a beautiful and spacious meadow. It was enamelled with a thousand sorts of flowers, whose various colours 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.

Thou seest, 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, arts and sciences take their original; and that by a mechanism, which will surprise thee.

Thou knowest that the fibres of the leaves of a tree, are ranged uniformly on each of them; to see one, is to see all the rest. Here, this uniformity has no place; each leaf has its fibres ranged in a particular manner; there are not two alike in the Fantastical Tree. But, what is most wonderful, the fibres, on each leaf, are ranged with symmetry, and represent distinctly a thousand sorts of objects; one while a colonnade, an obelisk, a decoration; another while mechanical instruments; here, geometrical diagrams, algebraical problems, astronomical systems; there, physical machines, chymical instruments, plans of all kinds of works, verse, 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 wherewith it 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 otherways 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 upon paper, some scheme 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, and the patient is cured. Of all the 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.

CHAP. 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 sciences vegetated; and after having examined it to the last boughs 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 camayeu[14], 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 publick peace, merit will be forgotten and the worthless preferred, virtue will be oppressed, vice will be triumphant, countries will be ravaged, cities will be sacked, and thrones will be dyed in blood; and 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 fibres 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 those who still talk of probity in the old fashioned stile; many fresh 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 boughs left, among others, the dramatic bough, and that so very weak, it 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 panegyrical branch is very considerable, and bends under its load. There will be panegyricks applicable to a great man from whom some favour 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 be also 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 a bough 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; whilst, among the men of letters, all the penetration imaginable, all the knowledge they think they have, all the wit in the world will form only imperfect philosophers. They will avoid praises, but so as to attain them by some round-about 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 a blaze, 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 railleries, nothing will be spared to raise the laughter of the crowd, and the pity of the wise.

CHAP. 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 singular a 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 microscopical animals, who increase without number 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 antient 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 antients, 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 from itself 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 any where some emanation of its substance.

“Farther: The antients believed that man, like the animals, derived from the universal soul all the intelligence he is endowed with; another mistake. If we consider in man, that hidden principle which carries him so efficaciously to follow the impressions of sense, though ever so repugnant to reason, we shall agree, with the antients, 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 every thing which partakes of the universal soul is like a spunge soaked in water, and immersed in the sea; and that if, moreover, the body is endued with a reasonable soul (which is the case of man) it is like the same spunge soaked in water, but in which a drop of oil has found its way.

“In fine, the antients believed, that the universal soul was diffused every where; 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 is God alone 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 space, 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 some-where; 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 return to our companion of the spunge, penetrated by a drop of oil, impregnated with water, and immersed in the sea.”