CHAPTER XXIII.

THE GREATNESS OF MAN.

I CAN easily conceive a man without hands, and without feet; and I could conceive him too without an head, if I did not learn from experience, that it is by means of this he thinks. Thought, therefore, constitutes the essence of man, without which we can have no conception of him.

What is that in us which is sensible of pleasure? Is it the hand! Is it the arm? Is it the flesh? Is it the blood?-We shall find that it must be something immaterial.

Man is so great, that his greatness appears in his knowing himself to be miserable. A tree is not conscious of misery. It is true, that to know oneself to be miserable, is really to be miserable; but there is still something great in a consciousness of misery. Thus all his miseries prove his greatness. They are the miseries of a noble lord, the miseries of a king that has been dethroned.

Who thinks himself unhappy in not being a king, except a deposed king? Was Paulus Æmilius unhappy in not being consul any longer? On the contrary, every body perceived he was happy in having gone through that office, because it was not a condition in which he was always to remain. But Perseus was so extremely miserable in not being

longer a king, because he ought always to have continued so, that it was thought strange he could bear even to live. Who thinks himself unhappy in having but one mouth? Who would not reckon himself unfortunate in having but one eye? No man, perhaps, ever thought of lamenting that he had not three eyes; but any man would be inconsolable for the loss of one.

We have so great an idea of the human soul, that we cannot bear to be despised by it, or to be without its esteem. All the happiness of mankind consists in this esteem.

If, on the one hand the false glory which men pursue is a strong proof of their misery, and their meanness, it is, on the other hand, an equal proof of their excellence. For whatever earthly possessions men have, whatever health, and accommodations they enjoy, they are still dissatisfied, if other men do not esteem them. They set so high a value on the reason of man, that whatever worldly advantages they possess, they think themselves unhappy if they do not stand to advantage in the judgment of others. This is the best situation a man can hold. Nothing can prevent him from desiring it; and this is the most indelible character of the heart of man ; insomuch that those who think most contemptuously of mankind, and level them with the beasts, would even be admired for so doing, and thus contradict themselves by their own desires. Nature, which is stronger than all their reason, convincing them more forcibly of the greatness of man, than reason can do of his meanness.

Man is but a reed, and the weakest in nature; but then he is a thinking reed. There is no occasion that the whole universe should arm itself to destroy him; a vapour, a drop of water is sufficient to kill him. But should the whole universe conspire to crush him, he would still be more noble than that which destroys him, because he knows that he dies;

while the universe would be insensible of its victory over him.

Thus the whole of our dignity consists in thought. It is by this we are to elevate ourselves, and not by mere space and duration. Let us then labour to think well: this is the principle of morality.

It is dangerous to shew man how much he resembles the beasts, without shewing him his greatness. It is dangerous to shew him his excellence, without shewing him his meanness. And the greatest danger of all is, to leave him ignorant of both. But it is highly beneficial to him to have a knowledge of both.

Let man then set a just value on himself. Let him love himself, because he has in him a nature capable of good; but let him not on that account love the weaknesses of that nature. Let him despise himself, because his capacity is unfilled; but let him not on that account despise his natural capacity. Let him hate himself; let him love himself. He possesses a capacity for the knowledge of the truth, and for happiness, but he is not in possession of any truth that is permanent or satisfactory. I would therefore lead him to desire to find it, to be ready and disengaged from his passions, that he may follow it wherever he may meet with it. And knowing how much his knowledge is obscured by his passions, I would have him hate in himself that concupiscence, which so biasses his judgment; that it may neither blind him in making his choice, nor divert him from it after it is made.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE VANITY OF MAN.

WE are not satisfied with the life we have in ourselves, and in our own being; we wish to live an imaginary life in the idea of others; and hence we strive to make some appearance. We labour incessantly to embellish and retain this fictitious being, while we neglect the real one. And if we possess either tranquillity, or generosity, or fidelity, we are anxious to make it known, that we may attach these virtues to this being of the imagination. We would even deprive ourselves of them, for the sake of being thought to possess them, and willingly turn cowards, to have the reputation of being valiant. A strong mark this of the nullity of our proper being, that we cannot be satisfied in it, without the other, and very often renounce it for the other; for he that would not die to preserve his honour, becomes infamous on that account.

The charm of glory is so great, that join it to whatever you will, even to death itself, it appears lovely.

Pride is a counterpoise to all our miseries; because it either conceals them, or, if it exposes them, it glories in the discovery.

Pride has so natural a possession of us, amidst all our miseries and errors, that men lose even life with joy, if they know it will be talked of.

Vanity has so rooted itself in the heart of man, that a scullion, a hodman, a porter, will vaunt of himself, and wants to have his admirers. And philosophers themselves want the same. Those who write against glory would have the glory of having written well against it; and those who read their compositions, would have the glory of having read them. And I who am writing this perhaps feel the same wish; and perhaps those who read what I write, will feel it likewise.

Notwithstanding a sight of all the miseries which touch us, and seize us, as it were by the throat, we have still an insuperable instinct which lifts us up.

We are so presumptuous that we desire to be known to all the world, and even to those who shall come after us, when we are no more; and we are so vain, that the esteem of five or six persons who are round about us, is enough to amuse and content us.

The most important thing in life is the choice of a profession; and yet this is left to mere chance. Custom makes masons, soldiers, upholsterers, &c. He is an excellent upholsterer, says one: and, oh! what fools are the soldiers, says another! Others, on the contrary, cry out, there is nothing so great as the wars; and all men are poor creatures but soldiers. By merely hearing in our infancy some arts commended, and others despised, we determine our choice; for we naturally love excellence, and hate imprudence. These words affect us, and we only err in applying them. So great is the power of custom, that there are whole countries which consist of mechanics, and others of soldiers. Nature can never be thus uniform. It is custom, therefore, which does this, and carries nature along with it. Yet sometimes again nature will prevail, and keep men under its instinct, in spite of all custom, either good or bad.

Curiosity is nothing but vanity. For the most part, we desire to know things merely that we may