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no remedy or comfort, except in not thinking on the misery of their wretchedness; and this comfort, to be sure, is a most miserable one, as it only hides from man his evils, and in hiding them, renders them irremediable. It cannot happen but through a strange disorder of the nature of man, that to think on himself, to concentrate himself into his own being and to observe his own miseries, although considered by the common class of men as the greatest evil, should be, in reality, his greatest good, as that which prompts him to seek after some remedy, and some real redress of his evils, and that, on the contrary, diversion and want of reflection, which man considers as his greatest good, should be in reality his greatest evil, as which makes him remove from the true remedy and from a solid consolation, and which lulls him asleep as to his own miseries.*

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* On this subject I find very solid reflections in the thoughts of the celebrated Paschal.

"Choose," says he, "whatever condition of life you please, let all the goods and satisfactions, which seem to be calculated to render man perfectly happy, be united together in that condition; if he that is placed in that post, be left without diversion and amusement, and if you leave him likewise to reflect upon what he is; this languid felicity will not be capable of keeping up his spirits; he will fall upon the torturing thoughts of futurity, and if his mind be not taken up with some external thing, from that moment, I pledge myself, he is necessarily unhappy. Is not the royal or imperial dignity of itself great enough to constitute him happy, who possesses it? Will it be necessary to divert him like the rabble from the thought of his exalted situation? I am aware that, what renders a man happy, is to withdraw him from the sight of his domestic miseries, in order to fill his mind with the concern to dance well; but will this likwise be the case with a sovereign? And will he be more happy, in attaching himself to such insignificant vanities and trifles, than at the sight of his greatness? What more satisfactory object could be held out to his mind? Would it not be to disturb his joy, to occupy his mind, in adapting his steps to the beating of an arietta, and striking a ball with address instead of letting him enjoy in peace the glory and majesty that surrounds him? Let the trial be made, let a king be left alone without any gratification of the senses, without any chagrin in his mind, without company, leave him all the leisure to think on himself, and to occupy all the activity of his mind in this thought, and it will be found that even a king is a man full of misery and that he feels it as much as any other mau. Hence it is, that so many persons take pleasure in games, hunting, and other pastimes, which occupy their whole soul: not, indeed,

SECTION XII.

XXXIX. Reflection is natural to man, and it is one of those sublime prerogatives, which embellish and distinguish him from the rest of the sublunary creation. Man thinks, and he is naturally led to reflect, on all the creatures that surround him, on all beings, on which his senses can anywise grasp, he feels himself naturally impelled, to search after, to see, to observe and examine every thing that is upon earth or in heaven, even the immensity of space, as far as the activity of his mind can possibly extend. Man wishes to see every thing, to undertake every thing, to know every thing: but man wishes to see every thing, except himself, to observe every thing, except his own nature, wishes to know every thing, except his own heart. Man is delighted and takes pleasure at every sight, at every discovery, at every outward observation: but as to himself, he hates even to behold himself. Such a truth, to be discovered, does not stand in need of reasoning. It is enough to observe man, and to observe him even superficially, in order not to be able to doubt of it. Present man with the most frivolous object of diversion or entertainment, with an object which can draw him from the consideration of himself, and behold! how he is taken with it, how he rivets himself to it, how he is lost in it! Again, present him to himself, and behold! How he is disconcerted, how he turns himself every way, how he is wearied! Is not this the voice of nature, an undeniable sentiment of his misery? He cannot bear to behold himself, because when he views himself, he does not find himself conformable to that innate idea of order which he carries within himself indelibly impressed on his

as if, in fact, there were any felicity in what one may gain at such games, nor as if any one were to imagine, that there is any true happiness in what is at stake; no, if such a thing were advanced, it would immediately be refuted and gainsayed: men love bustle, tumult, distraction, because it keeps them from reflecting on themselves; but this kind of diversion would be, assuredly, incapable of occupying the mind of man, if he had not lost the sentiment and taste of the true and real good, and if he were not full of base ness, vanity, and levity,"

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soul. Is it not a fact, that he feels disgusted at discordant music? Is it not likewise true that every deformed object, every object out of all proportion, causes in him such a disagreeable sensation, that it makes him turn aside with horror and shut his eyes? Thus he hates to see himself, he flies from seeing himself more than from hearing the most disagreeable cacophony, more than from looking at any object however ugly, deformed, and disproportioned it may be: why so? Because his nature is more deranged, more disproportioned, more discordant, and more out of order, than any other discordance, disproportion, or deformity. Let us take things rightly, I repeat it, that man recoils with horror from beholding himself, for no other reason, but because he cannot bear the sight of his own miseries. Let us dive into the matter, and we shall find that this is his only motive, and that man, properly speaking, feels no abhorrence to see himself, but to see himself such as he is miserable and unhappy.--Get this man to contemplate those traits of beauty, which make known to him his greatness and sovereignty over other creatures, make him sensible of the elevation, of the penetration and the strength of that being, that is thinking within him, show him that he is the most astonishing work of the Supreme Creator, and that his soul is designed not only to have the sway over many creatures, but moreover, that it is superior, by its very nature, to the whole material universe: tell him that he was immediately created by God, and that the same God preserves and protects him as his darling, as the object of his tender love and complacency, tell him, in fine, that he is and shall always be immortal, and you will see that man pay the greatest attention, you will see him delighted, interrogating himself and full of interest. But when you come to leave him alone amidst darkness and confusion, when you cause him to feel the state of his degradation, it is then, you will read in his countenance a certain ennui, a weariness, a dejection, and you will see him looking out for diversion to rid himself of so disagreeable an impression: he is, therefore, miserable and if there were no other proof to show his miseries, this

very unnatural alienation from himself, this secret abhorrence he experiences at seeing himself, would be an argument sufficiently strong, a too sincere and too convincing a voice, that he is miserable, naturally disordered, and unhappy.

SECTION XIII

XL. Conclusion.

From this general inclination to vanity, perceivable in all men, and from the general want of reflection on the state of their nature, from the abhorrence they have, and which is so natural to them all, to view themselves and their interior, we, by our observations, have been led to deduce their misery. Man, therefore, is miserable, and such he is proved to be, not by certain strained exaggerations, which might be attributed to some sad or melancholy humour, or by some trifling details of his extrinsic evils, which, at times, either are not real, or may be avoided; but, by the very nature of the spirit that is in man, and which, whilst it abhors the view of itself, knows and discovers itself to be void of real good, and full of misery and vanity. Any man, that is gifted with a sufficient penetration, feels thoroughly the whole strength and weight of such a demonstration; but we cannot say as much of so many other men, who do not possess such an extent of understanding, nor so refined a taste. Shall we say to these, and, by making a new effort, prove to them, that man is miserable? They would not understand us, they would not feel the force of our demonstrations. Shall we then be under the necessity of causing that long train of intrinsic evils, which infest the very essence of human nature, that natural ignorance, that torpor, that efferyescense and impetuosity of those unbridled passions, those interior conflicts and contradictions, that strong tendency to vice, and that abhorrence from virtue, to pass in review before them? Shall we be obliged to display before them the evils which surround them, plagues, famine, war, earthquakes, burnings, and tempests; those painful sensations to which, in such a variety of ways their body is subject, and so many other,

and so great evils; so many and so great dangers? This would be a very long way, and would be, in part at least, superfluous for those who are already convinced by the above demonstrations, and irksome to all, because this would be treating of evils, which men in general experience, which they would wish not to experience, or which, at least, they would wish not to know that they suffer. Let us, therefore, accommodate ourselves both to the one and to the other; let us strike out a middle road, and let us try to make them feel, as it were, with their hands, the unhappiness of all men.

XLI. We shall single out, from the numberless evils that afflict all mankind, only one, but one that is great, that is general and common to all, and that is inevitable; which, because great, is of itself alone sufficient to lay open to view the degradation, the misery of man, and which, because general and common to all, will admit of no exception, and which, in fine, because inevitable, will teach us, that man is not only miserable, but that he is so by nature, because he is, in no manner whatever, able to escape his miseries. This great evil consists in the necessity of the right of property; that is to say, of the mine and thine, those cold words which, according to the saying of St. John Chrysostom,* cause to rush in upon the world, all the evils that afflict it. If we show that this evil is truly great, truly general, truly real, and, if we make it appear, that, in order to take away this evil from the world, it would be absolutely necessary to change the very nature of man, then we shall have demonstrated that man is miserable, and miserable by nature.t

*In Oratione de S. Philog. tom. 3.

† In order to leave no manner of doubt of our sentiments on a subject, which, at this day, justly demands a very great circumspection, I thought proper to forewarn my readers to this effect, that, whilst I am about to treat of the goods of fortune, he may not begin to think, that I have a mind to destroy those natural rights, which, in the present state of man, must be considered as sacred, inviolable, and necessary, as sanctioned, too, by Almighty God, in a particular manner, from those words of the Decalogue, "furtum non facies," "thou shalt not steal." I shall make it appear, it is true, that, according to the exigency in the orignal state of man, property is against the right, which nature gives to every man; that the said property is the sole and only true source

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