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THE HARVARD CLASSICS
EDITED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LL D
FRENCH AND ENGLISH
PHILOSOPHERS
DESCARTES ROUSSEAU
. VOLTAIRE HOBBES -
WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES
AND ILLUSTRATIONS
DR ELIOT S FIVE-FOOT SHELF OF BOOKS"
P F COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
Copyright 1910
BY P. F. COLLIER & SON
Copyright 1889
BY PETER ECKLER
21
CONTENTS
PACK
DISCOURSE ON THE METHOD OF RIGHTLY CONDUCTING THE
REASON AND SEEKING THE TRUTH IN THE SCIENCES
BY RENE DESCARTES
Part I 5
Part II . , 12
Part III 21
Part IV 28
Part V 35
Part VI 49
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH BY VOLTAIRE
Letter I On the Quakers . 65
Letter II On the Quakers 69
Letter III On the Quakers 71
Letter IV On the Quakers 75
Letter V On the Church of England 79
Letter VI On the Presbyterians 82
Letter VII On the Socinians, or Arians, or Antitrinitarians 84
Letter VIII On the Parliament 86
Letter IX On the Government 89
Letter X On Trade 93
Letter XI On Inoculation 95
Letter XII On the Lord Bacon 99
Letter XIII On Mr. Locke 103
Letter XIV On Descartes and Sir Isaac Newton . .no
Letter XV On Attraction 115
Letter XVI On Sir Isaac Newton s Optics .... 124
Letter XVII On Infinites in Geometry, and Sir Isaac
Newton s Chronology 127
Letter XVIII On Tragedy 133
Letter XIX On Comedy 139
Letter XX On Such of the Nobility as Cultivate the
Belles Lettres 143
(A) 1 HC xxxiv
2 CONTENTS
FAGS
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH (Continued)
Letter XXI On the Earl of Rochester and Mr. Waller 145
Letter XXII On Mr. Pope and Some Other Famous Poets 150
Letter XXIII On the Regard That Ought to be Shown
to Men of Letters 154
Letter XXIV On the Royal Society and Other Academies 158
A DISCOURSE UPON THE ORIGIN AND THE FOUNDATION OF
THE INEQUALITY AMONG MANKIND 167
BY J. J. ROUSSEAU
First Part 171
\Second Part 202
PROFESSION OF FAITH OF A SAVOYARD VICAR ..... 245
OF MAN, BEING THE FIRST PART OF LEVIATHAN
BY THOMAS HOBBES
Chapter I Of Sense 323
Chapter II Of Imagination . . 325
Chapter III Of the Consequence or Train of Imaginations 330
Chapter IV Of Speech 335
Chapter V Of Reason and Science 343
* Chapter VI Of the Interior Beginnings of Voluntary
Motions, Commonly Called the Passions; and the
Speeches by Which They Are Expressed .... 35
Chapter VII Of the Ends, or Resolutions of Discourse 359
Chapter VIII Of the Virtues Commonly Called Intellec
tual, and Their Contrary Defects 362
Chapter IX Of the Several Subjects of Knowledge . . 373
Chapter X Of Power, Worth, Dignity, Honour, and
Worthiness , 374
Chapter XI Of the Difference of Mariners . . . , 384
^Chapter XII Of Religion 391
^Chapter XIII Of the Natural Condition of Mankind as
Vr""Concerning Their Felicity and Misery ...... 402
/^Chapter XIV Of the First and Second Natural Laws,
and of Contracts 40?
-Chapter XV Of Other Laws of Nature 417
Chapter XVI Of Persons, Authors, and Things Per
sonated 430
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
RENE DESCARTES was born at La Haye in Touraine, March
31, 1596. He came of a landed family with possessions in Brit
tany as well as in the south. His education was begun at the
Jesuit College of La Fleche, continued at Paris, and completed
by travel in various countries; and his studies were varied by
several years of military service. After he began to devote
himself to philosophy, he lived chiefly in Holland; but the last
five months of his life were spent in Stockholm, at the court of
Queen Christina of Sweden, where he died on February n, 1650.
While still young, Descartes had become profoundly dissatis
fied with the scholastic philosophy, which still survived in the
teaching of the Jesuits from whom he received bis early, train-
ing; and adopting a skeptical attitude he set out on his travels
determined "to gain knowledge only from himself and the great
book of ^ the world, from nature and the observation of man" -
It_was in Germany, as he tells us, that there came to him the
idea which proved the starting point of his whole system of
thought, the idea, "I think, therefore I exist," which called a
halt to the philosophical doubt with which he had resolved to
regard everything that could conceivably be doubted. On this
basis he built up a philosophy which is usually regarded as
the foundation of modern thought. Not that the system of
Descartes is accepted to-day; but the sweeping away of r_esup-
P^^pwj_aj[lkjn&^^ he proposed for the
discovery of truth, have made possible the whole modern philo
sophic development. It was in the "Discourse" here printed,
originally published in 1637, that this method was first presented
to the world.
Descartes was distinguished in physics and mathematics as
well as in philosophy; and his "Geometry" revolutionized the
study of that science.
[PREFATORY NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.]
IF this Discourse appear too long to be read at once, it may
be divided into six parts : and, in the first, will be found various
considerations touching the Sciences ; in the second, the principal
rules of the Method which the Author has discovered; in the
third, certain of the rules of Morals which he has deduced
from this Method ; in the fourth, the reasonings by which he
establishes the existence of God and of the Human Soul, which
are the foundations of his Metaphysic; in the fifth, the order
of the Physical questions which he has investigated, and, in
particular, the explication of the motion of the heart and of some
other difficulties pertaining to Medicine, as also the difference
between the soul of man and that of the brutes; and, in the
last, what the Author believes to be required in order to greater
advancement in the investigation of Nature than has yet been
made, with the reasons that have induced him to write.
DISCOURSE ON METHOD
BY RENE DESCARTES
PART I
GDOD SENSE is, of all things among men, the most
equally distributed; for every one thinks himself so
abundantly provided with it, that those even who are
the most difficult to satisfy in everything else, do not usually
desire a larger measure of this quality than they already
possess. And in this it is not likely that all are mistaken : the
conviction is rather to be held as testifying that the power of
judging aright and of distinguishing Truth from Error, which
is properly what is called Good Sense or Reason, is by nature
equal in all men ; and that the diversity of our opinions, con
sequently, does not arise from some being endowed with
a larger share of Reason than others, but solely from this,
that we conduct our thoughts along different ways, and do
not fix our attention on the same objects. For to be pos
sessed of a vigorous mind is not enough ; the prime requisite
is rightly to apply it. The greatest minds, as they are capa
ble of the highest excellencies, are open likewise to the great
est aberrations; and those who travel very slowly may yet
make far greater progress, provided they keep always to the
straight road, than those who, while they run, forsake it.
For myself, I have never fancied my mind to be in any
respect more perfect than those of the generality; on the
contrary, I have often wished that I were equal to some
others in promptitude of thought, or in clearness and dis
tinctness of imagination, or in fulness and readiness of
memory. And besides these, I know of no other qualities
that contribute to the perfection of the mind; for as to the
Reason or Sense, inasmuch as it is that alone which con
stitutes us men, and distinguishes us from the brutes, I am
disposed to believe that it is to be found complete in each
B
6 DESCARTES
individual; and on this point to adopt the common opinion
of philosophers, who say that the difference of greater and
less holds only among the accidents, and not among the
forms or natures of individuals of the same species.
I will not hesitate, however, to avow my belief that it has
been my singular good fortune to have very early in life
fallen in with certain tracks which have conducted me to
considerations and maxims, of which I have formed a
Method that gives me the means, as I think, of gradually
augmenting my knowledge, and of raising it by little and
little to the highest point which the mediocrity of my talents
and the brief duration of my life will permit me to reach.
For I have already reaped from it such fruits that, al
though I have been accustomed to think lowly enough of
myself, and although when I look with the eye of a phil
osopher at the varied courses and pursuits of mankind at
large, I find scarcely one which does not appear vain and
useless, I nevertheless derive the highest satisfaction from
the progress I conceive myself to have already made in the
search after truth, and cannot help entertaining such ex
pectations of the future as to believe that if, among the
occupations of men as men, there is any one really excellent
and important, it is that which I have chosen.
After all, it is possible I may be mistaken; and it is but
a little copper and glass, perhaps, that I take for gold and
diamonds. I know how very liable we are to delusion in
what relates to ourselves, and also how much the judgments
of our friends are to be suspected when given in our favour.
But I shall endeavour in this Discourse to describe the
paths I have followed, and to delineate my life as in a
picture, in order that each one may be able to judge of
them for himself, and that in the general opinion enter
tained of them, as gathered from current report, I myself
may have a new help towards instruction to be added to those
I have been in the habit of employing.
My present design, then, is not to teach the Method
which each ought to follow for the right conduct of his
. Reason, but solely to describe the way in which I have
endeavoured to conduct my own. They who set themselves
to give precepts must of course regard themselves as pos-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 7
sessed of greater skill than those to whom they prescribe;
and if they err in the slightest particular, they subject them
selves to censure. But as this Tract is put forth merely as
a history, or, if you will, as a tale, in which, amid some
examples worthy of imitation, there will be found, perhaps,
as many more which it were advisable not to follow, I hope
it will prove useful to some without being hurtful to any, and
that my openness will find some favour with all.
From my childhood, I have been familiar with letters;
and as I was given to believe that by their help a clear and
certain knowledge of all that is useful in life might be ac
quired, I was ardently desirous of instruction. But as soon
as I had finished the entire course of study, at the close of
which it is customary to be admitted into the order of the
learned, I completely changed my opinion. For I found
myself involved in so many doubts and errors, that I was
convinced I had advanced no farther in all my attempts at
learning, than the discovery at every turn of my own igno
rance. And yet I was studying in one of the most cele
brated Schools in Europe, in which I thought there must be
learned men, if such were anywhere to be found. I had
been taught all that others learned there; and not contented
with the sciences actually taught us, I had, in addition, read
all the books that had fallen into my hands, treating of such
branches as are esteemed the most curious and rare. I
knew the judgment which others had formed of me; and
I did not find that I was considered inferior to my fellows,
although there were among them some who were already
marked out to fill the places of our instructors. And, in
fine, our age appears to me as flourishing, and as fertile
in powerful minds as any preceding one. I was thus led
to take the liberty of judging of all other men by myself,
and of concluding that there was no science in existence
that was of such a nature as I had previously been given
to believe.
I still continued, however, to hold in esteem the studies
of the Schools. I was aware that the Languages taught
in them are necessary to the understanding of the writings
of the ancients; that the grace of Fable stirs the mind; that
the memorable deeds of History elevate it; and, if read
8 DESCARTES
with discretion, aid in forming the judgment; that the
perusal of all excellent books is, as it were, to interview
with the noblest men of past ages, who have written them,
and even a studied interview, in which are discovered to us
only their choicest thoughts; that Eloquence has incompar
able force and beauty; that Poesy has its ravishing graces
and delights ; that in the Mathematics there are many refined
discoveries eminently suited to gratify the inquisitive, as
well as further all the arts and lessen the labour of man;
that numerous highly useful precepts and exhortations to
virtue are contained in treatises on Morals; that Theology
points out the path to heaven; that Philosophy affords the
means of discoursing with an appearance of truth on all
matters, and commands the admiration of the more simple;
that Jurisprudence, Medicine, and the other Sciences, secure
for their cultivators honours and riches; and in fine, that
it is useful to bestow some attention upon all, even upon
those abounding the most in superstition and error, that we
may be in a position to determine their real value, and guard
against being deceived.
But I believed that I had already given sufficient time to
Languages, and likewise to the reading of the writings of
the ancients, to their Histories and Fables. For to hold
converse with those of other ages and to travel, are almost
the same thing. It is useful to know something of the man
ners of different nations, that we may be enabled to form
a more correct judgment regarding our own, and be pre
vented from thinking that everything contrary to our cus
toms is ridiculous and irrational, a conclusion usually
come to by those whose experience has been limited to
their own country. On the other hand, when too much
time is occupied in travelling, we become strangers to our
native country; and the over curious in the customs of the
past are generally ignorant of those of the present. Be
sides, fictitious narratives lead us to imagine the possibility
of many events that are impossible; and even the most
faithful histories, if they do not wholly misrepresent
matters, or exaggerate their importance to render tke
account of them more worthy of perusal, omit, at least,
almost always the meanest and least striking of the at-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 9
tendant circumstances; hence it happens that the re
mainder does not represent the truth, and that such as
regulate their conduct by examples drawn from this
source, are apt to fall into the extravagances of the
knight-errants of Romance, and to entertain projects that
exceed their powers.
I esteemed Eloquence highly, and was in raptures with
Poesy; but I thought that both were gifts of nature rather
than fruits of study. Those in whom the faculty of Reason
is predominant, and who most skilfully dispose their
thoughts with a view to render them clear and intelligible,
are always the best able to persuade others of the truth
of what they lay down, though they should speak only in the
language of Lower Brittany, and be wholly ignorant of
the rules of Rhetoric; and those whose minds are stored
with the most agreeable fancies, and who can give ex
pression to them with the greatest embellishment and har
mony, are still the best poets, though unacquainted with the
Art of Poetry.
I was especially delighted with the Mathematics, on ac
count of the certitude and evidence of their reasonings:
but I had not as yet a precise knowledge of their true use;
and thinking that they but contributed to the advancement
of the mechanical arts, I was astonished that foundations,
so strong and solid, should have had no loftier super
structure reared on them. On the other hand, I compared
the disquisitions of the ancient Moralists to very towering
and magnificent palaces with no better foundation than sand
and mud: they laud the virtues very highly, and exhibit
them as estimable far above anything on earth; but they
give us no adequate criterion of virtue, and frequently that
which they designate with so fine a name is but apathy, or
pride, or despair, or parricide.
I revered our Theology, and aspired as much as any one
to reach heaven: but being given assuredly to understand
that the way is not less open to the most ignorant than to
the most learned, and that the revealed truths which lead
to heaven are above our comprehension, I did not presume
to subject them to the impotency of my Reason; and I
thought that in order competently to undertake their exam-
10 DESCARTES
ination, there was need of some special help from heaven,
and of being more than man.
Of philososphy I will say nothing, except that when
I saw that it had been cultivated for many ages by the
most distinguished men, and that yet there is not a single
matter within its sphere which is not still in dispute, and
nothing, therefore, which is above doubt, I did not presume
to anticipate that my success would be greater in it than
that of others; and further, when I considered the number
of conflicting opinions touching a single matter that may
be upheld by learned men, while there can be but one true,
I reckoned as well-nigh false all that was only probable.
As to the other Sciences, inasmuch as these borrow their
principles from Philosophy, I judged that no solid super
structures could be reared on foundations so infirm; and
neither the honour nor the gain held out by them was
sufficient to determine me to their cultivation: for I was
not, thank Heaven, in a condition which compelled me to
make merchandise of Science for the bettering of my for
tune; and though I might not profess to scorn glory as a
Cynic, I yet made very slight account of that honour which
I hoped to acquire only through fictitious titles. And, in
fine, of false Sciences I thought I knew the worth sufficiently
to escape being deceived by the professions of an alchemist,
the predictions of an astrologer, the impostures of a ma
gician, or by the artifices and boasting of any of those who
profess to know things of which they are ignorant.
For these reasons, as soon as my age permitted me to
pass from under the control of my instructors, I entirely
abandoned the study of letters, and resolved no longer to
seek any other science than the knowledge of myself, or of
the great book of the world. I spent the remainder of my
youth in travelling, in visiting courts and armies, in holding
intercourse with men of different dispositions and ranks,
in collecting varied experience, in proving myself in the
different situations into which fortune threw me, and, above
all, in making such reflection on the matter of my experi
ence as to secure my improvement. For it occurred to me
that I should find much more cuife_ in the reasonings of
each individual with reference to the affairs in which he is
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 11
personally interested, and the issue of which must presently
punish him if he has judged amiss, than in those conducted
by a man of letters in his study, regarding speculative mat
ters that are of no practical moment, and followed by no
consequences to himself, farther, perhaps, than that they
foster his vanity the better the more remote they are from
common sense; requiring, as they must in this case, the
exercise of greater ingenuity and art to render them
probable. In addition, I had always a most earnest desire
to know how to distinguish the true from, the false, in
order that I might be able clearly to discriminate the right
path in life, and proceed in it with confidence.
It is true that, while busied only in considering the
manners of other men, I found here, too, scarce any ground
for settled conviction, and remarked hardly less contradic
tion among them than in the opinions of the philosophers.
So that the greatest advantage I derived from the study
consisted in this, that, observing many things which, how
ever extravagant and ridiculous to our apprehension, arft
yet by common consent received and approved by other
great nations, I learned to entertain too decided a belief
in regard to nothing of the truth of which I had been
persuaded merely by example and custom: and thus I
gradually extricated myself from many errors powerful
enough to darken our Natural Intelligence, and inca
pacitate us in great measure from listening to Reason. But
after I had been occupied several years in thus studying the
book of the world, and in essaying to gather some experi
ence, I at length resolved to make myself an object of study,
and to employ all the powers of my mind in choosing the
paths I ought to follow; an undertaking which was ac
companied ^vith greater success than it would have been had
I never quitted my country or my books.
PART II
I WAS then in Germany, attracted thither by the wars in
that country, which have not yet been brought to a ter
mination ; and as I was returning to the army from the
coronation of the Emperor, the setting in of winter ar
rested me in a locality where, as I found no society to in
terest me, and was besides fortunately undisturbed by any
cares or passions, I remained the whole day in seclusion, 1
with full opportunity to occupy my attention with my own
thoughtsjTof these one of the very first that occurred to
me wasjmat there is seldom so much perfection in works
compose^" of many separate parts, upon which different
hands have been employed, as in those completed by a
single masterTTThus it is observable that the buildings which
a single architect has planned and executed, are generally
more elegant and commodious than those which several
have attempted to improve, by making old walls serve for
purposes for which they were not originally built. Thus
also, those ancient cities which, from being at first only
villages, have become, in course of time, large towns, are
usually but ill laid out compared with the regularly con
structed towns which a professional architect has freely
planned on an open plain; so that although the several
buildings of the former may often equal or surpass ^in
beauty those of the latter, yet when one observes their in
discriminate juxtaposition, there a large one and here a
small, and the consequent crookedness and irregularity of
the streets, one is disposed to allege that chance rather than
any human will guided by reason, must have led to such an
arrangement. And if we consider that nevertheless there
have been at all times certain officers whose duty it was to
see that private buildings contributed to public ornament,
1 Literally, in a room heated by means of a stove. Tr.
12
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 13
the difficulty of reaching high perfection with but the ma
terials of others to operate on, will be readily acknowledged.
Lin the same way I fancied that those nations which, start
ing from a semi-barbarous state and advancing to civilisa
tion by slow degrees, have had their laws successively
determined, and, as it were, forced upon them simply by
experience of the hurtfulness of particular crimes and
disputes, would by this process come to be possessed of less
perfect institutions than those which, from the commence
ment of their association as communities^ have followed
the appointments of some wise legislator} Lit is thus quite
certain that the constitution of the true religion, the ordi
nances of which are derived from God, must be incompar
ably superior to that of every otherjf And, to speak of
human affairs, I believe that the past pre-eminence of Sparta
was due not to the goodness of each of its laws in particular,
for many of these were very strange, and even opposed to
good morals, but to the circumstance that, originated by a
single individual, they all tended to a single end. In the
same way I thought that the^ciences contained in books,
(such of them at least as are made up of probable reason
ings, without demonstrations,) composed as they are of the
opinions of many different individuals massed together, are
farther removed from truth than the simple inferences
which a man of good sense using his natural and un
prejudiced judgment draws respecting the matters of his
experience.jjAnd becaus^Qve have all to pass through a
state of infancy to manhood, and have been of necessity,
for a length of time, governed by our desires and preceptors,
(whose dictates were frequently conflicting, while neither
perhaps always counselled us for the best,) I farther
concluded that it is almost impossible that our judgments
can be so correct or solid as they would have been, had our
Reason been mature from the moment of our birth, and
had we always been guided by it alone]
It is true, however, that it is not customary to pull down
all the houses of a town with the single design of rebuild
ing them differently, and thereby rendering the streets more
handsome; but it often happens that a private individual
takes down his own with the view of erecting it anew,
14 DESCARTES
and that people are even sometimes constrained to this when
their houses are in danger pf falling from age, or when the
foundations are insecure. With this before me by way of
example, I was persuaded that it would indeed be pre
posterous for a private individual to think of reforming a
state by fundamentally changing it throughout, and over
turning it in order to set it up amended; and the same I
thought was true of any similar project for reforming the
body of the Sciences, or the order of teaching them estab
lished in the Schools: but as for the opinions which up to
that time I had embraced, I thought that I could not do
better than resolve at once to sweep them Wholly away,
that I might afterwards be in a position to admit either
others more correct, or even perhaps the same when they
had undergone the scrutiny of Reason. I firmly believed
tha t in this way I should much better succeed in the con
duct of my life^ than if I built only upon old foundations,
and leant upon principles which, in my youth, I had
taken upon trust. For although I recognised various dif
ficulties in this undertaking, these were not, however, with
out remedy, nor once to be compared with such as attend
the slightest reformation in public affairs. Large bodies,
if once bverthrown, are with great difficulty set up again,
or eveii kept erect when once seriously shaken, and the
fall of such is always disastrous. Then if there are any
imperfections in the constitutions of states, (and that
many such exist the diversity of constitutions is alone
sufficient to assure us,) custom has without doubt materially
smoothed their inconveniences, and has even managed to
steer altogether clear of, or insensibly corrected a number
which sagacity could not have provided against with equal
effect; and, in fine, the defects are almost always more
tolerable than the change necessary for their removal; in
the same manner that highways which wind among moun
tains, by being much frequented, become gradually so
smooth and commodious, that it is much better to follow
them than to seek a straighter path by climbing over the
tops of rocks and descending to the bottoms of precipices.
Hence it is that I cannot in any degree approve of those
restless and busy meddlers who, called neither by birth nor
DISCOURSE ON METHOD IS
fortune to take part in the management of public affairs,
are yet always projecting reforms; and if I thought that
this Tract contained aught which might justify the sus
picion that I was a victim of such folly, I would by no
means permit its publication. I have never contemplated
anything higher than the reformation of my own opinions,
and basing them on a foundation wholly my own. And
although my own satisfaction with my work has led me
to present here a draft of it, I do not by any means
therefore recommend to every one else to make a sim^
ilar attempt. Those whom God has endowed with a
larger measure of genius will entertain, perhaps, designs
still more exalted; but for the many I am much afraid lest
even the present undertaking be more than they can safely
venture to imitate. The single design to strip one s self
of all past beliefs is one that ought not to be taken by every
one. The majority of men is composed of two classes, for
neither of which would this be at all a befitting resolution:
in the first place, of those who with mote than a due con
fidence in their own powers, are precipitate In their judg
ments and want the patience requisite for orderly and cir
cumspect thinking; whence it happens, that if men of this
class once take the liberty to doubt of their accustomed
opinions, and quit the beaten highway, they will never be
able to thread the byeway that would lead them by a shorter
course, and will lose themselves and continue to wander
for life; in the second place, of those who, possessed of
sufficient sense or modesty to determine that there are
others who excel them in the power of discriminating be
tween truth and error, and by whom they may be instructed,
ought rather to content themselves with the opinions of such
than trust for more correct to their own Reason*
For my own part, I should doubtless have belonged to
the latter class, had I received instruction from but one
master, or had I never known the diversities of opinion
that from time immemorial have prevailed among men of
the greatest learning. But I had become aware, even so
early as during my college life, that no opinion, however
absurd and incredible, can be imagined, which has not been
maintained by some one of the philosophers; and after-
16 DESCARTES
wards in the course of my travels I remarked that all those
whose opinions are decidedly repugnant to ours are not
on that account barbarians and savages, but on the contrary
that many of these nations make an equally good, if not a
better, use of their Reason than we do. I took into account
also the very different character which a person brought
up from infancy in France or Germany exhibits, from that
which, with the same mind originally, this individual would
have possessed had he lived always among the Chinese or
with savages, and the circumstance that in dress itself the
fashion which pleased us ten years ago, and which may
again, perhaps, be received into favour before ten years
have gone, appears to us at this moment extravagant and
ridiculous. I was thus led to infer that the ground of our
opinions is far more custom and example than any certain
knowledge. And, finally, although such be the ground of
our opinions, I remarked that a plurality of suffrages is no
guarantee of truth where it is at all of difficult discovery,
as in such cases it is much more likely that it will be found
by one than by many. I could, however, select from the
crowd no one whose opinions seemed worthy of preference,
and thus I found myself constrained, as it were, to use
my own Reason in the conduct of my life.
But like one walking alone and in the dark, I resolved
to proceed so slowly and with such circumspection, that if
I did not advance far, I would at least guard against fall
ing. I did not even choose to dismiss summarily any of the
opinions that had crept into my belief without having been
introduced by Reason, but first of all took sufficient time
carefully to satisfy myself of the general nature of the
task I was setting myself, and ascertain the true Method
by which to arrive at the knowledge of whatever lay within
the compass of my powers.
Among the branches of Philosophy, I had, at an earlier
period, given some attention to Logic, and among those of
the Mathematics to Geometrical Analysis and Algebra,
three Arts or Sciences which ought, as I conceived, to con
tribute something to my design. But, on examination, I
found that, as for Logic, its syllogisms and the majority of
its other precepts are of avail rather in the communication
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 17
of what we already know, or even as the Art of Lully, in
speaking without judgment of things of which we are igno
rant, than in the investigation of the unknown; and although
this Science contains indeed a number of correct and very
excellent precepts, there are, nevertheless, so many others,
and these either injurious or superfluous, mingled with the
former, that it is almost quite as difficult to effect a severance
of the true from the false as it is to extract a Diana or a
Minerva from a rough block of marble. Then as to the
Analysis of the ancients and the Algebra of the moderns,
besides that they embrace only matters highly abstract, and,
to appearance, of no use, the former is so exclusively re
stricted to ttte consideration of figures, that it can exercise
the Understanding only on condition of greatly fatiguing the
Imagination; 2 and, in the latter, there is so complete a sub
jection to certain rules and formulas, that there results an
art full of confusion and obscurity calculated to embarrass,
instead of a science fitted to cultivate the mind. By these
considerations I was induced to seek some other Method
which would comprise the advantages of the three and
be exempt from their defects. And as a multitude of laws
often only hampers justice, so that a state is best governed
when, with few laws, these are rigidly administered; in like
manner, instead of the great number of precepts of which
Logic is composed, I believed that the four following would
prove perfectly sufficient for me, provided I took the firm
and unwavering resolution never in a single instance to fail
in observing them.
The first was never to accept anything for true which I
did not clearly know to be such; that is to say, carefully to
avoid precipitancy and prejudice, and to comprise nothing
more in my judgment than what was presented to my mind
so clearly and distinctly as to exclude all ground of doubt.
The second, to divide each of the difficulties under exam
ination into as many parts as possible, and as might be neces
sary for its adequate solution.
The third, to conduct my thoughts in such order that, by
commencing with objects the simplest and easiest to know,
2 The Imagination must here be taken as equivalent simply to the Repre
sentative Faculty. Jr.
18 DESCARTES
I might ascend by little and little, and, as it were, step by
step, to the knowledge of the more complex; assigning in
thought a certain order even to those objects which in their
own nature do not stand in a relation of antecedence and
sequence.
And the last, in every case to make enumerations so com
plete, and reviews so general, that I might be assured that
nothing was omitted.
The long chains of simple and easy reasonings by means
of which geometers are accustomed to reach the conclusions
of their most difficult demonstrations, had led me to imagine
that all things, to the knowledge of which man is competent,
are mutually connected in the same way, and that there is
nothing so far removed from us as to be beyond our reach,
or so hidden that we cannot discover it, provided only we
abstain from accepting the false for the true, and always
preserve in our thoughts the order necessary for the deduc
tion of one truth from another. And I had little difficulty in
determining the objects with which it was necessary to com
mence, for I was already persuaded that it must be with the
simplest and easiest to know, and, considering that of all
those who have hitherto sought truth in the Sciences, the
mathematicians alone have been able to find any demonstra
tions, that is, any certain and evident reasons, I did not
doubt but that such must have been the rule of their inves
tigations. I resolved to commence, therefore, with the ex
amination of the simplest objects, not anticipating, however,
from this any other advantage than that to be found in accus
toming my mind to the love and nourishment of truth, and to
a distaste for all such reasonings as were unsound. But I
had no intention on that account of attempting to master all
the particular Sciences commonly denominated Mathematics :
but observing that, however different their objects, they all
agree in considering only the various relations or proportions
subsisting among those objects, I thought it best for my pur
pose to consider these proportions in the most general form
possible, without referring them to any objects in particular,
except such as would most facilitate the knowledge of them,
and without by any means restricting them to these, that
afterwards I might thus be the better able to apply them to
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 19
every other class of objects to which they are legitimately
applicable. Perceiving further, that in order to understand
these relations I should sometimes have to consider them one
by one, and sometimes only to bear them in mind, or em
brace them in the aggregate, I thought that, in order the
better to consider them individually, I should view them as
subsisting between straight lines, than which I could find no
objects more simple, or capable of being more distinctly rep
resented to my imagination and senses; and on the other
hand, that in order to retain them in the memory, or embrace
an aggregate of many, I should express them by certain
characters the briefest possible. In this way I believed that
I could borrow all that was best both in Geometrical Analy
sis and in Algebra, and correct all the defects of the one by
help of the other.
And, in point of fact, the accurate observance of these few
precepts gave me, I take the liberty of saying, such ease in
unravelling all the questions embraced in these two sciences,
that in the two or three months I devoted to their examina
tion, not only did I reach solutions of questions I had for
merly deemed exceedingly difficult, but even as regards ques
tions of the solution of which I continued ignorant, I was
enabled, as it appeared to me, to determine the means
whereby, and the extent to which, a solution was possible;
results attributable to the circumstance that I commenced
with the simplest and most general truths, and that thus each
truth discovered was a rule available in the discovery of
subsequent ones. Nor in this perhaps shall I appear too
vain if it be considered that, as the truth on any particular
point is one, whoever apprehends the truth, knows all that
on that point can be known. The child, for example, who
has been instructed in the elements of Arithmetic, and has
made a particular addition, according to rule, may be assured
that he has found, with respect to the sum of the numbers
before him, all that in this instance is within the reach of
human genius. Now, in conclusion, the Method which
teaches adherence to the true order, and an exact enumera
tion of all the conditions of the thing sought includes all that
gives certitude to the rules of Arithmetic.
But the chief ground of my satisfaction with this Method,
20 DESCARTES
was the assurance I had of thereby exercising my reason in
all matters, if not with absolute perfection, at least with the
greatest attainable by me: besides, I was conscious that by
its use my mind was becoming gradually habituated to
clearer and more distinct conceptions of its objects; and I
hoped also, from not having restricted this Method to any
particular matter, to apply it to the difficulties of the other
Sciences, with not less success than to those of Algebra. I
should not, however, on this account have ventured at once
on the examination of all the difficulties of the Sciences
which presented themselves to me, for this would have been
contrary to the order prescribed in the Method, but observing
that the knowledge of such is dependent on principles bor
rowed from Philosophy, in which I found nothing certain, I
thought it necessary first of all to endeavour to establish its
principles. And because I observed, besides, that an inquiry
of this kind was of all others of the greatest moment, and
one in which precipitancy and anticipation in judgment were
most to be dreaded, I thought that I ought not to approach
it till I had reached a more mature age, (being at that time
but twenty-three,) and had first of all employed much of my
time in preparation for the work, as well by eradicating
from my mind all the erroneous opinions I had up to that
moment accepted, as by amassing variety of experience to
afford materials for my reasonings, and by continually exer
cising myself in my chosen Method with a view to increased
skill in its application.
PART III
A ND, finally, as it is not enough, before commencing to
/\ rebuild the house in which we live, that it be pulled
JLJL down, and materials and builders provided, or that we
engage in the work ourselves, according to a plan which we
have beforehand carefully drawn out, but as it is likewise
necessary that we be furnished with some other house in
which we may live commodiously during the operations, so
that I might not remain irresolute in my actions, while my
Reason compelled me to suspend my judgment, and that I
might not be prevented from living thenceforward in the
greatest possible felicity, I formed a provisory code of
Morals, composed of three or four maxims, with which I
am desirous to make you acquainted.
The first was to obey the laws and customs of my country,
adhering firmly to the Faith in which, by the grace of God,
I had been educated from my childhood, and regulating my
conduct in every other matter according to the most mod
erate opinions, and the farthest removed from extremes,
which should happen to be adopted in practice with general
consent of the most judicious of those among whom I might
be living. For, as I had from that time begun to hold my
own opinions for nought because I wished to subject them
all to examination, I was convinced that I could not do
better than follow in the meantime the opinions of the most
judicious; and although there are some perhaps among the
Persians and Chinese as judicious as among ourselves, ex
pediency seemed to dictate that I should regulate my prac
tice conformably to the opinions of those with whom I
should have to live ; and it appeared to me that, in order to
ascertain the real opinions of such, I ought rather to take
cognizance of what they practised than of what they said,
not only because, in the corruption of our manners, there
are few disposed to speak exactly as they believe, but also
21
22 DESCARTES
because very many are not aware of what it is that they
really believe; for, as the act of mind by which a thing is
believed is different from that by which we know that we
believe it, the one act is often found without the other.
Also, amid many opinions held in equal repute, I chose
always the most moderate, as much for the reason that these
are always the most convenient for practice, and probably
the best, (for all excess is generally vicious,) as that, in the
event of my falling into error, I might be at less distance
from the truth than if, having chosen one of the extremes, it
should turn out to be the other which I ought to have
adopted. And I placed in the class of extremes especially
all promises by which somewhat of our freedom is abridged;
not that I disapproved of the laws which, to provide against
the instability of men of feeble resolution, when what is
sought to be accomplished is some good, permit engagements
by vows and contracts binding the parties to persevere in it,
or even, for the security of commerce, sanction similar en
gagements where the purpose sought to be realized is in
different : but because I did not find anything on earth which
was wholly superior to change, and because, for myself in
particular, I hoped gradually to perfect my judgments, and
not to suffer them to deteriorate, I would have deemed it a
grave sin against good sense, if, for the reason that I ap
proved of something at a particular time, I therefore bound
myself to hold it for good at a subsequent time, when per
haps it had ceased to be so, or I had ceased to esteem it
such.
My second maxim was to be as firm and resolute in my
actions as I was able, and not to adhere less steadfastly to
the most doubtful opinions, when once adopted, than if they
had been highly certain; imitating in this the example of
travellers who, when they have lost their way in a forest,
ought not to wander from side to side, far less remain in
one place, but proceed constantly towards the same side in as
straight a line as possible, without changing their direction
for slight reasons, although perhaps it might be chance alone
which at first determined the selection; for in this way, if
they do not exactly reach the point they desire, they will
come at least in the end to some place that will probably be
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 23
preferable to the middle of a forest. In the same way, since
in action it frequently happens that no delay is permissible,
it is very certain that, when it is not in our power to de
termine what is true, we ought to act according to what is
most probable; and even although we should not remark a
greater probability in one opinion than in another, we ought
notwithstanding to choose one or the other, and afterwards
consider it, in so far as it relates to practice, as no longer
dubious, but manifestly true and certain, since the reason
by which our choice has been determined is itself possessed
of these qualities. This principle was sufficient thencefor
ward to rid me of all those repentings and pangs of remorse
that usually disturb the consciences of such feeble and un
certain minds as, destitute of any clear and determinate
principle of choice, allow themselves one day to adopt a
course of action as the best, which they abandon the next,
as the opposite.
My third maxim was to endeavour always to conquer my
self rather than fortune, and change my desires rather than
the order of the world, and in general, accustom myself to
the persuasion that, except our own thoughts, there is noth
ing absolutely in our power; so that when we have done
our best in respect of things external to us, all wherein we
fail of success is to be held, as regards us, absolutely im
possible: and this single principle seemed to me sufficient to
prevent me from desiring for the future anything which I
could not obtain, and thus render me cqn^ented for since
our will naturally seeks those objects alone which the under
standing represents as in some way possible of attainment,
it is plain, that if we consider all external goods as equally
beyond our power, we shall no more regret the absence of
such goods as seem due to our birth, when deprived of them
without any fault of ours, than our not possessing the king
doms of China or Mexico ; and thus making, so to speak, a
virtue of necessity, we shall no more desire health in disease,
or freedom in imprisonment, than we now do bodies incor
ruptible as diamonds, or the wings of birds to fly with. But
I confess there is need of prolonged discipline and frequently
repeated meditation to accustom the mind to view all objects
in this light; and I believe that in this chiefly consisted the
24 DESCARTES
secret of the power of such philosophers as in former times
were enabled to rise superior to the influence of fortune, and
amid suffering and poverty, enjoy a happiness which their
gods might have envied. For, occupied incessantly with the
consideration of the limits prescribed to their power by na
ture, they became so entirely convinced that nothing was at
their disposal except their own thoughts, that this conviction
was of itself sufficient to prevent their entertaining any de
sire of other objects; and over their thoughts they acquired
a sway so absolute, that they had some ground on this ac
count for esteeming themselves more rich and more powerful,
more free and more happy, than other men who, whatever
be the favours heaped on them by nature and fortune, if
destitute of this philosophy, can never command the realiza
tion of all their desires.
In fine, to conclude this code of Morals, I thought of
reviewing the different occupations of men in this life, with
the view of making choice of the best. And, without wish
ing to offer any remarks on the employments of others, I
may state that it was my conviction that I couldr not do bet
ter than continue in that in which I was engaged, viz., in
devoting my whole life to the culture of my Reason, and in
making the greatest progress I was able in the knowledge
of truth, on the principles of the Method which I had pre
scribed to myself. This Method, from the time I had begun
to apply it, had been to me the source of satisfaction so in
tense as to lead me to believe that more perfect or more
innocent could not be enjoyed in this life; and as by its
means I daily discovered truths that appeared to me of some
importance, and of which other men were generally ignorant,
the gratification thence arising so occupied my mind that I
was wholly indifferent to every other object. Besides, the
three preceding maxims were founded singly on the design
of continuing the work of self-instruction. For since God
has endowed each of us with some Light of Reason by which
to distinguish truth from error, I could not have believed
that I ought for a single moment to rest satisfied with the
opinions of another, unless I had resolved to exercise my
own judgment in examining these whenever I should be duly
qualified for the task. Nor could I have proceeded on such
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 25
opinions without scruple, had I supposed that I should there
by forfeit any advantage for attaining still more accurate,
should such exist. And, in fine, I could not have restrained
my desires, nor remained satisfied, had I not followed a path
in which I thought myself certain of attaining all the knowl
edge to the acquisition of which I was competent, as well
as the largest amount of what is truly good which I could
ever hope to secure. Inasmuch as we neither seek nor shun
any object except in so far as our understanding represents
it as good or bad, all that is necessary to right action is right
judgment, and to the best action the most correct judgment,
that is, to the acquisition of all the virtues with all else
that is truly valuable and within our reach ; and the assur
ance of such an acquisition cannot fail to render us con
tented.
Having thus provided myself with these maxims, and
having placed them in reserve along with the truths of
Faith, which have ever occupied the first place in my belief,
I came to the conclusion that I might with freedom set about
ridding myself of what remained of my opinions. And, in
asmuch as I hoped to be better able successfully to accom
plish this work by holding intercourse with mankind, than by
remaining longer shut up in the retirement where these
thoughts had occurred to me, I betook me again to travelling
before the winter was well ended. And, during the nine
subsequent years, I did nothing but roam from one place to
another, desirous of being a spectator rather than an actor
in the plays exhibited on the theatre of the world; and, as I
made it my business in each matter to reflect particularly
upon what might fairly be doubted and prove a source of
error, I gradually rooted out from my mind all the errors
which had hitherto crept into it. Not that in this I imitated
the Sceptics who doubt only that they may doubt, and seek
nothing beyond uncertainty itself; for, on the contrary, my
design was singly to find ground of assurance, and cast
aside the loose earth and sand, that I might reach the rock
or the clay. In this, as appears to me, I was successful
enough; for, since I endeavoured to discover the falsehood
or incertitude of the propositions I examined, not by feeble
conjectures, but by clear and certain reasonings, I met with
26 DESCARTES
nothing so doubtful as not to yield some cemcfusion of ade
quate certainty, although this were merely the inference,
that the matter in question contained nothing certain. And,
just as in pulling down an old house, we usually reserve the
ruins to contribute towards the erection, so, in destroying
such of my opinions as I judged to be ill-founded, I made a
variety of observations and acquired an amount of ex
perience of which I availed myself in the establishment of
more certain. And further, I continued to exercise myself
in the Method I had prescribed; for, besides taking care in
general to conduct all my thoughts according to its rules, I
reserved some hours from time to time which I expressly
devoted to the employment of the Method in the solution of
Mathematical difficulties, or even in the solution likewise of
some questions belonging to other Sciences, but which, by my
having detached them from such principles of these Sciences
as were of inadequate certainty, were rendered almost
Mathematical: the truth of this will be manifest from the
numerous examples contained in this volume.* And thus,
without in appearance living otherwise than those who, with
no other occupation than that of spending their lives agreea
bly and innocently, study to sever pleasure from vice, and
who, that they may enjoy their leisure without ennui, have
recourse to such pursuits as are honourable, I was neverthe
less prosecuting my design, and making greater progress in
the knowledge of truth, than I might, perhaps, have made
had I been engaged in the perusal of books merely, or in
holding converse with men of letters.
These nine years passed away, however, before I had
come to any determinate judgment respecting the difficulties
which form matter of dispute among the learned, or had
commenced to seek the principles of any Philosophy more
certain than the vulgar. And the examples of many men of
the highest genius, who had, in former times, engaged in this
inquiry, but, as appeared to me, without success, led me to
imagine it to be a work of so much difficulty, that I would
not perhaps have ventured on it so soon had I not heard it
currently rumoured that I had already completed the in-
3 The Discourse on Method was originally published along with the Diop
trics, the Meteorics, and the Geometry. Tr.
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 27
quiry. I know not what were the grounds of this opinion;
and, if my conversation contributed in any measure to its
rise, this must have happened rather from my having con
fessed my ignorance with greater freedom than those are
accustomed to do who have studied a little, and expounded,
perhaps, the reasons that led me to doubt of many of those
things that by others are esteemed certain, than from my
having boasted of any system of Philosophy. But, as I am
of a disposition that makes me unwilling to be esteemed dif
ferent from what I really am, I thought it necessary to en
deavour by all means to render myself worthy of the repu
tation accorded to me; and it is now exactly eight years since
this desire constrained me to remove from all those places
where interruption from any of my acquaintances was pos
sible, and betake myself to this country,* in which the long
duration of the war has led to the establishment of such
discipline, that the armies maintained seem to be of use only
in enabling the inhabitants to enjoy more securely the bless
ings of peace; and whnre, in the midst of a great crowd
actively engaged in business, and more careful of their own
affairs than curious about those of others, I have been en
abled to live without being deprived of any of the conven
iences to be had in the most populous cities, and yet as soli
tary and as retired as in the midst of the most remote
deserts.
* Holland; to which country he withdrew in 1629. Tr,
PART IV
I AM in doubt as to the propriety of making my first
meditations in the place above mentioned matter of dis
course; for these are so metaphysical, and so uncom
mon, as not, perhaps, to be acceptable to every one. And yet,
that it may be determined whether the " jundations that I have
laid are sufficiently secure, I find myself in a measure con
strained to advert to them. I had long before remarked that,
in (relation to) practice, it is sometimes necessary to adopt,
as if above doubt, opinions which we discern to be highly
uncertain, as has been already said; but as I then desired to
give my attention solely to the search after truth, I thought
that a procedure exactly the opposite was called for, and
that I ought to reject as absolutely false all opinions in
regard to which I could suppose the least ground for doubt,
in order to ascertain whether after that there remained
aught in my belief that was wholly indubitable. Accordingly,
seeing that our senses sometimes deceive us, I was willing
to suppose that there existed nothing really such as they
presented to us; and because some men err in reasoning,
and fall into paralogisms, even on the simplest matters of
Geometry, I, convinced that I was as open to error as any
other, rejected as false all the reasonings I had hitherto
taken for demonstrations ; and finally, when I considered that
the very same thoughts (presentations) which we experience
when awake may also be experienced when we are asleep,
while there is at that time not one of them true, I supposed
that all the objects (presentations) that had ever entered
into my mind when awake, had in them no more truth than
the illusions of my dreams. But immediately upon this I
observed that, whilst I thus wished to think that all was false,
it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus thought, should
be somewhat; and as I observed that this truth, / think,
hence I am, was so certain and of such evidence, that no
28
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 29
ground of doubt, however extravagant, could be alleged by
the Sceptics capable of shaking it, I concluded that I might,
without scruple, accept it as the first principle of the Philoso
phy of which I was in search.
In the next place, I attentively examined what I was, and
as I observed that I could suppose that I had no body, and
that there was no world nor any place in which I might be ;
but that I could not therefore suppose that I was not; and
that, on the contrary, from the very circumstance that I
thought to doubt of the truth of other things, it most clearly
and certainly followed that I was ; while, on the other hand,
if I had only ceased to think, although all the other objects
which I had ever imagined had been in reality existent, I
would have had no reason to believe that I existed; I thence
concluded that I was a substance whose whole essence or
nat;uje consist r>ri] y * n *ki~t-ing, and which, that it may exist,
has need of no place, nor is dependent on any material thing ;
so that " I," that is to say, the mind by which I am what I
am, is wholly distinct from the body, and is even more
easily known than the latter, and is such, that although the
latter were not, it would still continue to be all that it is.
After this I inquired in general into what is essential to
the truth and certainty of a proposition; for since I had dis
covered one which I knew to be true, I thought that I must
likewise be able to discover the ground of this certitude.
And as I observed that in the words I think, hence I am,
there is nothing at all which gives me assurance of their
truth beyond this, that I see very clearly that in order to
think it is necessary to exist, I concluded that I might take,
as a general rule, the principle, that all the things which we
very clearly and distinctly conceive are true, only observing,
however, that there is some difficulty in rightly determining
the objects which we distinctly conceive.
In the next place, from reflecting on the circumstance that
Ljdoubted, and that jionj^guently^^
perfect, (for I clearly saw that it was a greater perfection to
know than to doubt,) I was led to inquire whence I had
learned to think of something more perfect than myself; and
I clearly recognised that I must hold this notion from some
Nature which in reality was more perfect. As for the
30 DESCARTES
thoughts of many other objects. external to me, as of the sky,
the earth, light, heat, and a thousand more, I was Jess at a
loss to know whence these came; for since I remarked in
them nothing which seemed to render them superior to my
self, I could believe that, if these were true, they were
dependencies pn my own nature, in so. far as it possessed a
cejrtain perfection, and, if they were false, that I help! them
from nothing, that is to say, that they were in. me because of
a certain iniperfectioq of my myture. But this could not be
the case witrTthe" idea of a Naturemore perfect than myself;
for to receive it from nothing was a thing manifestly impos
sible; and, because it is not less repugnant that the more
perfect should be an effect of, and dependence on the less
perfect, than that something should proceed from nothing,
it was equally impossible that I could hold it from myself:
accordingly, it but remained that it had been fl^ Q ^ in mfr^ifr
a Naturfi^which was in reality more perfgcj_tlian jnjng^and
which even possessed within itself all the perfections of
which I could form any idea ; that is to. say, in a single word,
which was God. And to this I added that, since I knew spme
perfections which I did not possess, I was not the only being
in existence, (I will here, with your permission, freely vise
the terms of the schools) ; but, on the contrary, that there
was of necessity some other more perfect Being upon whom
I was dependent, and from whom I had received all that I
possessed; for if I had existed alone, and independently of
every other being, so as to have had from myself all the
perfection, however little, which I actually possessed, I
should have been able, for the same reason, to have had
from myself the whole remainder of perfection, of {he want
of which I was conscious, and thus could of myself have be
come infinite, eternal, immutable, omniscient, all-powerful,
and, in fine, have possessed all the perfections which I could
recognise in God. For in, order to know the nature of God,
(whose existence has been established by the preceding
reasonings,) as far as my own nature permitted, I had only
to consider in reference to all the properties of which I
found in my mind some idea, whether their possession was a
mark of perfection; and I was assured that no one which
indicated any imperfection was in him, and that none of the
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 31
rest was awanting. Thus I perceived that doubt, incon
stancy, sadness, and such like, could not be found in God,
since I myself would have been happy to be free from them.
Besides, I had ideas of many sensible and corporeal things;
for although I might suppose that I was dreaming, and that
all which I saw or imagined was false, I could not, never
theless, deny that the ideas were in reality in my thoughts.
But, because I had already very clearly recognised in myself
that the intelligent nature is distinct from the corporeal, and
as I observed that all composition is an evidence of depend
ency, and that a state of dependency is manifestly a state of
imperfection, I therefore determined that it could not be a
perfection in God to be compounded of these two natures,
and that consequently he was not so compounded; but that
if there were any bodies in the world, or even any intel
ligences, or other natures that were not wholly perfect, their
existence depended on his power in such a way that they
could not subsist without him for a single moment.
I was disposed straightway to search for other truths ; and
when I had represented to myself the object of the
geometers, which I conceived to be a continuous body, or a
space indefinitely extended in length, breadth, and height or
depth, divisible into divers parts which admit of different
figures and sizes, and of being moved or transposed in all
manner of ways, (for all this the geometers suppose to be
in the object they contemplate,) I went over some of their
simplest demonstrations. And, in the first place, I observed,
that the great certitude which by common consent is ac
corded to these demonstrations, is founded solely upon this,
that they are clearly conceived in accordance with the rules
I have already laid down. In the next place, I perceived
that there was nothing at all in these demonstrations which
could assure me of the existence of their object: thus, for
example, supposing a triangle to be given, I distinctly per
ceived that its three angles were necessarily equal to two
right angles, but I did :iot on that account perceive any
thing which could assure me that any triangle existed : while,
on the contrary, recurring to the examination of the idea of
a Perfect Being, I found that the existence of the Being was
comprised in the idea in the same way that the equality of
32 DESCARTES
its three angles to two right angles is comprised in the idea
of a triangle, or as in the idea of a sphere, the equidistance
of all points on its surface from the centre, or even still
more clearly; and that consequently it is at least as certain
that God, who is this Perfect Being, is, or exists, as any
demonstration of Geometry can be.
But the reason which leads many to persuade themselves
that there is a difficulty in knowing this truth, and even also
in knowing what their mind really is, is that they never raise
their thoughts above sensible objects, and are so accustomed
to consider nothing except by way of imagination, which is
a mode of thinking limited to material objects, that all that
is not imaginable seems to them not intelligible. The truth
of this is sufficiently manifest from the single circumstance,
that the philosophers of the Schools accept as a maxim that
there is nnfhjjTg 1<ri th p Understanding which was npJLpre-
vmusly_jn the Senses, in which however it is certain that
the ideas of God and of the soul have never been; and it
appears to me that they who make use of their imagination
to comprehend these ideas do exactly the same thing as if,
in order to hear sounds or smell odours, they strove to avail
themselves of their eyes; unless indeed that there is this
difference, that the sense of sight does not afford us an
inferior assurance to those of smell or hearing; in place of
which, neither our imagination nor our senses can give us
assurance of anything unless our Understanding intervene.
Finally, if there be, still persons who are not sufficiently
persuaded of the existence of God and of the soul, by the
reasons I have adduced, I am desirous that they should know
that all the other propositions, of the truth of which they
deem themselves perhaps more assured, as that we have a
body, and that there exist stars and an earth, and such like,
are less certain ; for, although we have a moral assurance of
these things, which is so strong that there is an appearance
of extravagance in doubting of their existence, yet at the
same time no one, unless his intellect is impaired, can deny,
when the question relates to a metaphysical certitude, that
there is sufficient reason to exclude entire assurance, in the
observation that when asleep we can in the same way
imagine ourselves possessed of another body and that we see
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 33
other stars and another earth, when there is nothing of the
kind. For how do we know that the thoughts which occur
in dreaming are false rather than those other which we
experience when awake, since the former are often not less
vivid and distinct than the latter? And though men of the
highest genius study this question as long as they please, I
do not believe that they will be able to give any reason which
can be sufficient to remove this doubt, unless they presuppose
the existence of God. For, in the first place, even the prin
ciple which I have already taken as a rule, viz., that all the
things which we clearly and distinctly conceive are true, is
certain only because God is or exists, and because he is a
Perfect Being, and because all that we possess is derived
from him : whence it follows that our ideas or notions, which
to the extent of their clearness and distinctness are real,
and proceed from God, must to that extent be true. Accord
ingly, whereas we not unfrequently have ideas or notions in
which some falsity... is contained, this can only be the case
with such as are to some extent confused and obscure, and
in this proceed from nothing, (participate of negation,) that
is, exist in us thus confused because \Y.e are not wholly per
fect. And it is evident that it is not less repugnant that
falsity or imperfection, in so far as it is imperfection, should
proceed from God, than that truth or perfection should pro
ceed from nothing. But if we did not know that all which
we possess of real and true proceeds from a Perfect and
Infinite Being, however clear and distinct our ideas might be,
we should have no ground on that account for the assurance
that they possessed the perfection of being true.
But after the knowledge of God and of the soul has ren
dered us certain of this rule, we can easily understand that
the truth of the thoughts we experience when awake, ought
not in the slightest degree to be called in question on account
of the illusions of our dreams. For if it happened that an
individual, even when asleep, had some very distinct idea, as,
for example, if a geometer should discover some new demon
stration, the circumstance of his being asleep would not
militate against its truth ; and as for the most ordinary error
of pur dreams, which consists in their representing to us
various objects in the same way as our external senses, this
HC xxxiv
34 DESCARTES
is not prejudicial, since it leads us very properly to suspect
the truth of the ideas of sense; for we are not unfrequently
deceived in the same manner when awake ; as when persons
in the jaundice see all objects yellow, or when the stars
or bodies at a great distance appear to us much smaller
than they are. For, in fine, whether jiwake or asleep, w,.f.
ought never to allowj3urselv^slto_j?e persuaded, of ..thfiJtruth
r>! anything unless on the evidence of our Reason. And it
must be noted that I say of our Reason, and not of our
imagination or of our senses: thus, for example, although we
very clearly see the sun, we ought not therefore to determine
that it is only of the size which our sense of sight^ presents ;
and we may very distinctly imagine the head of a lion joined
to the body of a goat, without being therefore shut up to the
conclusion that a chimsera exists ; for it is not 2. dictate of
Reason that what we thus see or imagine is in reality
existent; but it plainly tells us that all our ideas or notions
contain in them some truth; for otherwise it could not be
that God, who is wholly perfect and veracious, should have
placed them in us. And because our reasonings are never
so clear or so complete during sleep as when we are awake,
although sometimes the acts of our imagination are then as
lively and distinct, if not more so than in our waking
moments, Reason further dictates that, since all our thoughts
cannot be true because of our partial imperfection, those
possessing truth must infallibly be found in the experience
of our waking moments rather than in that of our dreams.
PART V
I WOULD here willingly have proceeded to exhibit the
whole chain of truths which I deduced from these
primary ; but as with a view to this it would have been
necessary now to treat of many questions in dispute among
the learned, with whom I do not wish to be embroiled, I be
lieve that it will be better for me to refrain from this exposi
tion, and only mention in general what these truths are, that
the more judicious may be able to determine whether a more
special account of them would conduce to the public ad
vantage. I have ever remained firm in my original resolu
tion to suppose no other principle than that of which I have
recently availed myself in demonstrating the existence of
God and of the soul, and to accept as true nothing that did
not appear to me more clear and certain than the demonstra
tions of the geometers had formerly appeared; and yet I
venture to state that not only have I found means to satisfy
myself in a short time on all the principal difficulties which
are usually treated of in Philosophy, but I have also observed
certain laws established in nature by God in such a manner,
and of which he has impressed on our minds such notions,
that after we have reflected sufficiently upon these, we can
not doubt that they are accurately observed in all that exists
or takes place in the world: and farther, by considering the
concatenation of these laws, it appears to me that I have dis
covered many truths more useful and more important than
all I had before learned, or even had expected to learn.
^ But because I have essayed to expound the chief of these
discoveries in a Treatise whih certain considerations prevent
me from publishing, I cannot make the results known more
conveniently than by here giving a summary of the contents
of this Treatise. It was my design to comprise in it all that,
before I set myself to write it, I thought I knew of the nature
of material objects. But like the painters who, finding them-
35
36 DESCARTES
selves unable to represent equally well on a plain surface all
the different faces of a solid body, select one of the chief,
on which alone they make the light fall, and throwing the
rest into the shade, allow them to appear only in so far as
they can be seen while looking at the principal one ; so, fear
ing lest I should not be able to comprise in my discourse all
that was in my mind, I resolved to expound singly, though
at considerable length, my opinions regarding light; then to
take the opportunity of adding something on the sun and the
fixed stars, since light almost wholly proceeds from them;
on the heavens since they transmit it ; on the planets, comets,
and earth, since they reflect it; and particularly on all the
bodies that are upon the earth, since they are either coloured,
or transparent, or luminous; and finally on man, since he is
the spectator of these objects. Further, to enable me to cast
this variety of subjects somewhat into the shade, and to ex
press my judgment regarding them with greater freedom,
without being necessitated to adopt or refute the opinions of
the learned, I resolved to leave all the people here to their
disputes, and to speak only of what would happen in a new
world, if God were now to create somewhere in the imaginary
spaces matter sufficient to compose one, and were to agitate
variously and confusedly the different parts of this matter,
so that there resulted a chaos as disordered as the poets ever
feigned, and after that did nothing more than lend his or
dinary concurrence to nature, and allow her to act in ac
cordance with the laws which he had established. On this
supposition, I, in the first place, described this matter, and
essayed to represent it in such a manner that to my mind
there can be nothing clearer and more intelligible, except
what has been recently said regarding God and the soul;
for I even expressly supposed that it possessed none of those
forms or qualities which are so debated in the Schools, nor
in general anything the knowledge of which is not so natural
to our minds that no one can so much as imagine himself
ignorant of it. Besides, I have pointed out what are the
laws of nature; and, with no other principle upon which to
found my reasonings except the infinite perfection of God,
I endeavoured to demonstrate all those about which there
could be any room for doubt, and to prove that they are
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 37
such, that even if God had created more worlds, there could
have been none in which these laws were not observed.
Thereafter, I showed how the greatest part of the matter
of this chaos must, in accordance with these laws, dispose
and arrange itself in such a way as to present the appearance
of heavens; how in the meantime some of its parts must com
pose an earth and some planets and comets, and others a
sun and fixed stars. And, making a digression at this stage
on the subject of light, I expounded at considerable length
what the nature of that light must be which is found in the
sun and the stars, and how thence in an instant of time it
traverses the immense spaces of the heavens, and how from
the planets and comets it is reflected towards the earth. To
this I likewise added much respecting the substance, the
situation, the motions, and all the different qualities of these
heavens and stars; so that I thought I had said enough
respecting them to show that there is nothing observable in
the heavens or stars of our system that must not, or at least
may not appear precisely alike in those of the system which
I described. I came next to speak of the earth in particular,
and to show how, even though I had expressly supposed that
God had given no weight to the matter of which it is com
posed, this should not prevent all its parts from tending
exactly to its centre; how with water and air on its surface,
the disposition of the heavens and heavenly bodies, more
especially of the moon, must cause a flow and ebb, like in all
its circumstances to that observed in our seas, as also a
certain current both of water and air from east to west,
such as is likewise observed between the tropics; how the
mountains, seas, fountains, and rivers might naturally be
formed in it, and the metals produced in the mines, and the
plants grow in the fields ; and in general, how all the bodies
which are commonly denominated mixed or composite might
be generated: and, among other things in the discoveries
alluded to, inasmuch as besides the stars, I knew nothing
except fire which produces light, I spared no pains to set
forth all that pertains to its nature, the manner of its pro
duction and support, and to explain how heat is sometimes
found without light, and light without heat; to show how it
can induce various colours upon different bodies and other
38 DESCARTES
diverse qualities; how it reduces some to a liquid state and
hardens others; how it can consume almost all bodies, or
convert them into ashes and smoke; and finally, how from
these ashes, by the mere intensity of its action, it forms
glass : for as this transmutation of ashes into glass appeared
to me as wonderful as any other in nature, I took a special
pleasure in describing it.
I was not, however, disposed, from these circumstances,
to conclude that this world had been created in the manner
I described; for it is much more likely that God made it at
the first such as it was to be. But this is certain, and an
opinion commonly received among theologians, that the
action by which he now sustains it is the same with that by
which he originally created it ; so that even although he had
from the beginning given it no other form than that of
chaos, provided cnly he had established certain laws of
nature, and had le^t it his concurrence to enable it to act as
it is wont to do, it may be believed, without discredit to the
miracle of creation, that, in this way alone, things purely
material might, in course of time, have become such as we
observe them at present; and their nature is much more
easily conceived when they are beheld coming in this manner
gradually into existence, than when they are only considered
as produced at once in a finished and perfect state.
From the description of inanimate bodies and plants, I
passed to animals, and particularly to man. But since I had
not as yet sufficient knowledge to enable me to treat of these
in the same manner as of the rest, that is to say, by deducing
effects from their causes, and by showing from what ele
ments and in what manner Nature must produce them, I
remained satisfied with the supposition that God formed the
body of man wholly like to one of ours, as well in the ex
ternal shape of the members as in the internal conformation
of the organs, of the same matter with that I had described,
and at first placed in it no Rational Soul, nor any other prin
ciple, in room of the Vegetative or Sensitive Soul, beyond
kindling in the heart one of those fires without light, such as
I had already described, and which I thought was not dif
ferent from the heat in hay that has been heaped together
before it is dry, or that which causes fermentation in new
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 39
wines before they are run clear of the fruit. For, when I
examined the kind of functions which might, as consequences
of this supposition, exist in this body, I found precisely all
those which may exist in us independently of all power of
thinking, and consequently without being in any measure
owing to the soul ; in other words, to that part of us which is
distinct from the body, and of which it has been said above
that the nature distinctively consists in thinking, functions
in which the animals void of Reason may be said wholly to
resemble us; but among which I could not discover any of
those that, as dependent on thought alone, belong to us as
men, while, on the other hand, I did afterwards discover
these as soon as I supposed God to have created a Rational
Soul, and to have annexed it to this body in a particular
manner which I described.
But, in order to show how I there handled this matter, I
mean here to give the explication of the motion of the heart
and arteries, which, as the first and most general motion ob
served in animals, will afford the means of readily deter
mining what should be thought of all the rest. And that
there may be less difficulty in understanding what I am
about to say on this subject, I advise those who are not
versed in Anatomy, before they commence the perusal of
these observations, to take the trouble of getting dissected in
their presence the heart of some large animal possessed of
lungs, (for this is throughout sufficiently like the human,)
and to have shewn to them its two ventricles or cavities: in
the first place, that in the right side, with which correspond
two very ample tubes, viz., the hollow vein, (vena cava,*)
which is the principal receptacle of the blood, and the trunk
of the tree, as it were, of which all the other veins in the
body are branches; and the arterial vein, (vena arteriosa,}
inappropriately so denominated, since it is in truth only an
artery, which, taking its rise in the heart, is divided, after
passing out from it, into many branches which presently
disperse themselves all over the lungs; in the second place,
the cavity in the left side, with which correspond in the
same manner two canals in size equal to or larger than the
preceding, viz., the venous artery, (arteria venosa,*) likewise
inappropriately thus designated, because it is simply a vein
40 DESCARTES
which comes from the lungs, where it is divided into many
branches, interlaced with those of the arterial vein, and
those of the tube called the windpipe, through which the air
we breathe enters ; and the great artery which, issuing from
the heart, sends its branches all over the body. I should
wish also that such persons were carefully shewn the eleven
pellicles which, like so many small valves, open and shut the
four orifices that are in these two cavities, viz., three at the
entrance of the hollow vein, where they are disposed in such
a manner as by no means to prevent the blood which it con
tains from flowing into the right ventricle of the heart, and
yet exactly to prevent its flowing out; three at the entrance
to the arterial vein, which, arranged in a manner exactly the
opposite of the former, readily permit the blood contained in
this cavity to pass into the lungs, but hinder that contained in
the lungs from returning to this cavity ; and, in like manner,
two others at the mouth of the venous artery, which allow the
blood from the lungs to flow into the left cavity of the heart,
but preclude its return ; and three at the mouth of the great
artery, which suffer the blood to flow from the heart, but
prevent its reflux. Nor do we need to seek any other reason
for the number of these pellicles beyond this that the orifice
of the venous artery being of an oval shape from the nature
of its situation, can be adequately closed with two, whereas
the others being round are more conveniently closed with
three. Besides, I wish such persons to observe that the
grand artery and the arterial vein are of much harder and
firmer texture than the venous artery and the hollow vein;
and that the two last expand before entering the heart, and
there form, as it were, two pouches denominated the auricles
of the heart, which are composed of a substance similar to
that of the heart itself; and that there is always more warmth
in the heart than in any other part of the body; and, finally,
that this heat is capable of causing any drop of blood that
passes into the cavities rapidly to expand and dilate, just as
all liquors do when allowed to fall drop by drop into a highly
heated vessel.
For, after these things, it is not necessary for me to say
anything more with a view to explain the motion of the
heart, except that when its cavities are not full of blood, into
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 41
these the blood of necessity flows, from the hollow vein
into the right, and from the venous artery into the left;
because these two vessels are always full of blood, and their
orifices, which are turned towards the heart, cannot then be
closed. But as soon as two drops of blood have thus passed,
one into each of the cavities, these drops which cannot but be
very large, because the orifices through which they pass are
wide, and the vessels from which they come full of blood,
are immediately rarefied, and dilated by the heat they meet
with. In this way they cause the whole heart to expand, and
at the same time press home and shut the five small valves
that are at the entrances of the two vessels from which they
flow, and thus prevent any more blood from coming down
into the heart, and becoming more and more rarefied, they
push open the six small valves that are in the orifices of the
other two vessels, through which they pass out, causing in
this way all the branches of the arterial vein and of the
grand artery to expand almost simultaneously with the heart
which immediately thereafter begins to contract, as do
also the arteries, because the blood that has entered them has
cooled, and the six small valves close, and the five of the
hollow vein and of the venous artery open anew and allow
a passage to other two drops of blood, which cause the heart
and the arteries again to expand as before. And, because
the blood which thus enters into the heart passes through
these two pouches called auricles, it thence happens that their
motion is the contrary of that of the heart, and that when it
expands they contract. But lest those who are ignorant of
the force of mathematical demonstrations, and who are not
accustomed to distinguish true reasons from mere verisimili
tudes, should venture, without examination, to deny what has
been said, I wish it to be considered that the motion which
I have now explained follows as necessarily from the very ar
rangement of the parts, which may be observed in the heart by
the eye alone, and from the heat which may be felt with the
fingers, and from the nature of the blood as learned from ex
perience, as does the motion of a clock from the power, the
situation, and shape of its counter-weights and wheels.
But if it be asked how it happens that the blood in the
veins, flowing in this way continually into the heart, is not
42 DESCARTES
exhausted, and why the arteries do not become too full,
since all the blood which passes through the heart flows into
them, I need only mention in reply what has been written by
a physician 5 of England, who has the honour of having
broken the ice on this subject, and of having been the first
to teach that there are many small passages at the extremities
of the arteries, through which the blood received by them
from the heart passes into the small branches of the veins,
whence it again returns to the heart; so that its course
amounts precisely to a perpetual circulation. Of this we have
abundant proof in the ordinary experience of surgeons, who,
by binding the arm with a tie of moderate straitness above
the part where they open the vein, cause the blood to flow
more copiously than it would have done without any ligature ;
whereas quite the contrary would happen were they to bind
it below ; that is, between the hand and the opening, or were
to make the ligature above the opening very tight. For it is
manifest that the tie, moderately straitened, while adequate
to hinder the blood already in the arm from returning
towards the heart by the veins, cannot on that account pre
vent new blood from coming forward through the arteries,
because these are situated below the veins, and their cover
ings, from their greater consistency, are more difficult to
compress; and also that the blood which comes from the
heart tends to pass through them to the hand with greater
force than it does to return from the hand to the heart
through the veins. And since the latter current escapes
from the arm by the opening made in one of the veins, there
must of necessity be certain passages below the ligature,
that is, towards the extremities of the arm through which it
can come thither from the arteries. This physician likewise
abundantly establishes what he has advanced respecting the
motion of the blood, from the existence of certain pellicles,
so disposed in various places along the course of the veins,
in the manner of small valves, as not to permit the blood to
pass from the middle of the body towards the extremities,
but only to return from the extremities to the heart; and
farther, from experience which shows that all the blood
which is in the body may flow out of it in a very short time
* Harvey.
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 43
through a single artery that has been cut, even although this
had been closely tied in the immediate neighbourhood of the
heart, and cut between the heart and the ligature, so as to
prevent the supposition that the blood flowing out of it could
come from any other quarter than the heart.
But there are many other circumstances which evince that
what I have alleged is the true cause of the motion of the
blood : thus, in the first place, the difference that is observed
between the blood which flows from the veins, and that from
the arteries, can only arise from this, that being rarefied,
and, as it were, distilled by passing through the heart, it is
thinner, and more vivid, and warmer immediately after
leaving the heart, in other words, when in the arteries, than
it was a short time before passing into either, in other
words, when it was in the veins; and if attention be given,
it will be found that this difference is very marked only
in the neighbourhood of the heart; and is not so evident
in parts more remote from it. In the next place, the con
sistency of the coats of which the arterial vein and the
great artery are composed, sufficiently shows that the blood
is impelled against them with more force than against the
veins. And why should the left cavity of the heart and the
great artery be wider and larger than the right cavity and
the arterial vein, were it not that the blood of the venous
artery, having only been in the lungs after it has passed
through the heart, is thinner, and rarefies more readily, and
in a higher degree, than the blood which proceeds imme
diately from the hollow vein? And what can physicians
conjecture from feeling the pulse unless they know that ac
cording as the blood changes its nature it can be rarefied
by the warmth of the heart, in a higher or lower degree,
and more or less quickly than before? And if it be in
quired how this heat is communicated to the other members,
must it not be admitted that this is effected by means of the
blood, which, passing through the heart, is there heated
anew, and thence diffused over all the body? Whence it
happens, that if the blood be withdrawn from any part, the
heat is likewise withdrawn by the same means ; and although
the heart were as hot as glowing iron, it would not be
capable of warming the feet and hands as at present, unless
44 DESCARTES
it continually sent thither new blood. We likewise perceive
from this, that the true use of respiration is to bring suffi
cient fresh air into the lungs, to cause the blood which
flows into them from the right ventricle of the heart, where
it has been rarefied and, as it were, changed into vapours,
to become thick, and to convert it anew into blood, before
it flows into the left cavity, without which process it would
be unfit for the nourishment of the fire that is there. This
receives confirmation from the circumstance, that it is ob
served of animals destitute of lungs that they have also but
one cavity in the heart, and that in children who cannot
use them while in the womb, there is a hole through which
the blood flows from the hollow vein into the left cavity of
the heart, and a tube through which it passes from the
arterial vein into the grand artery without passing through
the lung. In the next place, how could digestion be carried
on in the stomach unless the heart communicated heat to it
through the arteries, and along with this certain of the more
fluid parts of the blood, which assists in the dissolution of
the food that has been taken in? Is not also the operation
which converts the juice of food into blood easily compre
hended, when it is considered that it is distilled by passing
and repassing through the heart perhaps more than one or
two hundred times in a day? And what more need be ad
duced to explain nutrition, and the production of the dif
ferent humours of the body, beyond saying, that the force
with which the blood, in being rarefied, passes from the
heart towards the extremities of the arteries, causes certain
of its parts to remain in the members at which they arrive,
and there occupy the place of some others expelled by them ;
and that according to the situation, shape, or smallness of
the pores with which they meet, some rather than others
flow into certain parts, in the same way that some sieves
are observed to act, which, by being variously perforated,
serve to separate different species of grain ? And, in the last
place, what above all is here worthy of observation, is the
generation of the animal spirits, which are like a very subtle
wind, or rather a very pure and vivid flame which, con
tinually ascending in great abundance from the heart to
the brain, thence penetrates through the nerves into the
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 45
muscles, and gives motion to all the members; so that to
account for other parts of the blood which, as most agitated
and penetrating, are the fittest to compose these spirits, pro
ceeding towards the brain, it is not necessary to suppose
any other cause, than simply, that the arteries which carry
them thither proceed from the heart in the most direct
lines, and that, according to the rules of Mechanics, which
are the same with those of Nature, when many objects tend
at once to the same point where there is not sufficient room
for all, (as is the case with the parts of the blood which
flow forth from the left cavity of the heart and tend towards
the brain,) the weaker and less agitated parts must neces
sarily be driven aside from that point by the stronger which
alone in this way reach it.
I had expounded all these matters with sufficient minute
ness in the Treatise which I formerly thought of publishing.
And after these, I had shewn what must be the fabric of
the nerves and muscles of the human body to give the
animal spirits contained in it the power to move the mem
bers, as when we see heads shortly after they have been
struck off still move and bite the earth, although no longer
animated ; what changes must take place in the brain to pro
duce waking, sleep, and dreams ; how light, sounds, odours,
tastes, heat, and all the other qualities of external objects
impress it with different ideas by means of the senses; how
hunger, thirst, and the other internal affections can likewise
impress upon it divers ideas; what must be understood by
the common sense (sensus communis) in which these ideas
are received, by the memory which retains them, by the
fantasy which can change them in various ways, and out of
them compose new ideas, and which, by the same means,
distributing the animal spirits through the muscles, can
cause the members of such a body to move in as many dif
ferent ways, and in a manner as suited, whether to the
objects that are presented to its senses or to its internal
affections, as can take place in our own case apart from the
guidance of the will. Nor will this appear at all strange
to those who are acquainted with the variety of movements
performed by the different automata, or moving machines
fabricated by human industry, and that with help of but
46 DESCARTES
few pieces compared with the great multitude of bones,
muscles, nerves, arteries, veins, and other parts that are
found in the body of each animal. Such persons will look
upon this body as a machine made by the hands of God,
which is incomparably better arranged, and adequate to
movements more admirable than is any machine of human
invention. And here I specially stayed to show that, were
there such machines exactly resembling in organs and out
ward form an ape or any other irrational animal, we could
have no means of knowing that they were in any respect
of a different nature from these animals ; but if there were
machines bearing the image of our bodies, and capable of
imitating our actions as far as it is morally possible, there
would still remain two most certain tests whereby to know
that they were not therefore really men. Of these the first
is that they could never use words or other signs arranged
in such a manner as is competent to us in order to declare
our thoughts to others: for we may easily conceive a ma
chine to be so constructed that it emits vocables, and even
that it emits some correspondent to the action upon it of
external objects which cause a change in its organs; for
example, if touched in a particular place it may demand
what we wish to say to it ; if in another it may cry out that
it is hurt, and such like ; but not that it should arrange them
variously so as appositely to reply to what is said in its pres
ence, as men of the lowest grade of intellect can do. The
second test is, that although such machines might execute
many things with equal or perhaps greater perfection than
any of us, they would, without doubt, fail in certain others
from which it could be discovered that they did not act from
knowledge, but solely from the disposition of their organs:
for while Reason is an universal instrument that is alike
available on every occasion, these organs, on the contrary,
need a particular arrangement for each particular action;
whence it must be morally impossible that there should
exist in any machine a diversity of organs sufficient to en
able it to act in all the occurrences of life, in the way in
which our reason enables us to act. Again, by means of
these two tests we may likewise know the difference be
tween men and brutes. For it is highly deserving of re-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 47
mark, that there are no men so dull and stupid, not even
idiots, as to be incapable of joining together different words,
and thereby constructing a declaration by which to make
their thoughts understood; and that on the other hand,
there is no other animal, however perfect or happily cir
cumstanced which can do the like. Nor does this inability
arise from want of organs: for we observe that mag
pies and parrots can utter words like ourselves, and are
yet unable to speak as we do, that is, so as to show
that they understand what they say; in place of which
men born deaf and dumb, and thus not less, but rather
more than the brutes, destitute of the organs which others
use in speaking, are in the habit of spontaneously inventing
certain signs by which they discover their thoughts to those
who, being usually in their company, have leisure to learn
their language. And this proves not only that the brutes
have less Reason than man, but that they have none at all :
for we see that very little is required to enable a person to
speak; and since a certain inequality of capacity is observable
among animals of the same species, as well as among men,
and since some are more capable of being instructed than
others, it is incredible that the most perfect ape or parrot
of its species, should not in this be equal to the most stupid
infant of its kind, or at least to one that was crack-brained,
unless the soul of brutes were of a nature wholly different
from ours. And we ought not to confound speech with the
natural movements which indicate the passions, and can be
imitated by machines as well as manifested by animals; nor
must it be thought with certain of the ancients, that the
brutes speak, although we do not understand their language.
For if such were the case, since they are endowed with
many organs analogous to ours, they could as easily com
municate their thoughts to us as to their fellows. It is
also very worthy of remark, that, though there are many
animals which manifest more industry than we in certain
of their actions, the same animals are yet observed to show
none at all in many others: so that the circumstance that
they do better than we does not prove that they are en
dowed with mind, for it would thence follow that they
possessed greater Reason that any of us, and could sur
48 DESCARTES
pass us in all things ; on the contrary, it rather proves that
they are destitute of Reason, and that it is Nature which
acts in them according to the disposition of their organs:
thus it is seen, that a clock composed only of wheels and
weights can number the hours and measure time more
exactly than we with all our skill.
I had after this described the Reasonable Soul, and
shewn that it could by no means be educed from the power
of matter, as the other things of which I had spoken, but
that it must be expressly created ; and that it is not sufficient
that ^it be lodged in the human body exactly like a pilot in
a ship, unless perhaps to move its members, but that it is
necessary for it to be joined and united more closely to the
body, in order to have sensations and appetites similar to
ours, and thus constitute a real man. I here entered, in
conclusion, upon the subject of the soul at considerable
length, because it is of the greatest moment: for after the
error of those who deny the existence of God, an error
which I think I have already sufficiently refuted, there is
none that is more powerful in leading feeble minds astray
from the straight path of virtue than the supposition that
the soul of the brutes is of the same nature with our own;
and consequently that after this life we have nothing to
hope for or fear, more than flies and ants; in place of
which, when we know how far they differ we much better
comprehend the reasons which establish that the soul is of
a nature wholly independent of the body, and that conse
quently it is not liable to die with the latter; and, finally,
because no other causes are observed capable of destroying
it, we are naturally led thence to judge that it is immortal.
PART VI
THREE years have now elapsed since I finished the
Treatise containing all these matters; and I was beginning
to revise it, with the view to put it into the hands of a
printer, when I learned that persons to whom I greatly
defer, and whose authority over my actions is hardly less
influential than is my own Reason over my thoughts, had
condemned a certain doctrine in Physics, published a short
time previously by another individual, 9 to which I will not
say that I adhered, but only that, previously to their cen
sure, I had observed in it nothing which I could imagine
to be prejudicial either to religion or to the state, and
nothing therefore which would have prevented me from
giving expression to it in writing, if Reason had persuaded
me of its truth; and this led me to fear lest among my
own doctrines likewise some one might be found in which
I had departed from the truth, notwithstanding the great
care I have always taken not to accord belief to new opinions
of which I had not the most certain demonstrations, and not
to give expression to aught that might tend to the hurt of
any one. This has been sufficient to make me alter my
purpose of publishing them; for although the reasons by
which I had been induced to take this resolution were very
strong, yet my inclination, which has always been hostile
to writing books, enabled me immediately to discover other
considerations sufficient to excuse me for not undertaking
the task. And these reasons, on one side and the other,
are such, that not only is it in some measure my interest
here to state them, but that of the public, perhaps, to know
them.
I have never made much account of what has proceeded
from my own mind; and so long as I gathered no other
advantage from the Method I employ beyond satisfying my-
Galileo. Tr.
50 DESCARTES
self on some difficulties belonging to the speculative sciences,
or endeavouring to regulate my actions according to the
principles it taught me, I never thought myself bound to
publish anything respecting it. For in what regards man
ners, every one is so full of his own wisdom, that there
might be found as many reformers as heads, if any were
allowed to take upon themselves the task of mending them,
except those whom God has constituted the supreme rulers
of his people, or to whom he has given sufficient grace and
zeal to be prophets; and although my speculations greatly
pleased myself, I believed that others had theirs, which
perhaps pleased them still more. But as soon as I had
acquired some general notions respecting Physics, and
beginning to make trial of them in various particular dif
ficulties, had observed how far they can carry us, and how
much they differ from the principles that have been em
ployed up to the present time, I believed that I could not
keep them concealed without sinning grievously against
the law by which we are bound to promote, as far as in
us lies, the general good of mankind. For by them I per
ceived it to be possible to arrive at knowledge highly use
ful in life; and in room of the Speculative Philosophy
usually taught in the Schools, to discover a Practical,
by means of which, knowing the force and action of fire,
water, air, the stars, the heavens, and all the other bodies
that surround us, as distinctly as we know the various
crafts of our artizans, we might also apply them in the
same way to all the uses to which they are adapted, and
thus render ourselves the lords and possessors of nature.
And this is a result to be desired, not only in order to the
invention of an infinity of arts, by which we might be
enabled to enjoy without any trouble the fruits of the earth,
and all its comforts, but also and especially for the preser
vation of health, which is without doubt, of all the blessings
of this life, the first and fundamental one; for the mind
is so intimately dependent upon the condition and relation
of the organs of the body, that if any means can ever be
found to render men wiser and more ingenious than hither
to, I believe that it is in Medicine they must be sought for.
It is true that the science of Medicine, as it now exists,
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 51
contains few things whose utility is very remarkable: but
without any wish to depreciate it, I am confident that there
is no one, even among those whose profession it is, who
does not admit that all at present known in it is almost
nothing in comparison of what remains to be discovered;
and that we could free ourselves from an infinity of mala
dies of body as well as of mind, and perhaps also even
from the debility of age, if we had sufficiently ample knowl
edge of their causes, and of all the remedies provided for
us by Nature. But since I designed to employ my whole
life in the search after so necessary a Science, and since
I had fallen in with a path which seems to me such, that if
any one follow it he must inevitably reach the end desired,
unless he be hindered either by the shortness of life or the
want of experiments, I judged that there could be no more
effectual provision against these two impediments than if
I were faithfully to communicate to the public all the little
I might myself have found, and incite men of superior
genius to strive to proceed farther, by contributing, each
according to his inclination and ability, to the experiments
which it would be necessary to make, and also by informing
the public of all they might discover, so that, by the last
beginning where those before them had left off, and thus
connecting the lives and labours of many, we might col
lectively proceed much farther than each by himself could do.
I remarked, moreover, with respect to experiments, that
they become always more necessary the more one is ad
vanced in knowledge; for, at the commencement, it is bet
ter to make use only of what is spontaneously presented to
our senses, and of which we cannot remain ignorant, pro
vided we bestow on it any reflection, however slight, than
to concern ourselves about more uncommon and recondite
phenomena: the reason of which is, that the more uncom
mon often only mislead us so long as the causes of the more
ordinary are still unknown; and the circumstances upon
which they depend are almost always so special and minute
as to be highly difficult to detect. But in this I have adopted
the following order : first, I have essayed to find in general
the principles, or first causes of all that is or can be in
the world, without taking into consideration for this end
52 DESCARTES
anything but God himself who has created it, and without
educing them from any other source than from certain
germs of truths naturally existing in our minds. In the
second place, I examined what were the first and most
ordinary effects that could be deduced from these causes;
and it appears to me that, in this way, I have found heavens,
stars, an earth, and even on the earth, water, air, fire]
minerals, and some other things of this kind, which of all
others are the most common and simple, and hence the
easiest to know. Afterwards, when I wished to descend
to the more particular, so many diverse objects presented
themselves to me, that I believed it to be impossible for the
human mind to distinguish the forms or species of bodies
that are upon the earth, from an infinity of others which
might have been, if it had pleased God to place them there,
or consequently to apply them to our use, unless we rise
to causes through their effects, and avail ourselves of many
particular experiments. Thereupon, turning over in my
mind all the objects that had ever been presented to my
senses, I freely venture to state that I have never observed
any which I could not satisfactorily explain by the principles
I had discovered. But it is necessary also to confess that
the power of nature is so ample and vast, and these prin
ciples so simple and general, that I have hardly observed a
single particular effect which I cannot at once recognise
as capable of being deduced in many different modes from
the principles, and that my greatest difficulty usually is to
discover in which of these modes the effect is dependent
upon them; for out of this difficulty I cannot otherwise
extricate myself than by again seeking certain experiments,
which may be such that their result is not the same, if it
is in the one of these modes that we must explain it, as
it would be if it were to be explained in the other. As
to what remains, I am now in a position to discern, as I
think, with sufficient clearness what course must be taken
to make the majority of those experiments which may con
duce to this end: but I perceive likewise that they are such
and so numerous, that neither my hands nor my income,
though it were a thousand times larger than it is, would
be sufficient for them all; so that, according as hencefor-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 53
ward I shall have the means of making more or fewer
experiments, I shall in the same proportion make greater
or less progress in the knowledge of nature. This was
what I had hoped to make known by the Treatise I had
written, and so clearly to exhibit the advantage that would
thence accrue to the public, as to induce all who have the
common good of man at heart, that is, all who are virtuous
in truth, and not merely in appearance, or according to
opinion, as well to communicate to me the experiments they
had already made, as to assist me in those that remain to
be made.
But since that time other reasons have occurred to me,
by which I have been led to change my opinion, and to think
that I ought indeed to go on committing to writing all the
results which I deemed of any moment, as soon as I should
have tested their truth, and to bestow the same care upon
them as I would have done had it been my design to publish
them. This course commended itself to me, as well because
I thus afforded myself more ample inducement to examine
them thoroughly, for doubtless that is always more nar
rowly scrutinized which we believe will be read by many,
than that which is written merely for our private use,
(and frequently what has seemed to me true when I first
conceived it, has appeared false when I have set about com
mitting it to writing;) as because I thus lost no opportunity
of advancing the interests of the public, as far as in me
lay, and since thus likewise, if my writings possess any
value, those into whose hands they may fall after my death
may be able to put them to what use they deem proper.
But I resolved by no means to consent to their publication
during my lifetime, lest either the oppositions or the con
troversies to which they might give rise, or even the reputa
tion, such as it might be, which they would acquire for
me, should be any occasion of my losing the time that I
had set apart for my own improvement. For though it
be true that every one is bound to promote to the extent of
his ability the good of others, and that to be useful to no
one is really to be worthless, yet it is likewise true that our
cares ought to extend beyond the present; and it is good
to omit doing what might perhaps bring some profit to
54 DESCARTES
the living, when we have in view the accomplishment of
other ends that will be of much greater advantage to
posterity. And in truth, I am quite willing it should be
known that the little I have hitherto learned is almost
nothing in comparison with that of which I am ignorant,
and to the knowledge of which I do not despair of being
able to attain; for it is much the same with those who
gradually discover truth in the Sciences, as with those
who when growing rich find less difficulty in making great
acquisitions, than they formerly experienced when poor
in making acquisitions of much smaller amount. Or they
may be compared to the commanders of armies, whose
forces usually increase in proportion to their victories,
and who need greater prudence to keep together the residue
of their troops after a defeat than after a victory to take
towns and proVinces. For he truly engages in battle who
endeavors to surmount all the difficulties and errors which
prevent him from reaching the knowledge of truth, and
he is overcome in fight who admits a false opinion touch
ing a matter of any generality and importance, and he re
quires thereafter much more skill to recover his former
position than to make gheat advances when once in posses
sion of thoroughly ascertained principles. As for myself,
if I have succeeded in discovering any truths in the Sciences,
(and I trust that what is contained in this volume will
show that I have found some,) I can declare that they are
but the consequences and results of five or six principal
difficulties which I have surmounted, and my encounters
with which I reckoned as battles in which victory declared
for me. I will not hesitate even to avow my belief that
nothing further is wanting to enable me fully to realize
my designs than to gain two or three similar victories;
and that 5 I am not so far advanced in years but that,
according to the ordinary course of nature, I may still
have sufficient leisure for this end. But I conceive myself
the more bound to husband the time that remains the greater
my expectation of being able to employ it aright, and I
should doubtless have much to rob me of it, were I to pub
lish the principles of my Physics: for although they are
almost all so evident that to assent to them no more is
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 55
needed than simply to understand them, and although there
is not one of them of which I do not expect to be able to
give demonstration, yet, as it is impossible that they can
be in accordance with all the diverse opinions of others, I
foresee that I should frequently be turned aside from my
grand design, on occasion of the opposition which they
would be sure to awaken.
It may be said, that these oppositions would be useful
both in making me aware of my errors, and, if my specu
lations contain anything of value, in bringing others to a
fuller understanding of it; and still farther, as many can
see better than one, in leading others who are now begin
ning to avail themselves of my principles, to assist me in
turn with their discoveries. But though I recognise my
extreme liability to error, and scarce ever trust to the first
thoughts which occur to me, yet the experience I have had
of possible objections to my views prevents me from antic
ipating any profit from them. For I have already had
frequent proof of the judgments, as well of those I esteemed
friends, as of some others to whom I thought I was an
object of indifference, and even of some whose malignity
and envy would, I knew, determine them to endeavour to
discover what partiality concealed from the eyes of my
friends. But it has rarely happened that anything has
been objected to me which I had myself altogether over
looked, unless it were something far removed from the sub
ject: so that I have never met with a single critic of my
opinions who did not appear to me either less rigorous or
less equitable than myself. And further, I have never
observed that any truth before unknown has been brought
to light by the disputations that are practised in the Schools ;
for while each strives for the victory, each is much more
occupied in making the best of mere verisimilitude, than in
weighing the reasons on both sides of the question; and
those who have been long good advocates are not afterwards
on that account the better judges.
As for the advantage that others would derive from the
communication of my thoughts, it could not be very great;
because I have not yet so far prosecuted them as that much
does not remain to be added before they can be applied to
56 DESCARTES
practice. And I think I may say without vanity, that if
there is any one who can carry them out that length, it must
be myself rather than another : not that there may not be in
the world many minds incomparably superior to mine, but
because one cannot so well seize a thing and make it one s
own, when it has been learned from another, as when one
has himself discovered it. And so true is this of the present
subject that, though I have often explained some of my
opinions to persons of much acuteness, who, whilst I was
speaking, appeared to understand them very distinctly, yet,
when they repeated them, I have observed that they almost
always changed them to such an extent that I could no
longer acknowledge them as mine. I am glad, by the way,
to take this opportunity of requesting posterity never to be
lieve on hearsay that anything has proceeded from me which
has not been published by myself; and I am not at all as
tonished at the extravagances attributed to those ancient
philosophers whose own writings we do not possess; whose
thoughts, however, I do not on that account suppose to have
been really absurd, seeing they were among the ablest men
of their times, but only that these have been falsely repre
sented to us. It is observable, accordingly, that scarcely in a
single instance has any one of their disciples surpassed
them ; and I am qiu te sure that the most devoted of the pres
ent followers of Aristotle would think themselves happy if
they had as much knowledge of nature as he possessed, were
it even under the condition that they should never afterwards
attain to higher. In this respect they are like the ivy which
never strives to rise above the tree that sustains it, and
which frequently even returns downwards when it has
reached the top; for it seems to me that they also sink, in
other words, render themselves less wise than they would be
if they gave up study, who, not contented with knowing all
that is intelligibly explained in their author, desire in addi
tion to find in him the solution of many difficulties of which
he says not a word, and never perhaps so much as thought.
Their fashion of philosophizing, however, is well suited to
persons whose abilities fall below mediocrity; for the ob
scurity of the distinctions and principles of which they make
use enables them to speak of all things with as much con-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 57
fidence as if they really knew them, and to defend all that
they say on any subject against the most subtle and
skilful, without its being possible for any one to convict them
of error. In this they seem to me to be like a blind man,
who, in order to fight on equal terms with a person that sees,
should have made him descend to the bottom of an intensely
dark cave : and I may say that such persons have an interest
in my refraining from publishing the principles of the
Philosophy of which I make use; for, since these are of a
kind the simplest and most evident, I should, by publishing
them, do much the same as if I were to throw open the win
dows, and allow the light of day to enter the cave into which
the combatants had descended. But even superior men have
no reason for any great anxiety to know these principles, for
if what they desire is to be able to speak of all things, and
to acquire a reputation for learning, they will gain their end
more easily by remaining satisfied with the appearance of
truth, which can be found without much difficulty in all sorts
of matters, than by seeking the truth itself which unfolds
itself but slowly and that only in some departments, while
it obliges us, when we have to speak of others, freely to
confess our ignorance. If, however, they prefer the knowl
edge of some few truths to the vanity of appearing ignorant
of none, as such knowledge is undoubtedly much to be pre
ferred, and, if they choose to follow a course similar to
mine, they do not require for this that I should say any
thing more than I have already said in this Discourse. For
if they are capable of making greater advancement than I
have made, they will much more be able of themselves to
discover all that I believe myself to have found; since as I
have never examined aught except in order, it is certain that
what yet remains to be discovered is in itself more difficult
and recondite, than that which I have already been enabled
to find, and the gratification would be much less in learning
it from me than in discovering it for themselves. Besides
this, the habit which they will acquire, by seeking first what
is easy, and then passing onward slowly and step by step to
the more difficult, will benefit them more than all my in
structions. Thus, in my own case, I am persuaded that if I
had been taught from my youth all the truths of which I
58 DESCARTES
have since sought out demonstrations, and had thus learned
them without labour, I should never, perhaps, have known
any beyond these ; at least, I should never have acquired the
habit and the facility which I think I possess in always dis
covering new truths in proportion as I give myself to the
search. And, in a single word, if there is any work in the
world which cannot be so well finished by another as by him
who has commenced it, it is that at which I labour.
It is true, indeed, as regards the experiments which may
conduce to this end, that one man is not equal to the task of
making them all ; but yet he can advantageously avail him
self, in this work, of no hands besides his own, unless those
of artisans, or parties of the same kind, whom he could
pay, and whom the hope of gain (a means of great ef
ficacy) might stimulate to accuracy in the performance of
what was prescribed to them. For as to those who, through
curiosity or a desire of learning, of their own accord, per
haps, offer him their services, besides that in general their
promises exceed their performance, and that they sketch out
fine designs of /which not one is ever realized, they will,
without doubt, expect to be compensated for their trouble
by the explication of some difficulties, or, at least, by com
pliments and useless speeches, in which he cannot spend any
portion of his time without loss to himself. And as for the
experiments that others have already made, even although
these parties should be willing of themselves to communicate
them to him, (which is what those who esteem them secrets
will never do,) the experiments are, for the most part, ac
companied with so many circumstances and superfluous ele
ments, as to make it exceedingly difficult to disentangle the
truth from its adjuncts; besides, he will find almost all of
them so ill described, or even so false, (because those who
made them have wished to see in them only such facts as
they deemed conformable to their principles,) that, if in the
entire number there should be some of a nature suited to his
purpose, still their value could not compensate for the time
that would be necessary to make the selection. So that if
there existed any one whom we assuredly knew to be capa
ble of making discoveries of the highest kind, and of the
greatest possible utility to the public; and if all other men
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 59
were therefore eager by all means to assist him In success
fully prosecuting his designs, I do not see that they could
do aught else for him beyond contributing to defray the ex
penses of the experiments that might be necessary; and for
the rest, prevent his being deprived of his leisure by the un
seasonable interruptions of any one. But besides that I
neither have so high an opinion of myself as to be willing
to make promise of anything extraordinary, nor feed on
imaginations so vain as to fancy that the public must be much
interested in my designs ; I do not, on the other hand, own a
soul so mean as to be capable of accepting from any one a
favour of which it could be supposed that I was unworthy.
These considerations taken together were the reason why,
for the last three years, I have been unwilling to publish the
Treatise I had on hand, and why I even resolved to give
publicity during my life to no other that was so general, or
by which the principles of my Physics might be understood.
But since then, two other reasons have come into operation
that have determined me here to subjoin some particular
specimens, and give the public some account of my doings
and designs. Of these considerations, the first is, that if I
failed to do so, many who were cognizant of my previous
intention to publish some writings, might have imagined that
the reasons which induced me to refrain from so doing, were
less to my credit than they really are ; for although I am not
immoderately desirous of glory, or even, if I may venture so
to say, although I am averse from it in so far as I deem it
hostile to repose which I hold in greater account than aught
else, yet, at the same time, I have never sought to conceal
my actions as if they were crimes, nor made use of many
precautions that I might remain unknown; and this partly
because I should have thought such a course of conduct a
wrong against myself, and partly because it would have
occasioned me some sort of uneasiness which would again
have been contrary to the perfect mental tranquillity which I
court. And forasmuch as, while thus indifferent to the
thought alike of fame or of forget fulness, I have yet been
unable to prevent myself from acquiring some sort of reputa
tion, I have thought it incumbent on me to do my best to
save myself at least from being ill-spoken of. The other
60 DESCARTES
reason that has determined me to commit to writing these
specimens of philosophy is, that I am becoming daily more
and more alive to the delay which my design of self-instruc
tion suffers, for want of the infinity of experiments I re
quire, and which it is impossible for me to make without the
assistance of others : and, without flattering myself so much
as to expect the public to take a large share in my interests,
I am yet unwilling to be found so far wanting in the duty
I owe to myself, as to give occasion to those who shall sur
vive me to make it matter of reproach against me some day,
that I might have left them many things in a much more
perfect state than I have done, had I not too much neglected
to make them aware of the ways in which they could have
promoted the accomplishment of my designs.
And I thought that it was easy for me to select some
matters which should neither be obnoxious to much contro
versy, nor should compel me to expound more of my prin
ciples than I desired, and which should yet be sufficient
clearly to exhibit what I can or cannot accomplish in the
Sciences. Whether or not I have succeeded in this it is not
for me to say; and I do not wish to forestall the judgments
of others by speaking myself of my writings; but it will
gratify me if they be examined, and, to afford the greater
inducement to this, I request all who may have any objec
tions to make to them, to take the trouble of forwarding
these to my publisher, who will give me notice of them,
that I may endeavour to subjoin at the same time my reply;
and in this way readers seeing both at once will more easily
determine where the truth lies; for I do not engage in any
case to make prolix replies, but only with perfect frankness
to avow my errors if I am convinced of them, or if I can
not perceive them, simply to state what I think is required
for defence of the matters I have written, adding thereto
no explication of any new matter that it may not be neces
sary to pass without end from one thing to another.
If some of the matters of which I have spoken in the be
ginning of the Dioptrics and Meteorics should offend at first
sight, because I call them hypotheses and seem indifferent
about giving proof of them, I request a patient and attentive
reading of the whole, from which I hope those hesitating
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 61
will derive satisfaction ; for it appears to me that the reason
ings are so mutually connected in these Treatises, that, as the
last are demonstrated by the first which are their causes,
the first are in their turn demonstrated by the last which are
their effects. Nor must it be imagined that I here commit
the fallacy which the logicians call a circle; for since ex
perience renders the majority of these effects most certain,
the causes from which I deduce them do not serve so much
to establish their reality as to explain their existence ; but on
the contrary, the reality of the causes is established by the
reality of the effects. Nor have I called them hypotheses
with any other end in view except that it may be known
that I think I am able to deduce them from those first truths
which I have already expounded; and yet that I have ex
pressly determined not to do so, to prevent a certain class of
minds from thence taking occasion to build some extravagant
Philosophy upon what they may take to be my principles, and
my being blamed for it. I refer to those who imagine that
they can master in a day all that another has taken twenty
years to think out, as soon as he has spoken two or three
words to them on the subject; or who are the more liable to
error and the less capable of perceiving truth in very pro
portion as they are more subtle and lively. As to the opin
ions which are truly and wholly mine, I offer no apology
for them as new, persuaded as I am that if their reasons
be well considered they will be found to be so simple and so
conformed to common sense as to appear less extraordinary
and less paradoxical than any others which can be held on
the same subjects; nor do I even boast of being the earliest
discoverer of any of them, but only of having adopted them,
neither because they had nor because they had not been held
by others, but solely because Reason has convinced me of
their truth.
Though artisans may not be able at once to execute the
invention which is explained in the Dioptrics, I do not think
that any one on that account is entitled to condemn it; for
since address and practice are required in order so to make
and adjust the machines described by me as not to overlook
the smallest particular, I should not be less astonished if they
succeeded on the first attempt than if a person were in one
62 DISCOURSE ON METHOD
day to become an accomplished performer on the guitar, by
merely having excellent sheets of music set up before him.
And if I write in French, which is the language of my
country, in preference to Latin, which Is that of my precep
tors, it is because I expect that those who make use of their
unprejudiced natural Reason will be better judges of my
opinions than those who give heed to the writings of the
ancients only; and as for those who unite good sense with
habits of study, whom alone I desire for judges, they will
not, I feel assured, be so partial to Latin as to refuse to listen
to my reasonings merely because I expound them in the
vulgar Tongue.
In conclusion, I am unwilling here to say anything very
specific of the progress which I expect to make for the future
in the Sciences, or to bind myself to the public by any prom
ise which I am not certain of being able to fulfil; but this
only will I say, that I have resolved to devote what time I
may still have to live to no other occupation than that of
endeavouring to acquire some knowledge of Nature, which
shall be of such a kind as to enable us therefrom to deduce
rules in Medicine of greater certainty than those at present
in use ; and that my inclination is so much opposed to all other
pursuits, especially to such as cannot be useful to some with
out being hurtful to others, that if, by any circumstances, I
had been constrained to engage in such, I do not believe
that I should have been able to succeed. Of this I here make
a public declaration, though well aware that it cannot serve
to procure for me any consideration in the world, which,
however, I do not in the least affect ; and I shall always hold
myself more obliged to those through whose favour I am
permitted to enjoy my retirement without interruption than
to any who might offer me the highest earthly preferments.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH
(LETTRES PHILOSOPHISES)
BY
VOLTAIRE
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET, known by his assumed name of
Voltaire, was born at Paris, November 21, 1694. His father
was a well-to-do notary, and Frangois was educated under the
Jesuits in the College Louis-le-Grand. He began writing verse
early, and was noted for his freedom of speech, a tendency
which led to his being twice exiled from Paris and twice im
prisoned in the Bastile. In 1726 he took refuge in England,
and the two years spent there had great influence upon his later
development. Some years after his return he became historiog
rapher of France, and gentleman of the king s bedchamber;
from 1750 to 1753 he lived at the court of Frederick the Great,
with whom he ultimately quarreled ; and he spent the last period
of his life, from 1758 to 1778, on his estate of Ferney, near
Geneva, where he produced much of his best work. He died
at Paris, May 30, 1778.
It will be seen that Voltaire s active life covers nearly the
whole eighteenth century, of which he was the dominant and
typical literary figure. Every department of letters then in vogue
was cultivated by him; in all he showed brilliant powers; and
in several he reached all but the highest rank. Apart from his
"Henriade," an epic on the classical model, and the burlesque
"La Pucelle," most of his verse belongs to the class of satire,
epigram, and vers de socicte. Of real poetical quality it has
little, but abundant technical cleverness. For the stage he was
the most prominent writer of the time, his most successful
dramas including "Zaire" "CEdipe," "La Mort de Cesar,"
"Alzire," and "Merope." His chief contribution in this field
was the development of the didactic and philosophic element.
In prose fiction he wrote "Zadig," "Candide," and many ad
mirable short stories; in history, his "Age of Louis XIV" is
only the best known of four or five considerable works; in
criticism, his commentary on Corneille is notable. His scien
tific and philosophic interests are to some extent indicated in
the following "Letters," which also show his admiration for the
tolerance and freedom of speech in England, which it was his
greatest service to strive to introduce into his own country.
64
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH
(LETTRES PHILOSOPHIQUES)
LETTER I
ON THE QUAKERS
I WAS of opinion that the doctrine and history of so
extraordinary a people were worthy the attention of
the curious. To acquaint myself with them I made a
visit to one of the most eminent Quakers in England, who,
after having traded thirty years, had the wisdom to prescribe
limits to his fortune and to his desires, and was settled in
a little solitude not far from London. Being come into it,
I perceived a small but regularly built house, vastly neat,
but without the least pomp of furniture. The Quaker who
owned it was a hale, ruddy complexioned old man, who had
never been afflicted with sickness because he had always
been insensible to passions, and a perfect stranger to intem
perance. I never in my life saw a more noble or a more
engaging aspect than his. He was dressed like those of his
persuasion, in a plain coat without pleats in the sides, or
buttons on the pockets and sleeves ; and had on a beaver, the
brims of which were horizontal like those of our clergy.
He did not uncover himself when I appeared, and advanced
towards me without once stooping his body; but there ap
peared more politeness in the open, humane air of his
countenance, than in the custom of drawing one leg behind
the other, and taking that from the head which is made to
cover it. "Friend," says he to me, "I perceive thou art a
stranger, but if I can do any thing for thee, only tell me."
"Sir," said I to him, bending forwards and advancing, as is
usual with us, one leg towards him, "I flatter myself that
my just curiosity will not give you the least offense, and that
(c) 65 HC xxxiv
65 VOLTAIRE
you ll do me the honour to inform me of the particulars of
your religion." "The people of thy country," replied the
Quaker, "are too full of their bows and compliments, but
I never yet met with one of them who had so much curiosity
as thy self. Come in, and let us first dine together." I still
continued to make some very unseasonable ceremonies, it
not being easy to disengage one s self at once from habits
we have been long used to ; and after taking part in a frugal
meal, which began and ended with a prayer to God, I began
to question my courteous host. I opened with that which
good Catholics have more than once made to Huguenots.
" My dear sir/ said I, " were you ever baptised? " " I never
was," replied the Quaker, "nor any of my brethren."
" Zounds ! " said I to him, " you are not Christians, then."
" Friend," replies the old man in a soft tone of voice, " swear
not; we are Christians, and endeavour to be good Christians,
but we are not of opinion that the sprinkling water on a
child s head makes him a Christian." " Heavens ! " said I,
shocked at his impiety, "you have then forgot that Christ
was baptised by St. John." "Friend," replies the mild
Quaker once again, " swear not ; Christ indeed was baptised
by John, but He himself never baptised anyone. We are
the disciples of Christ, not of John." I pitied very much
the sincerity of my worthy Quaker, and was absolutely for
forcing him to get himself christened. "Were that all,"
replied he very gravely, "we would submit cheerfully to
baptism, purely in compliance with thy weakness, for we
don t condemn any person who uses it; but then we think
that those who profess a religion of so holy, so spiritual a
nature as that of Christ, ought to abstain to the utmost of
their power from the Jewish ceremonies." "O unaccount
able ! " said I : " what ! baptism a Jewish ceremony ? " " Yes,
my friend," says he, "so truly Jewish, that a great many
Jews use the baptism of John to this day. Look into an
cient authors, and thou wilt find that John only revived this
practice; and that it had been used by the Hebrews, long
before his time, in like manner as the Mahometans imitated
the Ishmaelites in their pilgrimages to Mecca. Jesus indeed
submitted to the baptism of John, as He had suffered Him
self to be circumcised; but circumcision and the washing
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 67
with water Jght to be abolished by the baptism of Christ,
that baptism of the Spirit, that ablution of the soul, which
is the salvation of mankind. Thus the forerunner said, I
indeed baptise you with water unto repentance; but He that
cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not
worthy to bear: He shall baptise you with the Holy Ghost
and with fire/ Likewise Paul, the great apostle of the Gen
tiles, writes as follows to the Corinthians, Christ sent me
not to baptise, but to preach the Gospel ; and indeed Paul
never baptised but two persons with water, and that very
much against his inclinations. He circumcised his disciple
Timothy, and the other disciples likewise circumcised all
who were willing to submit to that carnal ordinance. " But
art thou circumcised ? " added he. " I have not the honour
to be so," said I. " Well, friend," continued the Quaker,
" thou art a Christian without being circumcised, and I am
one without being baptised." Thus did this pious man make
a wrong, but very specious application of four or five texts
of Scripture which seemed to favour the tenets of his sect;
but at the same time forgot very sincerely a hundred texts
which made directly against them. I had more sense than to
contest with him, since there is no possibility of convincing
an enthusiast. A man should never pretend to inform a
lover of his mistress s faults, no more than one who is at
law of the badness of his cause ; nor attempt to win over a
fanatic by strength of reasoning. Accordingly I waived the
subject.
"Well," said I to him, "what sort of a communion have
you ? " " We have none like that thou hintest at among
us," replied he. " How ! no communion ? " said I. " Only
that spiritual one," replied he, "of hearts." He then began
again to throw out his texts of Scripture; and preached a
most eloquent sermon against that ordinance. He harangued
in a tone as though he had been inspired, to prove that the
sacraments were merely of human invention, and that the
word " sacrament " was not once mentioned in the Gospel.
" Excuse," said he, " my ignorance, for I have not employed
a hundredth part of the arguments which might be brought
to prove the truth of our religion, but these thou thyself
mayest peruse in the Exposition of our Faith written by
68 VOLTAIRE
Robert Barclay. It is one of the best pieces that ever was
penned by man; and as our adversaries confess it to be of
dangerous tendency, the arguments in it must necessarily
be very convincing." I promised to peruse this piece, and
my Quaker imagined he had already made a convert of me.
He afterwards gave me an account in few words of some
singularities which make this sect the contempt of others.
" Confess," said he, " that it was very difficult for thee to
refrain from laughter, when I answered all thy civilities
without uncovering my head, and at the same time said
thee and thou * to thee. However, thou appearest to me
too well read not to know that in Christ s time no nation was
so ridiculous as to put the plural number for the singular.
Augustus Caesar himself was spoken to in such phrases as
these: I love thee/ I beseech thee/ I thank thee/ but
he did not allow any person to call him Domine/ sir. It
was not till many ages after that men would have the word
you/ as though they were double, instead of thou em
ployed in speaking to them ; and usurped the flattering titles
of lordship, of eminence, and of holiness, which mere worms
bestow on other worms by assuring them that they are with
a most profound respect, and an infamous falsehood, their
most obedient humble servants. It is to secure ourselves
more strongly from such a shameless traffic of lies and
flattery, that we thee and thou a king with the same
freedom as we do a beggar, and salute no person ; we owing
nothing to mankind but charity, and to the laws respect and
obedience.
" Our apparel is also somewhat different from that of
others, and this purely, that it may be a perpetual warning
to us not to imitate them. Others wear the badges and
marks of their several dignities, and we those of Christian
humility. We fly from all assemblies of pleasure, from di
versions of every kind, and from places where gaming is
practised; and, indeed, our case would be very deplorable,
should we fill with such levities as those I have mentioned
the heart which ought to be the habitation of God. We
never swear, not even in a court of justice, being of opinion
that the most holy name of God ought not to be prostituted
in the miserable contests betwixt man and man. When we
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 69
are obliged to appear before a magistrate upon other people s
account (for lawsuits are unknown among the Friends),
we give evidence to the truth by sealing it with our yea or
nay; and the judges believe us on our bare affirmation,
whilst so many other Christians forswear themselves on
the holy Gospels. We never war or fight in any case; but
it is not that we are afraid, for so far from shuddering at
the thoughts of death, we on the contrary bless the moment
which unites us with the Being of Beings; but the reason
of our not using the outward sword is, that we are neither
wolves, tigers, nor mastiffs, but men and Christians. Our
God, who has commanded us to love our enemies, and to
suffer without repining, would certainly not permit us to
cross the seas, merely because murderers clothed in scarlet,
and wearing caps two foot high, enlist citizens by a noise
made with two little sticks on an ass s skin extended. And
when, after a victory is gained, the whole city of London
is illuminated; when the sky is in a blaze with fireworks,
and a noise is heard in the air, of thanksgivings, of bells,
of organs, and of the cannon, we groan in silence, and are
deeply affected with sadness of spirit and brokenness of
heart, for the sad havoc which is the occasion of those public
rejoicings."
LETTER II
ON THE QUAKERS
SUCH was the substance of the conversation I had with
this very singular person; but I was greatly surprised to
see him come the Sunday following and take me with him
to the Quakers meeting. There are several of these in
London, but that which he carried me to stands near the
famous pillar called The Monument. The brethren were
already assembled at my entering it with my guide. There
might be about four hundred men and three hundred women
in the meeting. The women hid their faces behind their
fans, and the men were covered with their broad-brimmed
hats. All were seated, and the silence was universal. I
passed through them, but did not perceive so much as one
lift up his eyes to look at me. This silence lasted a quarter
70 VOLTAIRE
of an hour, when at last one of them rose up, took off his
hat, and, after making a variety of wry faces and groaning
in a most lamentable manner, he, partly from his nose and
partly from his mouth, threw out a strange, confused jumble
of words (borrowed, as he imagined, from the Gospel)
which neither himself nor any of his hearers understood.
When this distorter had ended his beautiful soliloquy, and
that the stupid, but greatly edified, congregation were
separated, I asked my friend how it was possible for the
judicious part of their assembly to suffer such a babbling?
"We are obliged," said he, "to suffer it, because no one
knows when a man rises up to hold forth whether he will
be moved by the Spirit or by folly. In this doubt and un
certainty we listen patiently to everyone ; we even allow our
women to hold forth. Two or three of these are often in
spired at one and the same time, and it is then that a most
charming noise is heard in the Lord s house." " You have,
then, no priests ? " said I to him. " No, no, friend," replies
the Quaker, "to our great happiness." Then opening one
of the Friends books, as he called it, he read the following
words in an emphatic tone : " God forbid we should pre
sume to ordain anyone to receive the Holy Spirit on the
Lord s Day to the prejudice of the rest of the brethren/
Thanks to the Almighty, we are the only people upon earth
that have no priests. Wouldst thou deprive us of so happy
a distinction? Why should we abandon our babe to mer
cenary nurses, when we ourselves have milk enough for it?
These mercenary creatures would soon domineer in our
houses and destroy both the mother and the babe. God has
said, Freely you have received, freely give. Shall we,
after these words, cheapen, as it were, the Gospel, sell the
Holy Ghost, and make of an assembly of Christians a mere
shop of traders? We don t pay a set of men clothed in black
to assist our poor, to bury our dead, or to preach to the
brethren. These offices are all of too tender a nature for us
ever to entrust them to others." " But how is it possible for
you," said I, with some warmth, "to know whether your
discourse is really inspired by the Almighty?" "Whoso
ever," says he, " shall implore Christ to enlighten him, and
shall publish the Gospel truths, he may feel inwardly, such
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 71
a one may be assured that he is inspired by the Lord." He
then poured forth a numberless multitude of Scripture texts
which proved, as he imagined, that there is no such thing
as Christianity without an immediate revelation, and added
these remarkable words: "When thou movest one of thy
limbs, is it moved by thy own power? Certainly not; for
this limb is often sensible to involuntary motions. Conse
quently He who created thy body gives motion to this earthly
tabernacle. And are the several ideas of which thy soul
receives the impression formed by thyself? Much less are
they, since these pour in upon thy mind whether thou wilt
or no ; consequently thou receivest thy ideas from Him who
created thy soul. But as He leaves thy affections at full
liberty, He gives thy mind such ideas as thy affections may
deserve; if thou livest in God, thou actest, thou thinkest in
God. After this thou needest only but open thine eyes to
that light which enlightens all mankind, and it is then thou
wilt perceive the truth, and make others perceive it." "Why,
this/ said I, " is Malebranche s doctrine to a tittle." " I am
acquainted with thy Malebranche," said he ; " he had some
thing of the Friend in him, but was not enough so." These
are the most considerable particulars I learned concerning
the doctrine of the Quakers. In my next letter I shall
acquaint you with their history, which you will find more
singular than their opinions,
LETTER III
ON THE QUAKERS
You have already heard that the Quakers date from
Christ, who, according to them, was the first Quaker. Reli
gion, say these, was corrupted a little after His death, and
remained in that state of corruption about sixteen hundred
years. But there were always a few Quakers concealed in
the world, who carefully preserved the sacred fire, which
was extinguished in all but themselves, until at last this
light spread itself in England in 1642.
It was at the time when Great Britain was torn to pieces
by the intestine wars which three or four sects had raised
72 VOLTAIRE
in the name of God, that one George Fox, born in Leicester
shire, and son to a silk weaver, took it into his head to
preach, and, as he pretended, with all the requisites of a
true apostle that is, without being able either to read or
write. He was about twenty-five years of age, irreproach
able in his life and conduct, and a holy madman. He was
equipped in leather from head to foot, and travelled from
one village to another, exclaiming against war and the
clergy. Had his invectives been levelled against the soldiery
only he would have been safe enough, but he inveighed
against ecclesiastics. Fox was seized at Derby, and being
carried before a justice of peace, he did not once offer to
pull off his leathern hat, upon which an officer gave him a
great box of the ear, and cried to him, " Don t you know
you are to appear uncovered before his worship ? " Fox
presented his other cheek to the officer, and begged him to
give him another box for God s sake. The justice would
have had him sworn before he asked him any questions.
" Know, friend," says Fox to him, " that I never swear."
The justice, observing he " thee d " and " thou d " him, sent
him to the House of Correction, in Derby, with orders that
he should be whipped there. Fox praised the Lord all the
way he went to the House of Correction, where the justice s
order was executed with the utmost severity. The men
who whipped this enthusiast were greatly surprised to hear
him beseech them to give him a few more lashes for the
good of his soul. There was no need of entreating these
people; the lashes were repeated, for which Fox thanked
them very cordially, and began to preach. At first the spec
tators fell a-laughing, but they afterwards listened to him;
and as enthusiasm is an epidemical distemper, many were
persuaded, and those who scourged him became his first
disciples. Being set at liberty, he ran up and down the
country with a dozen proselytes at his heels, still declaiming
against the clergy, and was whipped from time to time.
Being one day set in the pillory, he harangued the crowd in
so strong and moving a manner, that fifty of the auditors
became his converts, and he won the rest so much in his
favour that, his head being freed tumultuously from the
hole where it was fastened, the populace went and searched
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 73
for the Church of England clergyman who had been chiefly
instrumental in bringing him to this punishment, and set
him on the same pillory where Fox had stood.
Fox was bold enough to convert some of Oliver Crom
well s soldiers, who thereupon quitted the service and re
fused to take the oaths. Oliver, having as great a contempt
for a sect which would not allow its members to fight, as
Sixtus Quintus had for another sect, Dove non si chiavava*
began to persecute these new converts. The prisons were
crowded with them, but persecution seldom has any other
effect than to increase the number of proselytes. These
came, therefore, from their confinement more strongly con
firmed in the principles they had imbibed, and followed by
their gaolers, whom they had brought over to their belief.
But the circumstances which contributed chiefly to the
spreading of this sect were as follows: Fox thought him
self inspired, and consequently was of opinion that he must
speak in a manner different from the rest of mankind. He
thereupon began to writhe his body, to screw up his face,
to hold in his breath, and to exhale it in a forcible manner,
insomuch that the priestess of the Pythian god at Delphos
could not have acted her part to better advantage. Inspira
tion soon became so habitual to him that he could scarce
deliver himself in any other manner. This was the first gift he
communicated to his disciples. These aped very sincerely their
master s several grimaces, and shook in every limb the instant
the fit of inspiration came upon them, whence they were called
Quakers. The vulgar attempted to mimic them ; they trembled,
they spake through the nose, they quaked and fancied them
selves inspired by the Holy Ghost. The only thing now want
ing was a few miracles, and accordingly they wrought some.
Fox, this modern patriarch, spoke thus to a justice of
peace before a large assembly of people: " Friend, take care
what thou dost ; God will soon punish thee for persecuting
His saints." This magistrate, being one who besotted him
self every day with bad beer and brandy, died of an apoplexy
two days after, the moment he had signed a mittimus for
imprisoning some Quakers. The sudden death with which
this justice was seized was not ascribed to his intemperance ;
111 Where there were no clandestine doings."
74 VOLTAIRB
but was universally looked upon as the effect of the holy
man s predictions; so that this accident made more converts
to Quakerism than a thousand sermons and as many shaking
fits could have done. Oliver, finding them increase daily,
was desirous of bringing them over to his party, and for
that purpose attempted to bribe them by money. However,
they were incorruptible, which made him one day declare
that this religion was the only one he had ever met with that
had resisted the charms of gold.
The Quakers were several times persecuted under Charles
II.; not upon a religious account, but for refusing to pay
the tithes, for "theeing" and "thouing" the magistrates,
and for refusing to take the oaths enacted by the laws.
At last Robert Barclay, a native of Scotland, presented
to the King, in 1675, his "Apology for the Quakers," a work
as well drawn up as the subject could possibly admit. The
dedication to Charles II. is not filled with mean, flattering
encomiums, but abounds with bold touches in favour of
truth and with the wisest counsels. "Thou hast tasted,"
said he to the King at the close of his epistle dedicatory,
"of prosperity and adversity; thou knowest what it is to be
banished thy native country; to be overruled as well as to
rule and sit upon the throne ; and, being oppressed, thou hast
reason to know how hateful the oppressor is both to God
and man. If, after all these warnings and advertisements,
thou dost not turn unto the Lord with all thy heart, but
forget Him who remembered thee in thy distress, and give
up thyself to follow lust and vanity, surely great will be thy
condemnation.
"Against which snare, as well as the temptation of those
that may or do feed thee and prompt thee to evil, the most
excellent and prevalent remedy will be, to apply thyself to
that light of Christ which shineth in thy conscience, which
neither can nor will flatter thee nor suffer thee to be at ease
in thy sins, but doth and will deal plainly and faithfully with
thee, as those that are followers thereof have plainly done.
Thy faithful friend and subject, Robert Barclay."
A more surprising circumstance is, that this epistle,
written by a private man of no figure, was so happy in its
effects, as to put a stop to the persecution.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 7$
LETTER IV
ON THE QUAKERS
ABOUT this time arose the illustrious William Penn, who
established the power of the Quakers in America, and
would have made them appear venerable in the eyes of the
Europeans, were it possible for mankind to respect virtue
when revealed in a ridiculous light. He was the only son
of Vice- Admiral Penn, favourite of the Duke of York, after
wards King James II.
William Penn, at twenty years of age, happening to meet
with a Quaker 2 in Cork, whom he had known at Oxford,
this man made a proselyte of him; and William being a
sprightly youth, and naturally eloquent, having a winning
aspect, and a very engaging carriage, he soon gained over
some of his intimates. He carried matters so far, that he
formed by insensible degrees a society of young Quakers,
who met at his house ; so that he was at the head of a sect
when a little above twenty.
Being returned, after his leaving Cork, to the Vice-..
Admiral his father, instead of falling upon his knees to ask
his blessing, he went up to him with his hat on, and said,
" Friend, I am very glad to see thee in good health." The
Vice-Admiral imagined his son to be crazy, but soon finding
he was turned Quaker, he employed all the methods that
prudence could suggest to engage him to behave and act like
other people. The youth made no other answer to his father,
than by exporting him to turn Quaker also. At last his
father confined himself to this single request, viz., "that
he should wait upon the King and the Duke of York with
his hat under his arm, and should not thee and thou
them." William answered, "that he could not do these
things, for conscience sake," which exasperated his father
to such a degree, that he turned him out of doors. Young
Penn gave God thanks for permitting him to suffer so early
in His cause, after which he went into the city, where he
held forth, and made a great number of converts.
The Church of England clergy found their congregations
8 Thomas Loe.
76 VOLTAIRE
dwindle away daily; and Penn being young, handsome, and
of a graceful stature, the court as weil as the city ladies
flocked very devoutly to his meeting. The patriarch, George
Fox, hearing of his great reputation, came to London
(though the journey was very long) purely to see and con
verse with him. Both resolved to go upon missions into
foreign countries, and accordingly they embarked for Hol
land, after having left labourers sufficient to take care of
the London vineyard.
Their labours were crowned with success in Amsterdam,
but a circumstance which reflected the greatest honour on
them, and at the same time put their humility to the greatest
trial, was the reception they met with from Elizabeth, the
v Princess Palatine, aunt to George I. of Great Britain, a
lady conspicuous for her genius and knowledge, and to
whom Descartes had dedicated his Philosophical Romance.
She was then retired to The Hague, where she received
these Friends, for so the Quakers were at that time called
in Holland. This princess had several conferences with
them in her palace, and she at last entertained so favour
able an opinion of Quakerism, that they confessed she was
not far from the kingdom of heaven. The Friends sowed
likewise the good seed in Germany, but reaped very little
fruit; for the mode of "theeing" and " thouing " was not
approved of in a country where a man is perpetually obliged
to employ the titles of " highness " and " excellency." Will
iam Penn returned soon to England upon hearing of his
father s sickness, in order to see him before he died. The
Vice- Admiral was reconciled to his son, and though of a
different persuasion, embraced him tenderly. William made
a fruitless exhortation to his father not to receive the
sacrament, but to die a Quaker, and the good old man
entreated his son William to wear buttons on his sleeves,
and a crape hatband in his beaver, but all to no purpose.
William Penn inherited very large possessions, part of
which consisted in Crown debts due to the Vice-Admiral
for sums he had advanced for the sea service. No moneys
were at that time more insecure than those owing from the
king. Penn was obliged to go more than once, and " thee "
and " thou " King Charles and his Ministers, in order to
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 77
recover the debt; and at last, instead of specie, the Govern
ment invested him with the right and sovereignty of a
province of America, to the south of Maryland. Thus was
a Quaker raised to sovereign power. Penn set sail for his
new dominions with two ships freighted with Quakers, who
followed his fortune. The country was then called Penn
sylvania from William Penn, who there founded Philadel
phia, now the most flourishing city in that country. The
first step he took was to enter into an alliance with his
American neighbours, and this is the only treaty between
those people and the Christians that was not ratified by an
oath, and was never infringed. The new sovereign was at
the same time the legislator of Pennsylvania, and enacted
very wise and prudent laws, none of which have ever been
changed since his time. The first is, to injure no person
upon a religious account, and to consider as brethren all
those who believe in one God.
He had no sooner settled his government, but several
American merchants came and peopled this colony. The
natives of the country, instead of flying into the woods,
cultivated by insensible degrees a friendship with the peace
able Quakers. They loved these foreigners as much as they
detested the other Christians who had conquered and laid
waste America. In a little time a great number of these
savages (falsely so called), charmed with the mild and
gentle disposition of their neighbours, came in crowds to
William Penn, and besought him to admit them into the
number of his vassals. It was very rare and uncommon for
a sovereign to be " thee d " and " thou d " by the meanest
of his subjects, who never took their hats off when they
came into his presence; and as singular for a Government
to be without one priest in it, and for a people to be without
arms, either offensive or defensive; for a body of citizens
to be absolutely undistinguished but by the public employ
ments, and for neighbours not to entertain the least jealousy
one against the other.
William Penn might glory in having brought down upon
earth the so much boasted golden age, which in all proba
bility never existed but in Pennsylvania. He returned to
England to settle some affairs relating to his new dominions.
78 VOLTAIRE
After the death of King Charles II., King James, who had
loved the father, indulged the same affection to the son,
and no longer considered him as an obscure sectary, but as
a very great man. The king s politics on this occasion
agreed with his inclinations. He was desirous of pleasing
the Quakers by annulling the laws made against Noncon
formists, in order to have an opportunity, by this universal
toleration, of establishing the Romish religion. All the
sectarists in England saw the snare that was laid for them,
but did not give into it; they never failing to unite when
the Romish religion, their common enemy, is to be opposed.
But Penn did not think himself bound in any manner to
renounce his principles, merely to favour Protestants to
whom he was odious, in opposition to a king who loved
him. He had established a universal toleration with regard
to conscience in America, and would not have it thought
that he intended to destroy it in Europe, for which reason
he adhered so inviolably to King James, that a report
prevailed universally of his being a Jesuit. This calumny
affected him very strongly, and he was obliged to justify
himself in print. However, the unfortunate King James
II., in whom, as in most princes of the Stuart family,
grandeur and weakness were equally blended, and who,
like them, as much overdid some things as he was short
in others, lost his kingdom in a manner that is hardly to be
accounted for.
All the English sectarists accepted from William III. and
his Parliament the toleration and indulgence which they
had refused when offered by King James. It was then the
Quakers began to enjoy, by virtue of the laws, the several
privileges they possess at this time. Penn having at last
seen Quakerism firmly established in his native country,
went back to Pennsylvania. His own people and the Amer
icans received him with tears of joy, as though he had been
a father who was returned to visit his children. All the
laws had been religiousty observed in his absence, a cir
cumstance in which no legislator had ever been happy but
himself. After having resided some years in Pennsylvania
he left it, but with great reluctance, in order to return to
England, there to solicit some matters in favour of the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 79
commerce of Pennsylvania. But he never saw it again, he
dying in Ruscombe, in Berkshire, in 1718.
I am not able to guess what fate Quakerism may have in
America, but I perceive it dwindles away daily in England.
In all countries where liberty of conscience is allowed, the
established religion will at last swallow up all the rest/
Quakers are disqualified from being members of Parliament;
nor can they enjoy any post or preferment, because an oath
must always be taken on these occasions, and they never
swear. They are therefore reduced to the necessity of sub
sisting upon traffic. Their children, whom the industry of
their parents has enriched, are desirous of enjoying honours,
of wearing buttons and ruffles; and quite ashamed of being
called Quakers they become converts to the Church of
England, merely to be in the fashion.
LETTER V
ON THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND
ENGLAND is properly the country of sectarists. Multcs
sunt mansiones in domo patris mei (in my Father s house
are many mansions). An Englishman, as one to whom
liberty is natural, may go to heaven his own way.
Nevertheless, though every one is permitted to serve God
in whatever mode or fashion he thinks proper, yet their
true religion, that in which a man makes his fortune, is the
sect of Episcopalians or Churchmen, called the Church of
England, or simply the Church, by way of eminence. No
person can possess an employment either in England or
Ireland unless he be ranked among the faithful, that is,
professes himself a member of the Church of England.
This reason (which carries mathematical evidence with it)
has converted such numbers of Dissenters of all persuasions,
that not a twentieth part of the nation is out of the pale of
the Established Church. The English clergy have retained a
great number of the Romish ceremonies, and especially that
of receiving, with a most scrupulous attention, their tithes/
They also have the pious ambition to aim at superiority.
Moreover, they inspire very religiously their flock with a
80 VOLTAIRE
holy zeal against Dissenters of all denominations. This
zeal was pretty violent under the Tories in the four last
years of Queen Anne; but was productive of no greater mis
chief than the breaking the windows of some meeting
houses and the demolishing of a few of them. For religious
rage ceased in England with the civil wars, and was no
more under Queen Anne than the hollow noise of a sea
whose billows still heaved, though so long after the storm
when the Whigs and Tories laid waste their native country,
in the same manner as the Guelphs and Ghibellines formerly
did theirs. It was absolutely necessary for both parties to
call in religion on this occasion; the Tories declared for
Episcopacy, and the Whigs, as some imagined, were for
abolishing it; however, after these had got the upper hand,
they contented themselves with only abridging it.
At the time when the Earl of Oxford and the Lord
Bolingbroke used to drink healths to the Tories, the Church
of England considered those noblemen as the defenders of
its holy privileges. The lower House of Convocation (a
kind of House of Commons) composed wholly of the clergy,
was in some credit at that time; at least the members of it
had the liberty to meet, to dispute on ecclesiastical matters,
to sentence impious books from time to time to the flames,
that is, books written against themselves. The Ministry
which is now composed of Whigs does not so much as allow
those genlemen to assemble, so that they are at this time
reduced (in the obscurity of their respective parishes) to
the melancholy occupation of praying for the prosperity of
the Government whose tranquillity they would willingly
disturb. With regard to the bishops, who are twenty-six in
all, they still have seats in the House of Lords in spite of the
Whigs, because the ancient abuse of considering them as
barons subsists to this day. There is a clause, however,
in the oath which the Government requires from these
gentlemen, that puts their Christian patience to a very great
trial, viz., that they shall be of the Church of England as
by law established. There are few bishops, deans, or other
dignitaries, but imagine they are so jure divino; it is con
sequently a great mortification to them to be obliged to con
fess that they owe their dignity to a pitiful law enacted by
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 81
a set of profane laymen. A learned monk (Father Courayer)
wrote a book lately to prove the validity and succession of
English ordinations. This book was forbid in France, but
do you believe that the English Ministry were pleased with
it? Far from it. Those damned Whigs don t care a straw
whether the episcopal succession among them hath been in
terrupted or not, or whether Bishop Parker was consecrated
(as it is pretended) in a tavern or a church; for these
Whigs are much better pleased that the Bishops should
derive their authority from the Parliament than from the
Apostles. The Lord Bolingbroke observed that this noJion
of divine right would only make so many tyrants in lawn
sleeves, but that the laws made so many citizens.
With regard to the morals of the English clergy, they are
more regular than those of France, and for this reason.
All the clergy (a very few excepted) are educated in the
Universities of Oxford or Cambridge, far from the de
pravity and corruption which reign in the capital. They
are not called to dignities till very late, at a time of life when
men are sensible of no other passion but avarice, that is,
when their ambition craves a supply. Employments are here
bestowed both in the Church and the army, as a reward for
long services; and we never see youngsters made bishops
or colonels immediately upon their laying aside the aca
demical gown; and besides most of the clergy are married.
The stiff and awkward air contracted by them at the Uni
versity, and the little familiarity the men of this country
have with the ladies, commonly oblige a bishop to confine
himself to, and rest contented with, his own. Clergymen
sometimes take a glass at the tavern, custom giving them a
sanction on this occasion ; and if they fuddle themselves it
is in a very serious manner, and without giving the least
scandal.
That fable-mixed kind of mortal (not to be defined), who
is neither of the clergy nor of the laity; in a word, the thing
called Abbe in France; is a species quite unknown in Eng
land. All the clergy here are very much upon the reserve,
and most of them pedants. When these are told that in
France young fellows famous for their dissoluteness, and
raised to the highest dignities of the Church by female
82 VOLTAIRE
intrigues, address the fair publicly in an amorous way,
amuse themselves in writing tender love songs, entertain
their friends very splendidly every night at their own houses,
and after the banquet is ended withdraw to invoke the assist
ance of the Holy Ghost, and call themselves boldly the suc
cessors of the Apostles, they bless God for their being Prot
estants. But these are shameless heretics, who deserve to
be blown hence through the flames to old Nick, as Rabelais
says, and for this reason I don t trouble myself about them.
LETTER VI
ON THE PRESBYTERIANS
THE Church of England is confined almost to the kingdom
whence it received its name, and to Ireland, for Presby-
terianism is the established religion in Scotland. This
Presbyterianism is directly the same with Calvinism, as it
was established in France, and is now professed at Geneva.
As the priests of this sect receive but very inconsiderable
stipends from their churches, and consequently cannot emu
late the splendid luxury of bishops, they exclaim very natu
rally against honours which they can never attain to.
Figure to yourself the haughty Diogenes trampling under
foot the pride of Plato. The Scotch Presbyterians are not
very unlike that proud though tattered reasoner. Diogenes
did not use Alexander half so impertinently as these treated
King Charles II. ; for when they took up arms in his cause
in opposition to Oliver, who had deceived them, they forced
that poor monarch to undergo the hearing of three or four
sermons every day, would not suffer him to play, reduced
him to a state of penitence and mortification, so that Charles
soon grew sick of these pedants, and accordingly eloped
from them with as much joy as a youth does from school.
A Church of England minister appears as another Cato
in presence of a juvenile, sprightly French graduate, who
bawls for a whole morning together in the divinity schools,
and hums a song in chorus with ladies in the evening; but
this Cato is a very spark when before a Scotch Presby
terian. The latter affects a serious gait, puts on a sour look,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 83
wears a vastly broad-brimmed hat and a long cloak over a
very short coat, preaches through the nose, and gives the
name of the whore of Babylon to all churches where the
ministers are so fortunate as to enjoy an annual revenue of
five or six thousand pounds, and where the people are weak
enough to suffer this, and to give them the titles of my lord,
your lordship, or your eminence.
These gentlemen, who have also some churches in Eng
land, introduced there the mode of grave and severe ex
hortations. To them is owing the sanctification of Sunday
in the three kingdoms. People are there forbidden to
work or. take any recreation on that day, in which the
severity is twice as great as that of the Romish Church.
No operas, plays, or concerts are allowed in London on
Sundays, and even cards are so expressly forbidden that
none but persons of quality, and those we call the genteel,
play on that day; the rest of the nation go either to church,
to the tavern, or to see their mistresses.
Though the Episcopal and Presbyterian sects are the
two prevailing ones in Great Britain, yet all others are
very welcome to come and settle in it, and live very sociably
together, though most of their preachers hate one another
almost as cordially as a Jansenist damns a Jesuit.
Take a view of the Royal Exchange in London, a place
more venerable than many courts of justice, where the rep
resentatives of all nations meet for the benefit of mankind.
There the Jew, the Mahometan, and the Christian transact
together, as though they all professed the same religion, and
give the name of infidel to none but bankrupts. There the
Presbyterian confides in the Anabaptist, and the Churchman
depends on the Quaker s word. At the breaking up of
this pacific and free assembly, some withdraw to the syna
gogue, and others to take a glass. This man goes and is
baptized in a great tub, in the name of the Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost: that man has his son s foreskin cut off, whilst
a set of Hebrew words (quite unintelligible to him) are
mumbled over his child. Others retire to their churches,
and there wait for the inspiration of heaven with their hats
on, and all are satisfied.
If one religion only were allowed in England, the Gov-
84 VOLTAIRE
ernment would very possibly become arbitrary; if there were
but two, the people would cut one another s throats; but as
there are such a multitude, they all live happy and in peace.
LETTER VII
ON THE SOCINIANS, OR ARIANS, OR
ANTITRINITARIANS
THERE is a little sect here composed of clergymen, and
of a few very learned persons among the laity, who, though
they don t call themselves Arians or Socinians, do yet dis
sent entirely from St. Athanasius with regard to their notions
of the Trinity, and declare very frankly that the Father is
greater than the Son.
Do you remember what is related of a certain orthodox
bishop, who in order to convince an emperor of the reality
of consubstantiation, put his hand under the chin of the
monarch s son, and took him by the nose in presence of his
sacred majesty? The emperor was going to order his at
tendants to throw the bishop out of the window, when the
good old man gave him this handsome and convincing
reason: "Since your majesty," said he, "is angry when
your son has not due respect shown him, what punishment
do you think will God the Father inflict on those who refuse
His Son Jesus the titles due to Him?" The persons I
just now mentioned declare that the holy bishop took a very
wrong step, that his argument was inconclusive, and that the
emperor should have answered him thus : " Know that there
are two ways by which men may be wanting in respect to
me first, in not doing honour sufficient to my son; and,
secondly, in paying him the same honour as to me."
Be this as it will, the principles of Arius begin to revive,
not only in England, but in Holland and Poland. The
celebrated Sir Isaac Newton honoured this opinion so far as
to countenance it. This philosopher thought that the Unitari
ans argued more mathematically than we do. But the most
sanguine stickler for Arianism is the illustrious Dr. Clark.
This man is rigidly virtuous, and of a mild disposition, is
more fond of his tenets than desirous of propagating them,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 85
and absorbed so entirely in problems and calculations that
he is a mere reasoning machine.
It is he who wrote a book which is much esteemed and
little understood, on the existence of God, and another, more
intelligible, but pretty much contemned, on the truth of the
Christian religion. He never engaged in scholastic disputes,
which our friend calls venerable trifles. He only published a
work containing all the testimonies of the primitive ages for
and against the Unitarians, and leaves to the reader the
counting of the voices and the liberty of forming a judg
ment. This book won the doctor a great number of parti
sans, and lost him the See of Canterbury but, in my humble
opinion, he was out in his calculation, and had better have
been Primate of all England than merely an Arian parson.
You see that opinions are subject to revolutions as well
as empires. Arianism, after having triumphed during three
centuries, and been forgot twelve, rises at last out of its
own ashes; but it has chosen a very improper season to
make its appearance in, the present age being quite cloyed
with disputes and sects. The members of this sect are, be
sides, too few to be indulged the liberty of holding public
assemblies, which, however, they will, doubtless, be permitted
to do in case they spread considerably. But people are now
so very cold with respect to all things of this kind, that there
is little probability any new religion, or old one, that may
be revived, will meet with favour. Is it not whimsical
enough that Luther, Calvin, and Zuinglius, all of em
wretched authors, should have founded sects which are now
spread over a great part of Europe, that Mahomet, though
so ignorant, should have given a religion to Asia and Africa,
and that Sir Isaac Newton, Dr. Clark, Mr. Locke, Mr. Le
Clerc, etc., the greatest philosophers, as well as the ablest
writers of their ages, should scarce have been able to raise
a little flock, which even decreases daily.
This it is to be born at a proper period of time. Were
Cardinal de Retz to return again into the world neither his
eloquence nor his intrigues would draw together ten women
in Paris. Were Oliver Cromwell, he who beheaded his
sovereign, and seized upon the kingly dignity, to rise from
the dead, he would be a wealthy City trader, and no more.
86 VOLTAIRE
LETTER VIII
ON THE PARLIAMENT
THE members of the English Parliament are fond of com
paring themselves to the old Romans.
Not long since Mr. Shippen opened a speech in the House
of Commons with these words, "The majesty of the people
of England would be wounded." The singularity of the
expression occasioned a loud laugh; but this gentleman, so
far from being disconcerted, repeated the same words with a
resolute tone of voice, and the laugh ceased. In my opinion,
the majesty of the people of England has nothing in common
with that of the people of Rome, much less is there any
affinity between their Governments. There is in London
a senate, some of the members whereof are accused (doubt
less very unjustly) of selling their voices on certain oc
casions, as was done in Rome; this is the only resemblance.
Besides, the two nations appear to me quite opposite in char
acter, with regard both to good and evil. The Romans
never knew the dreadful folly of religious wars, an abomi
nation reserved for devout preachers of patience and hu
mility. Marious and Sylla, Caesar and Pompey, Anthony and
Augustus, did not draw their swords and set the world in
a blaze merely to determine whether the flamen should wear
his shirt over his robe, or his robe over his shirt, or whether
the sacred chickens should eat and drink, or eat only, in
order to take the augury. The English have hanged one
another by law, and cut one another to pieces in pitched
battles, for quarrels of as trifling nature. The sects of the
Episcopalians and Presbyterians quite distracted these very
serious heads for a time. But I fancy they will hardly ever
be so silly again, they seeming to be grown wiser at their
own expense; and I do not perceive the least inclination in
them to murder one another merely about syllogisms, as
some zealots among them once did.
But here follows a more essential difference between
Rome and England, which gives the advantage entirely to
the latter viz., that the civil wars of Rome ended in
slavery, and those of the English in liberty. The English
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 87
are the only people upon earth who have been able to pre
scribe limits to the power of kings by resisting them; and
who, by a series of struggles, have at last established that
wise Government where the Prince is all powerful to do
good, and, at the same time, is restrained from committing
evil; where the nobles are great without insolence, though
there are no vassals; and where the people share in the
Government without confusion.
The House of Lords and that of the Commons divide the
legislative power under the king, but the Romans had no
such balance. The patricians and plebeians in Rome were
perpetually at variance, and there was no intermediate power
to reconcile them. The Roman senate, who were so unjustly,
so criminally proud as not to suffier the plebeians to share
with them in anything, could find no other artifice to keep f
the latter out of the administration than by employing them
in foreign wars. They considered the plebeians as a wild
beast, whom it behoved them to let loose upon their neigh
bours, for fear they should devour their masters. Thus the
greatest defect in the Government of the Romans raised^
them to be conquerors. By being unhappy at home, they
triumphed over and possessed themselves of the world, till
at last their divisions sunk them to slavery.
The Government of England will never rise to so exalted
a pitch of glory, nor will its end be so fatal. The English
are not fired with the splendid folly of making conquests,
but would only prevent their neighbours from conquering.
They are not only jealous of their own liberty, but even of
that of other nations. The English were exasperated against
Louis XIV. for no other reason but because he was ambitious, w
and declared war against him merely out of levity, not from
any interested motives.
The English have doubtless purchased their liberties at a
very high price, and waded through seas of blood to drown
the idol of arbitrary power. Other nations have been in
volved in as great calamities, and have shed as much blood;
but then the blood they spilt in defence of their liberties only
enslaved them the more.
That which rises to a revolution in England is no more
than a sedition in other countries. A city in Spain, in
88 VOLTAIRE
Barbary, or in Turkey, takes up arms in defence of its
privileges, when immediately it is stormed by mercenary
troops, it is punished by executioners, and the rest of the
nation kiss the chains they are loaded with. The French
are of opinion that the government of this island is more
tempestuous than the sea which surrounds it, which indeed
is true; but then it is never so but when the king raises
the storm when he attempts to seize the ship of which he
is only the chief pilot. The civil wars of France lasted
longer, were more cruel, and productive of greater evils
than those of England; but none of these civil wars had a
wise and prudent liberty for their object.
In the detestable reigns of Charles IX. and Henry III.
the whole affair was only whether the people should be slaves
to the Guises. With regard to the last war of Paris, it
deserves only to be hooted at. Methinks I see a crowd of
schoolboys rising up in arms against their master, and after
wards whipped for it. Cardinal de Retz, who was witty and
brave (but to no purpose), rebellious without a cause,
factious without design, and head of a defenseless party,
caballed for caballing s sake, and seemed to foment the
civil war merely out of diversion. The parliament did not
know what he intended, nor what he did not intend. He
levied troops by Act of Parliament, and the next moment
cashiered them. He threatened, he begged pardon; he set
a price upon Cardinal Mazarin s head, and afterwards con
gratulated him in a public manner. Our civil wars under
Charles VI. were bloody and cruel, those of the League
execrable, and that of the Frondeurs 8 ridiculous.
That for which the French chiefly reproach the English
nation is the murder of King Charles I., whom his subjects
treated exactly as he would have treated them had his
reign been prosperous. After all, consider on one side
Charles I., defeated in a pitched battle, imprisoned, tried,
sentenced to die in Westminster Hall, and then beheaded.
And on the other, the Emperor Henry VII., poisoned by
his chaplain at his receiving the Sacrament; Henry III.
stabbed by a monk; thirty assassinations projected against
8 Frondeurs, in its proper sense Stingers, and figuratively Cavillers, or
lovers of contradiction, was a name given to a league or party that opposed
the French Ministry; . e., Cardinal Mazarin, in 1648.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 89
Henry IV., several of them put in execution, and the last
bereaving that great monarch of his life. Weigh, I say, all
these wicked attempts and then judge.
LETTER IX
ON THE GOVERNMENT
THAT mixture in the English Government, that harmony
between King, Lords, and Commons, did not always subsist.
England was enslaved for a long series of years by the
Romans, the Saxons, the Danes, and the French successively.
William the Conqueror particularly, ruled them with a rod
of iron. He disposed as absolutely of the lives and fortunes
of his conquered subjects as an eastern monarch; and for
bade, upon pain of death, the English either fire or candle
in their houses after eight o clock ; whether he did this to pre
vent their nocturnal meetings, or only to try, by this odd and
whimsical prohibition, how far it was possible for one man
to extend his power over his fellow-creatures. It is true,
indeed, that the English had Parliaments before and after
William the Conqueror, and they boast of them, as though
these assemblies then called Parliaments, composed of eccle
siastical tyrants and of plunderers entitled barons, had been
the guardians of the public liberty and happiness.
The barbarians who came from the shores of the Baltic,
and settled in the rest of Europe, brought with them the
form of government called States or Parliaments, about
which so much noise is made, and which are so little under
stood. Kings, indeed, were not absolute in those days; but
then the people were more wretched upon that very account,
and more completely enslaved. The chiefs of these savages,
who had laid waste France, Italy, Spain, and England, made
themselves monarchs. Their generals divided among them
selves the several countries they had conquered, whence
sprung those margraves, those peers, those barons, those
petty tyrants, who often contested with their sovereigns for
the spoils of whole nations. These were birds of prey
fighting with an eagle for doves whose blood the victorious
was to suck. Every nation, instead of being governed by
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one master, was trampled upon by a hundred tyrants. The
priests soon played a part among them. Before this it had
been the fate of the Gauls, the Germans, and the Britons,
to be always governed by their Druids and the chiefs of
their villages, an ancient kind of barons, not so tyrannical as
their successors. T hese Druids pretended to be mediators
between God and man. They enacted laws, they fulminated
their excommunications, and sentenced to death. The bishops
succeeded, by insensible degrees, to their temporal authority
in the Goth and Vandal government. The popes set them
selves at their head, and armed with their briefs, their bulls,
and reinforced by monks, they made even kings tremble,
deposed and assassinated them at pleasure, and employed
every artifice to draw into their own purses moneys from
all parts of Europe. The weak Ina, one of the tyrants of
the Saxon Heptarchy in England, was the first monarch who
submitted, in his pilgrimage to Rome, to pay St. Peter s
penny (equivalent very near to a French crown) for every
house in his dominions. The whole island soon followed
his example; England became insensibly one of the Pope s
provinces, and the Holy Father used to send from time to
time his legates thither to levy exorbitant taxes. At last
King John delivered up by a public instrument the kingdom
of England to the Pope, who had excommunicated him; but
the barons, not finding their account in this resignation, de
throned the wretched King John and seated Louis, father
to St Louis, King of France, in his place. However, they
were soon weary of their new monarch, and accordingly
obliged him to return to France.
Whilst that the barons, the bishops, and the popes, all laid
waste England, where all were for ruling; the most numer
ous, the most useful, even the most virtuous, and conse
quently the most venerable part of mankind, consisting of
those who study the laws and the sciences, of traders, of
artificers, in a word, of all who were not tyrants that is,
those who are called the people: these, I say, were by them
looked upon as so many animals beneath the dignity of the
human species. The Commons in those ages were far from
sharing in the government, they being villains or peasants,
whose labour, whose blood, were the property of their mas-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 91
ters who entitled themselves the nobility. The major part
of men in Europe were at that time what they are to this
day in several parts of the world they were villains or
bondsmen of lords that is, a kind of cattle bought and sold
with the land. Many ages passed away before justice could
be done to human nature before mankind were conscious
that it was abominable for many to sow, and but few reap.
And was not France very happy, when the power and au
thority of those petty robbers was abolished by the lawful
authority of kings and of the people?
Happily, in the violent shocks which the divisions between
kings and the nobles gave to empires, the chains of nations
were more or less heavy. Liberty in England sprang from
the quarrels of tyrants. The barons forced King John and
King Henry III. to grant the famous Magna Charta, the
chief design of which was indeed to make kings dependent
on the Lords; but then the rest of the nation were a little
favoured in it, in order that they might join on proper oc
casions with their pretended masters. This great Charter,
which is considered as the sacred origin of the English
liberties, shows in itself how little liberty was known.
^ The title alone proves that the king thought he had a just
right to be absolute; and that the barons, and even the
clergy, forced him to give up the pretended right, for no
other reason but because they were the most powerful.
Magna Charta begins in this style: " We grant, of our own
free will, the following privileges to the archbishops, bishops,
priors, and barons of our kingdom," etc.
^ The House of Commons is not once mentioned in the ar
ticles of this Charter a proof that it did not yet exist, or
that it existed without power. Mention is therein made, by
name, of the freemen of England a melancholy proof that
some were not so. It appears, by Article XXXII, that these
pretended freemen owed service to their lords. Such a lib
erty as this was not many removes from slavery.
By Article XXL, the king ordains that his officers shall
not henceforward seize upon, unless they pay for them, the
horses and carts of freemen. The people considered this
ordinance as a real liberty, though it was a greater tyranny.
Henry VII., that happy usurper and great politician, who
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pretended to love the barons, though he in reality hated and
feared them, got their lands alienated. By this means the
villains, afterwards acquiring riches by their industry, pur
chased the estates and country seats of the illustrious peers
who had ruined themselves by their folly and extravagance,
and all the lands got by insensible degrees into other hands.
The power of the House of Common ; increased every day.
The families of the ancient peers were at last extinct ; and as
peers only are properly noble in England, there would be no
such thing in strictness of law as nobility in that island, had
not the kings created new barons from time to time, and
preserved the body of peers, once a terror to them, to oppose
them to the Commons, since become so formidable.
All these new peers who compose the Higher House re
ceive nothing but their titles from the king, and very few
of them, have estates in those places whence they take their
titles. One shall be Duke of D , though he has not a
foot of land in Dorsetshire; and another is Earl of a vil
lage, though he scarce knows where it is situated. The
peers have power, but it is only in the Parliament House.
There is no such thing here as haute, moyenne, and basse
justice that is, a power to judge in all matters civil and
criminal; nor a right or privilege of hunting in the grounds
of a citizen, who at the same time is not permitted to fire a
gun in his own field.
No one is exempted in this country from paying certain
taxes because he is a nobleman or a priest. All duties and
taxes are settled by the House of Commons, whose power
is greater than that of the Peers, though inferior to it in
dignity. The spiritual as well as temporal Lords have the
liberty to reject a Money Bill brought in by the Commons;
but they are not allowed to alter anything in it, and must
either pass or throw it out without restriction. When the
Bill has passed the Lords and is signed by the king, then the
whole nation pays, every man in proportion to his revenue
or estate, not according to his title, which would be absurd.
There is no such thing as an arbitrary subsidy or poll-tax,
but a real tax on the lands, of all which an estimate was
made in the reign of the famous King William III.
The land-tax continues still upon the same foot, though
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 93
the revenue of the lands is increased. Thus no one is tyr
annised over, and every one is easy. The feet of the peas
ants are not bruised by wooden shoes ; they eat white bread,
are well clothed, and are not afraid of increasing their stock
of cattle, nor of tiling their houses, from any apprehension
that their taxes will be raised the year following. The an
nual income of the estates of a great many commoners in
England amounts to two hundred thousand livres, and yet
these do not think it beneath them to plough the lands which
enrich them, and on which they enjoy their liberty.
LETTER X
ON TRADE
As trade enriched the citizens in England, so it contributed :
to their freedom, and this freedom on the other side extended ^
their commerce, whenc2 arose the grandeur of the State.
Trade raised by insensible degrees the naval power, which
gives the English a superiority over the seas, and they now
are masters of very near two hundred ships of war. Pos
terity will very probably be surprised to hear that an island
whose only produce is a little lead, tin, fuller s-earth, and
coarse wool, should become so powerful by its commerce, as
to be able to send, in 1723, three fleets at the same time to
three different and far distanced parts of the globe. One
before Gibraltar, conquered and still possessed by the Eng
lish; a second to Porto Bello, to dispossess the King of Spain
of the treasures of the West Indies; and a third into the
Baltic, to prevent the Northern Powers from coming to an
engagement.
At the time when Louis XIV. made all Italy tremble, and
that his armies, which had already possessed themselves of
Savoy and Piedmont, were upon the point of taking Turin;
Prince Eugene was obliged to march from the middle of
Germany in order to succour Savoy. Having no money,
without which cities car not be either taken or defended, he
addressed himself to some English merchants. These, at
an hour and a half s warning, lent him five millions, whereby
he was enabled to deliver Turin, and to beat the French;
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after which he wrote the following short letter to the per
sons who had disbursed him the above-mentioned sums:
" Gentlemen, I received your money, and flatter myself
that I have laid it out to your satisfaction." Such a circum
stance as this raises a just pride in an English merchant, and
makes him presume (not without some reason) to compare
himself to a Roman citizen; and, indeed, a peer s brother
does not think traffic beneath him. When the Lord Town-
shend was Minister of State, a brother of his was content to
be a City merchant ; and at the time that the Earl of Oxford
governed Great Britain, his younger brother was no more
than a factor in Aleppo, where he chose to live, and where he
died. This custom, which begins, however, to be laid aside,
appears monstrous to Germans, vainly puffed up with their
extraction. These think it morally impossible that the son
of an English peer should be no more than a rich and power
ful citizen, for all are princes in Germany. There have been
thirty highnesses of the same name, all whose patrimony con
sisted only in their escutcheons and their pride.
In France the title of marquis is given gratis to any one
who will accept of it; and whosoever arrives at Paris from
the midst of the most remote provinces with money in his
purse, and a name terminating in ac or ille, may strut about,
and cry, " Such a man as I ! A man of my rank and figure !"
and may look down upon a trader with sovereign contempt;
whilst the trader on the other side, by thus often hearing his
profession treated so disdainfully, is fool enough to blush at
it. However, I need not say which is most useful to a na
tion; a lord, powdered in the tip of the mode, who knows
exactly at what o clock the king rises and goes to bed, and
who gives himself airs of grandeur and state, at the same
time that he is acting the slave in the ante-chamber of a
prime minister; or a merchant, who enriches his country,
despatches orders from his counting-house to Surat and
Grand Cairo, and contributes to the felicity of the world.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 95
LETTER XI
ON INOCULATION
IT is inadvertently affirmed in the Christian countries of
Europe that the English are fools and madmen. Fools, be
cause they give their children the small-pox to prevent their
catching it; and madmen, because they wantonly communi
cate a certain and dreadful distemper to their children,
merely to prevent an uncertain evil. The English, on the
other side, call the rest of the Europeans cowardly and un
natural. Cowardly, because they are afraid of putting their
children to a little pain ; unnatural, because they expose them
to die one time or other of the small-pox. But that the
reader may be able to judge whether the English or those
who differ from them in opinion are in the right, here follows
the history of the famed inoculation, which is mentioned
with so much dread in France.
The Circassian women have, from time immemorial, com
municated the small-pox to their children when not above
six months old by making an incision in the arm, and by
putting into this incision a pustule, taken carefully from the
body of another child. This pustule produces the same
effect in the arm it is laid in as yeast in a piece of dough;
it ferments, and diffuses through the whole mass of blood
the qualities with which it is impregnated. The pustules of
the child in whom the artificial small-pox has been thus
inoculated are employed to communicate the same distemper
to others. There is an almost perpetual circulation of it in
Circassia; and when unhappily the small-pox has quite left
the country, the inhabitants of it are in as great trouble and
perplexity as other nations when their harvest has fallen
short.
The circumstance that introduced a custom in Circassia,
which appears so singular to others, is nevertheless a cause
common to all nations, I mean maternal tenderness and
interest.
The Circassians are poor, and their daughters are beau
tiful, and indeed, it is in them they chiefly trade. They
furnish with beauties the seraglios of the Turkish Sultan,
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of the Persian Sophy, and of all those who are wealthy
enough to purchase and maintain such precious merchandise.
These maidens are very honourably and virtuously instructed
to fondle and caress men; are taught dances of a very polite
and effeminate kind ; and how to heighten by the most volup
tuous artifices the pleasures of their disdainful masters for
whom they are designed. These unhappy creatures repeat
their lesson to their mothers, in the same manner as little
girls among us repeat their catechism without understanding
one word they say.
Now it often happened that, after a father and mother had
taken the utmost care of the education of their children, they
were frustrated of all their hopes in an instant. The small
pox getting into the family, one daughter died of it, another
lost an eye, a third had a great nose at her recovery, and the
unhappy parents were completely ruined. Even, frequently,
when the small-pox became epidemical, trade was suspended
for several years, which thinned very considerably the
seraglios of Persia and Turkey.
A trading nation is always watchful over its own interests,
and grasps at every discovery that may be of advantage to
its commerce. The Circassians observed that scarce one
person in a thousand was ever attacked by a small-pox of a
violent kind. That some, indeed, had this distemper very
favourably three or four times, but never twice so as to
prove fatal; in a word, that no one ever had it in a violent
degree twice in his life. They observed farther, that when
the small-pox is of the milder sort, and the pustules have
only a tender, delicate skin to break through, they never leave
the least scar in the face. From these natural observations
they concluded, that in case an infant of six months or a
year old should have a milder sort of small-pox, he would
not die of it, would not be marked, nor be ever afflicted with
it again.
In order, therefore, to preserve the life and beauty of
their children, the only thing remaining was to give them
the small-pox in their infant years. This they did by in
oculating in the body of a child a pustule taken from the
most regular and at the same time the most favourable sort
of small-pox that could be procured.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 97
The experiment could not possibly fail. The Turks, who
are people of good sense, soon adopted this custom, insomuch
that at this time there is not a bassa in Constantinople but
communicates the small-pox to his children of both sexes
immediately upon their being weaned.
Some pretend that the Circassians borrowed this custom
anciently from the Arabians ; but we shall leave the clearing
up of this point of history to some learned Benedictine, who
will not fail to compile a great many folios on this subject,
with the several proofs or authorities. All I have to say
upon it is that, in the beginning of the reign of King George
I., the Lady Wortley Montague, a woman of as fine a genius,
and endued with as great a strength of mind, as any of her
sex in the British Kingdoms, being with her husband, who
was ambassador at the Porte, made no scruple to communi
cate the small-pox to an infant of which she was delivered
in Constantinople.
The chaplain represented to his lady, but to no pur
pose, that this was an un-Christian operation, and there
fore that it could succeed with none but infidels. How
ever, it had the most happy effect upon the son of the Lady
Wortley Montague, who, at her return to England, com
municated the experiment to the Princess of Wales, now
Queen of England. It must be confessed that this princess,
abstracted from her crown and titles, was born to encourage
the whole circle of arts, and to do good to mankind. She
appears as an amiable philosopher on the throne, having
never let slip one opportunity of improving the great talents
she received from Nature, nor of exerting her beneficence.
It is she who, being informed that a daughter of Milton was
living, but in miserable circumstances, immediately sent her
a considerable present. It is she who protects the learned
Father Courayer. It is she who condescended to attempt a
reconciliation between Dr. Clark and Mr. Leibnitz. The
moment this princess heard of inoculation, she caused an
experiment of it to be made on four criminals sentenced to
die, and by that means preserved their lives doubly; for she
not only saved them from the gallows, but by means of this
artificial small-pox prevented their ever having that distem
per in a natural way, with which they would very probably
HC XXXIV
98 VOLTAIRE
have been attacked one time or other, and might have died
of in a more advanced age.
The princess being assured of the usefulness of this opera
tion, caused her own children to be inoculated. A great part
of the kingdom followed her example, and since that time
ten thousand children, at least, of persons of condition owe
in this manner their lives to her Majesty and to the Lady
Wortley Montague ; and as many of the fair sex are obliged
to them for their beauty.
Upon a general calculation, threescore persons in every
hundred have the small-pox. Of these threescore, twenty
die of it in the most favourable season of life, and as many
more wear the disagreeable remains of it in their faces so
long as they live. Thus, a fifth part of mankind either die
or are disfigured by this distemper. -But it does not prove
fatal to so much as one among those who are inoculated in
Turkey or in England, unless the patient be infirm, or would
have died had not the experiment been made upon him. Be
sides, no one is disfigured, no one has the small-pox a second
time, if the inoculation was perfect. It is therefore certain,
that had the lady of some French ambassador brought this
secret from Constantinople to Paris, the nation would have
been for ever obliged to her. Then the Duke de Villequier,
father to the Duke d Aumont, who enjoys the most vigorous
constitution, and is the healthiest man in France, would not
have been cut off in the flower of his age.
The Prince of Soubise, happy in the finest flush of health,
would not have been snatched away at five-and-twenty, nor
the Dauphin, grandfather to Louis XV., have been laid in
his grave in his fiftieth year. Twenty thousand persons
whom the small-pox swept away at Paris in 1723 would have
been alive at this time. But are not the French fond of life,
and is beauty so inconsiderable an advantage as to be disre
garded by the ladies? It must be confessed that we are an
odd kind of people. Perhaps our nation will imitate ten
years hence this practice of the English, if the clergy and
the physicians will but give them leave to do it; or possibly
our countrymen may introduce inoculation three months
hence in France out of mere whim, in case the English
should discontinue it through fickleness.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 99
I am informed that the Chinese have practised inoculation
these hundred years, a circumstance that argues very much
in its favour, since they are thought to be the wisest and
best governed people in the world. The Chinese, indeed, do
not communicate this distemper by inoculation, but at the
nose, in the same manner as we take snuff. This is a more
agreeable way, but then it produces the like effects; and
proves at the same time that had inoculation been practised
in France it would have saved the lives of thousands.
LETTER XII
ON THE LORD BACON
NOT long since the trite and frivolous question following was
debated in a very polite and learned company, viz., Who was
the greatest man, Caesar, Alexander, Tamerlane, Cromwell,
&c. ?
Somebody answered that Sir Isaac Newton excelled them
all. The gentleman s assertion was very just; for if true
greatness consists in having received from heaven a mighty
genius, and in having employed it to enlighten our own mind
and that of others, a man like Sir Isaac Newton, whose equal
is hardly found in a thousand years, is the truly great man.
And those politicians and conquerors (and all ages produce
some) were generally so many illustrious wicked men. That
man claims our respect who commands over the minds of
the rest of the world by the force of truth, not those who
enslave their fellow-creatures : he who is acquainted with the
universe, not they who deface it.
Since, therefore, you desire me to give you an account of
the famous personages whom England has given birth to, I
shall begin with Lord Bacon, Mr. Locke, Sir Isaac Newton,
&c. Afterwards the warriors and Ministers of State shall
come in their order.
^ I must begin with the celebrated Viscount Verulam, known
m Europe by the name of Bacon, which was that of his
His father had been Lord Keeper, and himself was
a great many years Lord Chancellor under King James I.
Nevertheless, amidst the intrigues of a Court, and the affairs
100 VOLTAIRE
of his exalted employment, which alone were enough to en
gross his whole time, he yet found so much leisure for study
as to make himself a great philosopher, a good historian, and
an elegant writer ; and a still more surprising circumstance
is that he lived in an age in which the art of writing justly
and elegantly was little known, much less true philosophy.
Lord Bacon, as is the fate of man, was more esteemed after
his death than in his lifetime. His enemies were in the
British Court, and his admirers were foreigners.
When the Marquis d Effiat attended in England upon the
Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter to Henry IV., whom
King Charles I. had married, that Minister went and visited
the Lord Bacon, who, being at that time sick in his bed, re
ceived him with the curtains shut close. " You resemble the
angels," said the Marquis to him; "we hear those beings
spoken of perpetually, and we believe them superior to men,
but are never allowed the consolation to see them."
You know that this great man was accused of a crime
very unbecoming a philosopher: I mean bribery and extor
tion. You know that he was sentenced by the House of Lords
to pay a fine of about four hundred thousand French livres,
to lose his peerage and his dignity of Chancellor; but in
the present age the English revere his memory to such a
degree, that they will scarce allow him to have been guilty.
In case you should ask what are my thoughts on this head,
I shall answer you in the words which I heard the Lord
Bolingbroke use on another occasion. Several gentlemen
were speaking, in his company, of the avarice with which
the late Duke of Marlborough had been charged, some ex
amples whereof being given, the Lord Bolingbroke was ap
pealed to (who, having been in the opposite party, might
perhaps, without the imputation of indecency, have been
allowed to clear up that matter) : " He was so great a man,"
replied his lordship, " that I have forgot his vices."
I shall therefore confine myself to those things which so
justly gained Lord Bacon the esteem of all Europe.
The most singular and the best of all his pieces is that
which, at this time, is the most useless and the least read, I
; mean his Novum Scientiarum Organum. This is the scaffold
with which the new philosophy was raised; and when the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 101
edifice was built, part of it at least, the scaffold was no
longer of service.
The Lord Bacon was not yet acquainted with Nature, but
then he knew, and pointed out, the several paths that lead
to it. He had despised in his younger years the thing called
philosophy in the Universities, and did all that lay in his
power to prevent those societies of men instituted to improve
human reason from depraving it by their quiddities, their
horrors of the vacuum, their substantial forms, and all those
impertinent terms which not only ignorance had rendered
venerable, but which had been made sacred by their being
ridiculously blended with religion.
He is the father of experimental philosophy. It must,
indeed, be confessed that very surprising secrets had been
found out before his time the sea-compass, printing, en
graving on copper plates, oil-painting, looking-glasses; the
art of restoring, in some measure, old men to their sight
by spectacles ; gunpowder, &c., had been discovered. A new
world has been sought for, found, and conquered. Would
not one suppose that these sublime discoveries had been made
by the greatest philosophers, and in ages much more en
lightened than the present ? But it was far otherwise; all
these great changes happened in the most stupid and bar
barous times. Chance only gave birth to most of those in
ventions; and it is very probable that what is called chance
contributed very much to the discovery of America; at least,
it has been always thought that Christopher Columbus under
took his voyage merely on the relation of a captain of a ship
which a storm had driven as far westward as the Caribbean
Islands. Be this as it will, men had sailed round the world,
and could destroy cities by an artificial thunder more dread
ful than the real one; but, then, they were not acquainted
with the circulation of the blood, the weight of the air, the
laws of motion, light, the number of our planets, &c. And
a man who maintained a thesis on Aristotle s " Categories/
on the universals a parte rei, or such-like nonsense, was
looked upon as a prodigy.
The most astonishing, the most useful inventions, are
not those which reflect the greatest honour on the human
mind. It is to a mechanical instinct, which is found in
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many men, and not to true philosophy, that most arts owe
their origin.
The discovery of fire, the art of making bread, of melting
and preparing metals, of building houses, and the invention
of the shuttle, are infinitely more beneficial to mankind than
printing or the sea-compass : and yet these arts were invented
by uncultivated, savage men.
What a prodigious use the Greeks and Romans made
afterwards of mechanics! Nevertheless, they believed that
there were crystal heavens, that the stars were small lamps
which sometimes fell into the sea, and one of their greatest
philosophers, after long researches, found that the stars were
so many flints which had been detached from the earth.
In a word, no one before the Lord Bacon was acquainted
with experimental philosophy, nor with the several physical
experiments which have been made since his time. Scarce
one of them but is hinted at in his work, and he himself had
made several. He made a kind of pneumatic engine, by
which he guessed the elasticity of the air. He approached,
on all sides as it were, to the discovery of its weight, and
had very near attained it, but some time after Torricelli seized
upon this truth. In a little time experimental philosophy
began to be cultivated on a sudden in most parts of Europe.
It was a hidden treasure which the Lord Bacon had some
notion of, and which all the philosophers, encouraged by his
promises, endeavoured to dig up.
But that which surprised me most was to read in his work,
in express terms, the new attraction, the invention of which
is ascribed to Sir Isaac Newton.
We must search, says Lord Bacon, whether there may not
be a kind of magnetic power which operates between the
earth and heavy bodies, between the moon and the ocean,
between the planets, &c. In another place he says either
heavy bodies must be carried towards the centre of the earth,
or must be reciprocally attracted by it ; and in the latter case
it is evident that the nearer bodies, in their falling, draw
towards the earth, the stronger they will attract one another.
We must, says he, make an experiment to see whether the
same clock will go faster on the top of a mountain or at
the bottom of a mine; whether the strength of the weights
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 103
decreases on the mountain and increases in the mine. It is
probable that the earth has a true attractive power.
This forerunner in philosophy was also an elegant writer,
an historian, and a wit.
His moral essays are greatly esteemed, but they were
drawn up in the view of instructing rather than of pleasing;
and, as they are not a satire upon mankind, like Rochefou
cauld s "Maxims," nor written upon a sceptical plan, like
Montaigne s " Essays," they are not so much read as those
two ingenious authors.
^ His History of Henry VII. was looked upon as a master
piece, but how is it possible that some persons can presume
to compare so little a work with the history of our illustrious
Thuanus ?
Speaking about the famous impostor Perkin, son to a con
verted Jew, who assumed boldly the name and title of Richard
IV., King of England, at the instigation of the Duchess
of Burgundy, and who disputed the crown with Henry VII.,
the Lord Bacon writes as follows :
"At this time the King began again to be haunted with
sprites, by the magic and curious arts of the Lady Margaret,
who raised up the ghost of Richard, Duke of York, second
son to King Edward IV., to walk and vex the King.
After such time as she (Margaret of Burgundy) thought
he (Perkin Warbeck) was perfect in his lesson, she began
to cast with herself from what coast this blazing star should
first appear, and at what time it must be upon the horizon of
Ireland; for there had the like meteor strong influence
before."
Methinks our sagacious Thuanus does not give in to suet
fustian, which formerly was looked upon as sublime, but i*
this age is justly called nonsense.
LETTER XIII
ON MR. LOCKE
PERHAPS no man ever had a more judicious or more method
ical genius, or was a more acute logician than Mr. Locke, and
yet he was not deeply skilled in the mathematics. This great
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man could never subject himself to the tedious fatigue of
calculations, nor to the dry pursuit of mathematical truths,
which do not at first present any sensible objects to the mind;
and no one has given better proofs than he, that it is pos
sible for a man to have a geometrical head without the as
sistance of geometry. Before his time, several great philoso
phers had declared, in the most positive terms, what the
soul of man is; but as these absolutely knew nothing about
it, they might very well be allowed to differ entirely in
opinion from one another.
In Greece, the infant seat of arts and of errors, and where
the grandeur as well as folly of the human mind went such
prodigious lengths, the people used to reason about the soul
in the very same manner as we do.
Tfte divine Anaxagoras, in whose honour an altar was
erected for his having taught mankind that the sun was
greater than Peloponnesus, that snow was black, and that
the heavens were of stone, affirmed that the soul was an
aerial spirit, but at the same time immortal. Diogenes
(not he who was a cynical philosopher after having coined
base money) declared that the soul was a portion of the
substance of God : an idea which we must confess was very
sublime. Epicurus maintained that it was composed of parts
in the same manner as the body.
Aristotle, who has been explained a thousand ways, be
cause he is unintelligible, was of opinion, according to some
of his disciples, that the understanding in all men is one and
the same substance.
The divine Plato, master of the divine Aristotle, and the
divine Socrates, master of the divine Plato, used to say
that the soul was corporeal and eternal. No doubt but the
demon of Socrates had instructed him in the nature of it.
Some people, indeed, pretend that a man who boasted his
being attended by a familiar genius must infallibly be either
a knave or a madman, but this kind of people are seldom
satisfied with anything but reason.
With regard to the Fathers of the Church, several in the
primitive ages believed that the soul was human, and the
angels and God corporeal. Men naturally improve upon
every system. St. Bernard, as Father Mabillon confesses,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 105
taught that the soul after death does not see God in the
celestial regions, but converses with Christ s human nature
only. However, he was not believed this time on his bare
word; the adventure of the crusade having a little sunk
the credit of his oracles. Afterwards a thousand school
men arose, such as the Irrefragable Doctor, the Subtile
Doctor, the Angelic Doctor, the Seraphic Doctor, and the
Cherubic Doctor, who were all sure that they had a very
clear and distinct idea of the soul, and yet wrote in such a
manner, that one would conclude they were resolved no one
should understand a word in their writings. Our Descartes,
born to discover the errors of antiquity, and at the same
time to substitute his own ; and hurried away by that system
atic spirit which throws a cloud over the minds of the
greatest men, thought he had demonstrated that the soul is
the same thing as thought, in the same manner as matter,
in his opinion, is the same as extension. He asserted, that
man thinks eternally, and that the soul, at its coming into
the body, is informed with the whole series of metaphysical
notions : knowing God, infinite space, possessing all abstract
ideas in a word, completely endued with the most sublime
lights, which it unhappily forgets at its issuing from the
womb.
Father Malebranche, in his sublime illusions, not only
admitted innate ideas, but did not doubt of our living wholly
in God, and that God is, as it were, our soul.
Such a multitude of reasoners having written the
romance of the soul, a sage at last arose, who gave, with
an air of the greatest modesty, the history ot it. Mr. Locke ;
has displayed the human soul in the same manner as an
excellent anatomist explains the springs of the human body.
He everywhere takes the light of physics for his guide. He
sometimes presumes to speak affirmatively, but then he
presumes also to doubt. Instead of concluding at once what
we know not, he examines gradually what we would know.
He takes an infant at the instant of his birth; he traces,
step by ^ step, the progress of his understanding; examines
what things he has in common with beasts, and what he
possesses above them. Above all, he consults himself: the
being conscious that he himself thinks.
106 VOLTAIRE
"I shall leave," says he, "to those who know more of
this matter than myself, the examining whether the soul
exists before or after the organisation of our bodies. But
I confess that it is my lot to be animated with one of those
heavy souls which do not think always; and I am even so
unhappy as not to conceive that it is more necessary the soul
should think perpetually than that bodies should be for
ever in motion."
With regard to myself, I shall boast that I have the
honour to be as stupid in this particular as Mr. Locke. No
one shall ever make me believe that I think always : and I
am as little inclined as he could be to fancy that some weeks
after I was conceived I was a very learned soul; knowing
at that time a thousand things which I forgot at my birth;
and possessing when in the womb (though to no manner of
purpose) knowledge which I lost the instant I had occasion
for it; and which I have never since been able to recover
perfectly.
Mr. Locke, after having destroyed innate ideas; after
having fully renounced the vanity of believing that we think
always; after having laid down, from the most solid prin
ciples, that ideas enter the mind through the senses; having
examined our simple and complex ideas; having traced the
human mind through its several operations; having shown
that all the languages in the world are imperfect, and the
great abuse that is made of words every moment, he at last
comes to consider the extent or rather the narrow limits
of human knowledge. It was in this chapter he presumed
to advance, but very modestly, the following words: "We
shall, perhaps, never be capable of knowing whether a being,
purely material, thinks or not." This sage assertion was,
by more divines than one, looked upon as a scandalous
declaration that the soul is material and mortal. Some
Englishmen, devout after their way, sounded an alarm. The
superstitious are the same in society as cowards in an army ;
they themselves are seized with a panic fear, and com
municate it to others. It was loudly exclaimed that Mr.
Locke intended to destroy religion; nevertheless, religion
had nothing to do in the affair, it being a question purely
philosophical, altogether independent of faith and revela-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 107
tion. Mr. Locke s opponents needed but to examine, calmly
and impartially, whether the declaring that matter can think,
implies a contradiction; and whether God is able to com
municate thought to matter. But divines are too apt to
begin their declarations with saying that God is offended
when people differ from them in opinion; in which they
too much resemble the bad poets, who used to declare
publicly that Boileau spake irreverently of Louis XIV., be
cause he ridiculed their stupid productions. Bishop Stil-
lingfleet got the reputation of a calm and unprejudiced
divine because he did not expressly make use of injurious
terms in his dispute with Mr. Locke. That divine entered
the lists against him, but was defeated; for he argued as a
schoolman, and Locke as a philosopher, who was perfectly
acquainted with the strong as well as the weak side of the
human mind, and who fought with weapons whose temper
he knew. If I might presume to give my opinion on so
delicate a subject after Mr. Locke, I would say, that men
have long disputed on the nature and the immortality of the
soul. With regard to its immortality, it is impossible to
give a demonstration of it, since its nature is still the
subject of controversy; which, however, must be thoroughly
understood before a person can be able to determine
whether it be immortal or not. Human reason is so little
able, merely by its own strength, to demonstrate the im
mortality of the soul, that it was absolutely necessary
religion should reveal it to us. It is of advantage to society
in general, that mankind should believe the soul to be im
mortal ; faith commands us to do this ; nothing more is
required, and the matter is cleared up at once. But it is
otherwise with respect to its nature ; it is of little importance
to religion, which only requires the soul to be virtuous,
whatever substance it may be made of. It is a clock which
is given us to regulate, but the artist has not told us of what
materials the spring of this clock is composed.
I am a body, and, I think, that s all I know of the matter.
Shall I ascribe to an unknown cause, what I can so easily
impute to the only second cause I am acquainted with ? Here
all the school philosophers interrupt me with their argu
ments, and declare that there is only extension and solidity
108 VOLTAIRE
in bodies, and that there they can have nothing but motion
and figure. Now motion, figure, extension and solidity can
not form a thought, and consequently the soul cannot be
matter. All this so often repeated mighty series of reason
ing, amounts to no more than this : I am absolutely ignorant
what matter is; I guess, but imperfectly, some properties
of it; now I absolutely cannot tell whether these properties
may be joined to thought. As I therefore know nothing,
I maintain positively that matter cannot think. In this
manner do the schools reason.
Mr. Locke addressed these gentlemen in the candid,
sincere manner following: At least confess yourselves to
be as ignorant as I. Neither your imaginations nor mine
are able to comprehend in what manner a body is sus
ceptible of ideas ; and do you conceive better in what man
ner a substance, of what kind soever, is susceptible of
them ? As you cannot comprehend either matter or spirit,
why will you presume to assert anything?
The superstitious man comes afterwards and declares,
that all those must be burnt for the good of their souls,
who so much as suspect that it is possible for the body to
think without any foreign assistance. But what would
these people say should they themselves be proved ir
religious? And indeed, what man can presume to assert,
without being guilty at the same time of the greatest impiety,
that it is impossible for the Creator to form matter with
thought and sensation? Consider only, I beg you, what a
dilemma you bring yourselves into, you who confine in this
manner the power of the Creator. Beasts have the same
organs, the same sensations, the same perceptions as we ;
they have memory, and combine certain ideas. In case it
was not in the power of God to animate matter, and inform
it with sensation, the consequence would be, either that
beasts are mere machines, or that they have a spiritual soul.
Methinks it is clearly evident that beasts cannot be mere
machines, which I prove thus. God has given to them the
very same organs of sensation as to us: if therefore they
have no sensation, God has created a useless thing; now
according to your own confession God does nothing in
vain; He therefore did not create so many organs of sensa-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 139
tion, merely for them to be uninformed with this faculty;
consequently beasts are not mere machines. Beasts, accord
ing to your assertion, cannot be animated with a spiritual
soul ; you will, therefore, in spite of yourself, be reduced
to this only assertion, viz., that God has endued the organs
of beasts, who are mere matter, with the faculties of sen
sation and perception, which you calLinstinrt in them. But
why may not God, if He pleases, communicate to our more
delicate organs, that faculty of feeling, perceiving, and
thinking, which we call human reason? To whatever side
you turn, you are forced toaclaiowledge your own igno
rance, and the boundless power of the Creator. Exclaim
therefore no more against the sage, the modest philosophy
of Mr. Locke, which so. far from interfering with religion,
would be of use to demonstrate the truth of it, in case
religion wanted any such support. For what philosophy can
be of a more religious nature than that, which affirming
nothing but what it conceives clearly, and conscious of its
own weakness, declares that we must always have recourse
to God in our examining of the first principles?
Besides, we must not be apprehensive that any philo
sophical opinion will ever prejudice the religion of a country.
Though our demonstrations .clash directly with our
mysteries, that is nothing to the purpose, for the latter are
not less revered upon that account by our Christian philos
ophers, who know very well that the objects of reason and
those of faith are of a very different nature. Philosophers
will never form a religious sect, the reason of which is,
their writings are not calculated for the vulgar, and they
themselves are free from enthusiasm. If we divide man
kind into twenty parts, it will be found that nineteen of
these consist of persons employed in manual labour, who
will never know that such a man as Mr. Locke existed. In
the remaining twentieth part how few are readers ? And
among such as are so, twenty amuse themselves with
romances to one who studies philosophy. The thinking part
of mankind is confined to a very small number, and these
will never disturb the peace and tranquillity of the world.
Neither Montaigne, Locke, Bayle, Spinoza, Hobbes, the
Lord Shaftesbury, Collins, nor Toland lighted up the fire-
110 VOLTAIRE
brand of discord in their countries; this has generally been
the work of divines, who being at first puffed up with the
ambition of becoming chiefs of a sect, soon grew very
desirous of being at the head of a party. But what do I
say ? All the works of the modern philosophers put to
gether will never make so much noise as even the dispute
which arose among the Franciscans, merely about the
fashion of their sleeves and of their cowls.
LETTER XIV
ON DESCARTES AND SIR ISAAC NEWTON
A FRENCHMAN who arrives in London, will find philosophy,
like everything else, very much changed there. He had left
the world a plenum, and he now finds it a vacuum. At
Paris the universe is seen composed of vortices of subtile
matter; but nothing like it is seen in London. In France,
it is the pressure of the moon that causes the tides; but in
England it is the sea that gravitates towards the moon; so
that when you think that the moon should make it flood
with us, those gentlemen fancy it should be ebb, which very
unluckily cannot be proved. For to be able to do this, it is
necessary the moon and the tides should have been inquired
into at the very instant of the creation.
You will observe farther, that the sun, which in France
is said to have nothing to do in the affair, comes in here for
very near a quarter of its assistance. According to your
Cartesians, everything is performed by an impulsion, of which
we have very little notion; and according to Sir Isaac
Newton, it is by an attraction, the cause of which is as much
unknown to us. At Paris you imagine that the earth is
shaped like a melon, or of an oblique figure ; at London it
has an oblate one. A Cartesian declares that light exists in
the air; but a Newtonian asserts that it comes from the sun
in six minutes and a half. The several operations of your
chemistry are performed by acids, alkalies and subtile mat
ter; but attraction prevails even in chemistry among the
English.
The very essence of things is totally changed. You
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 111
neither arc agreed upon the definition of the soul, nor on
that of matter. Descartes, as I observed in my last, main
tains that the soul is the same thing with thought, and Mr.
Locke has given a pretty good proof of the contrary.
Descartes asserts farther, that extension alone constitutes
matter, but Sir Isaac adds solidity to it.
How furiously contradictory are these opinions !
"Non nostrum inter vos tantas componere lites."
VIRGIL, Eclog. III.
" Tis not for us to end such great disputes."
This famous Newton, this destroyer of the Cartesian
system, died in March, anno 1727. His countrymen honoured
him in his lifetime, and interred him as though he had been
a king who had made his people happy.
The English read with the highest satisfaction, and trans
lated into their tongue, the Elogium of Sir Isaac Newton,
which M. de Fontenelle spoke in the Academy of Sciences.
M. de Fontenelle presides as judge over philosophers; and
the English expected his decision, as a solemn declaration
of the superiority of the English philosophy over that of
the French. But when it was found that this gentleman
had compared Descartes to Sir Isaac, the whole Royal
Society in London rose up in arms. So far from acquiescing
with M. Fontenelle s judgment, they criticised his discourse.
And even several (who, however, were not the ablest phi
losophers in that body) were offended at the comparison,
and for no other reason but because Descartes was a
Frenchman.
It must be confessed that these two great men differed
very much in conduct, in fortune, and in philosophy.
Nature had indulged Descartes with a shining and strong
imagination, whence he became a very singular person both
in private life and in his manner of reasoning. This imagina
tion could not conceal itself even in his philosophical
works, which are everywhere adorned with very shining,
ingenious metaphors and figures. Nature had almost made
him a poet; and indeed he wrote a piece of poetry for the
entertainment of Christina, Queen of Sweden, which how
ever was suppressed in honour to his memory.
112 VOLTAIRE
He embraced a military life for some time, and afterwards
becoming a complete philosopher, he did not think the
passion of love derogatory to his character. He had by his
mistress a daughter called Froncine, who died young," and
was very much regretted by him. Thus he experienced
every passion incident to mankind.
He was a long time of opinion that it would be necessary
for him to fly from the society of his fellow creatures, and
especially from his native country, in order to enjoy the
happiness of cultivating his philosophical studies in full
liberty.
Descartes was very right, for his contemporaries were
not knowing enough to improve and enlighten his under
standing, and were capable of little else than of giving him
uneasiness.
He left France purely to go in search of truth, which was
then persecuted by the wretched philosophy of the schools.
However, he found that reason was as much disguised and
depraved in the universities of Holland, into which he with
drew, as in his own country. For at the time that the French
condemned the only propositions of his philosophy which
were true, he was persecuted by the pretended philosophers
of Holland, who understood him no better; and who, having
a nearer view of his glory, hated his person the more, so
that he was obliged to leave Utrecht. Descartes was in
juriously accused of being an atheist, the last refuge of
religious scandal : and he who had employed all the sagacity
and penetration of his genius, in searching for new proofs
of the existence of a God, was suspected to believe there
was no such Being.
Such a persecution from all sides, must necessarily sup
pose a most exalted merit as well as a very distinguished
reputation, and indeed he possessed both. Reason at that
time darted a ray upon the world through the gloom of the
schools, and the prejudices of popular superstition. At last
his name spread so universally, that the French were de
sirous of bringing him back into his native country by
rewards, and accordingly offered him an annual pension of a
thousand crowns. Upon these hopes Descartes returned to
France; paid the fees of his patent, which was sold at that
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 113
time, but no pension was settled upon him. Thus disap
pointed, he returned to his solitude in North Holland, where
he again pursued the study of philosophy, whilst the great
Galileo, at fourscore years of age, was groaning in the
prisons of the Inquisition, only for having demonstrated the
earth s motion.
At last Descartes was snatched from the world in the
flower of his age at Stockholm. His death was owing to a
bad regimen, and he expired in the midst of some literati
who were his enemies, and under the hands of a physician
to whom he was odious.
The progress of Sir Isaac Newton s life was quite dif
ferent. He lived happy, and very much honoured in his
native country, to the age of fourscore and five years.
It was his peculiar felicity, not only to be born in a
country of liberty, but in an age when all scholastic imper
tinences were banished from the world. Reason alone was
cultivated, and mankind could only be his pupil, not his
enemy.
One very singular difference in the lives of these two great
men is, that Sir Isaac, during the long course of years he
enjoyed, was never sensible to any passion, was not subject
to the common frailties of mankind, nor ever had any com
merce with women a circumstance which was assured me
by the physician and surgeon who attended him in his last
moments.
We may admire Sir Isaac Newton on this occasion, but
then we must not censure Descartes.
The opinion that generally prevails in England with re
gard to these new philosophers is, that the latter was a
dreamer, and the former a sage.
Very few people in England read Descartes, whose works
indeed are now useless. On the other side, but a ^ small
number peruse those of Sir Isaac, because to do this the
student must be deeply skilled in the mathematics, other
wise those works will be unintelligible to him. But not
withstanding this, these great men are the subject of every
one s discourse. Sir Isaac Newton is allowed every advan
tage, whilst Descartes is not indulged a single one. Accord
ing to some, it is to the former that we owe the discovery
114 VOLTAIRE
of a vacuum, that the air is a heavy body, and the invention
of telescopes. In a word, Sir Isaac Newton is here as the
Hercules of fabulous story, to whom the ignorant ascribed
all the feats of ancient heroes.
In a critique that was made in London on M. de Fon-
tenelle s discourse, the writer presumed to assert that
Descartes was not a great geometrician. Those who make
such a declaration may justly be reproached with flying in
their master s face. Descartes extended the limits of geom
etry as far beyond the place where he found them, as Sir
Isaac did after him. The former first taught the method of
expressing curves by equations. This geometry which,
thanks to him for it, is now grown common, was so abstruse
in his time, that not so much as one professor would under
take to explain it; and Schotten in Holland, and Format
in France, were the only men who understood it.
He applied this geometrical and inventive genius to diop
trics, which, when treated of by him, became a new art.
And if he was mistaken in some things, the reason of that
is, a man who discovers a new tract of land cannot at once
know all the properties of the soil. Those who come after
him, and make these lands fruitful, are at least obliged to
him for the discovery. I will not deny but that there are
innumerable errors in the rest of Descartes works.
Geometry was a guide he himself had in some measure
fashioned, which would have conducted him safely through
the several paths of natural philosophy. Nevertheless, he
at last abandoned this guide, and gave entirely into the
humour of forming hypotheses; and then philosophy was
no more than an ingenious romance, fit only to amuse the
ignorant. He was mistaken in the nature of the soul, in the
proofs of the existence of a God, in matter, in the laws of
motion, and in the nature of light. He admitted innate
ideas, he invented new elements, he created a world; he
made man according to his own fancy; and it is justly said,
that the man of Descartes is, in fact, that of Descartes only,
very different from the real one.
He pushed his metaphysical errors so far, as to declare
that two and two make four for no other reason but be
cause God would have it so. However, it will not be making
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 115
him too great a compliment if we affirm that he was valuable
even in his mistakes. He deceived himself, but then it was
at least in a methodical way. He destroyed all the absurd
chimeras with which youth had been infatuated for two
thousand years. He taught his contemporaries how to
reason, and enabled them to employ his own weapons against
himself. If Descartes did not pay in good money, he how
ever did great service in crying down that of a base alloy.
I indeed believe that very few will presume to compare
his philosophy in any respect with that of Sir Isaac Newton.
The former is an essay, the latter a masterpiece. But then
the man who first brought us to the path of truth, was per
haps as great a genius as he who afterwards conducted us
through it.
Descartes gave sight to the blind. These saw the errors
of antiquity and of the sciences. The path he struck out is
since become boundless. Robault s little work was, during
some years, a complete system of physics ; but now all the
Transactions of the several academies in Europe put to
gether do not form so much as the beginning of a system.
In fathoming this abyss no bottom has been found. We are
now to examine what discoveries Sir Isaac Newton has
made in it
LETTER XV.
ON ATTRACTION
THE discoveries which gained Sir Isaac Newton so universal
a reputation, relate to the system of the world, to light, to
geometrical infinities; and, lastly, to chronology, with which
he used to amuse himself after the fatigue of his severer
studies.
I will now acquaint you (without prolixity if possible)
with the few things i have been able to comprehend of all
these sublime ideas. With regard to the system of our world
disputes were a long time maintained, on the cause that turns
the planets, and keeps them in their orbits; and on those
causes which make all bodies here below descend towards
the surface of the earth.
116 VOLTAIRE
The system of Descartes, explained and improved since
his time, seemed to give a plausible reason for all those
phenomena; and this reason seemed more just, as it is simple
and intelligible to all capacities. But in philosophy, a stu
dent ought to doubt of the things he fancies he understands
too easily, as much as of those he does not understand.
Gravity, the falling of accelerated bodies on the earth,
the revolution of the planets in their orbits, their rotations
round their axis, all this is mere motion. Now motion can
not perhaps be conceived any otherwise than by impulsion;
therefore all those bodies must be impelled. But by what
are they impelled? All space is full, it therefore is filled
with a very subtile matter, since this is imperceptible to us;
this matter goes from west to east, since all the planets are
carried from west to east. Thus from hypothesis to hy
pothesis, from one appearance to another, philosophers
have imagined a vast whirlpool of subtile matter, in which
the planets are carried round the sun : they also have created
another particular vortex which floats in the great one, and
which turns daily round the planets. When all this is done,
it is pretended that gravity depends on this diurnal motion;
for, say these, the velocity of the subtile matter that turns
round our little vortex, must be seventeen times more rapid
than that of the earth; or, in case its velocity is seventeen
times greater than that of the earth, its centrifugal force
must be vastly greater, and consequently impel all bodies
towards the earth. This is the cause of gravity, according
to the Cartesian system. But the theorist, before he cal
culated the centrifugal force and velocity of the subtile mat
ter, should first have been certain that it existed.
Sir Isaac Newton seems to have destroyed all these great
and little vortices, both that which carries the planets round
the sun, as well as the other which supposes every planet to
turn on its own axis.
First, with regard to the pretended little vortex of the
earth, it is demonstrated that it must lose its motion by in
sensible degrees ; it is demonstrated, that if the earth swims
in a fluid, its density must be equal to that of the earth ; and
in case its density be the same, all the bodies we endeavour
to move must meet with an insuperable resistance.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 117
With regard to the great vortices, they are still more
chimerical, and it is impossible to make them agree with
Kepler s law, the truth of which has been demonstrated.
Sir Isaac shows, that the revolution of the fluid in which
Jupiter is supposed to be carried, is not the same with re
gard to the revolution of the fluid of the earth, as the revo
lution of Jupiter with respect to that of the earth. He
proves, that as the planets make their revolutions in ellipses,
and consequently being at a much greater distance one from
the other in their Aphelia, and a little nearer in their Peri
helia; the earth s velocity, for instance, ought to be greater
when it is nearer Venus and Mars, because the fluid that
carries it along, being then more pressed, ought to have a
greater motion; and yet it is even then that the earth s
motion is slower.
He proves that there is no such thing as a celestial matter
which goes from west to east since the comets traverse
those spaces, sometimes from east to west, and at other times
from north to south.
In fine, the better to resolve, if possible, every difficulty,
he proves, and even by experiments, that it is impossible
there should be a plenum; and brings back the vacuum,
which Aristotle and Descartes had banished from the world.
Having by these and several other arguments destroyed
the Cartesian vortices, he despaired of ever being able to dis
cover whether there is a secret principle in nature which, at
the same time, is the cause of the motion of all celestial
bodies, and that of gravity on the earth. But being retired
in 1666, upon account of the Plague, to a solitude near Cam
bridge ; as he was walking one day in his garden, and saw
some fruits fall from a tree, he fell into a profound medita
tion on that gravity, the cause of which had so long been
sought, but in vain, by all the philosophers, whilst the vulgar
think there is nothing mysterious in it. He said to himself,
that from what height soever in our hemisphere, those bodies
might descend, their fall would certainly be in the progres
sion discovered by Galileo ; and the spaces they run through
would be as the square of the times. Why may not this
power which causes heavy bodies to descend, and is the same
without any sensible diminution at the remotest distance from
118 VOLTAIRE
the centre of the earth, or on the summits of the highest
mountains, why, said Sir Isaac, may not this power extend
as high as the moon? And in case its influence reaches so
far, is it not very probable that this power retains it in its
orbit, and determines its motion? But in case the moon
obeys this principle (whatever it be) may we not conclude
very naturally that the rest of the planets are equally sub
ject to it ? In case this power exists (which besides is proved)
it must increase in an inverse ratio of the squares of the
distances. All, therefore, that remains is, to examine how
far a heavy body, which should fall upon the earth from a
moderate height, would go ; and how far in the same time, a
body which should fall from the orbit of the moon, would
descend. To find this, nothing is wanted but the measure of
the earth, and the distance of the moon from it.
Thus Sir Isaac Newton reasoned. But at that time the
English had but a very imperfect measure of our globe, and
depended on the uncertain supposition of mariners, who com
puted a degree to contain but sixty English miles, whereas
it consists in reality of near seventy. As this false compu
tation did not agree with the conclusions which Sir Isaac
intended to draw from them, he laid aside this pursuit. A
half-learned philosopher, remarkable only for his vanity,
would have made the measure of the earth agree, anyhow,
with his system. Sir Isaac, however, chose rather to quit
the researches he was then engaged in. But after Mr.
Picard had measured the earth exactly, by tracing that
meridian which redounds so much to the honour of the
French, Sir Isaac Newton resumed his former reflections,
and found his account in Mr. Picard s calculation.
A circumstance which has always appeared wonderful to
me, is that such sublime discoveries should have been made
by the sole assistance of a quadrant and a little arithmetic.
The circumference of the earth is 123,249,600 feet. This,
among other things, is necessary to prove the system of
attraction.
The instant we know the earth s circumference, and the
distance of the moon, we know that of the moon s orbit, and
the diameter of this orbit. The moon performs its revolu
tion in that orbit in twenty-seven days, seven hours, forty-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 119
three minutes. It is demonstrated, that the moon in its mean
motion makes an hundred and fourscore and seven thou
sand nine hundred and sixty feet (of Paris) in a minute.
It is likewise demonstrated, by a known theorem, that the
central force which should make a body fall from the height
of the moon, would make its velocity no more than fifteen
Paris feet in a minute of time. Now if the law by which
bodies gravitate and attract one another in an inverse ratio
to the squares of the distances be true, if the same power
acts according to that law throughout all nature, it is evident
that as the earth is sixty semi-diameters distant from the
moon, a heavy body must necessarily fall (on the earth)
fifteen feet in the first second, and fifty-four thousand feet
in the first minute.
Now a heavy body falls, in reality, fifteen feet in the first
second, and goes in the first minute fifty-four thousand feet,
which number is the square of sixty multiplied by fifteen.
Bodies, therefore, gravitate in an inverse ratio of the squares
of the distances; consequently, what causes gravity on earth,
and keeps the moon in its orbit, is one and the same power;
it being demonstrated that the moon gravitates on the earth,
which is the centre of its particular motion, it is demon
strated that the earth and the moon gravitate on the sun
which is the centre of their annual motion.
The rest of the planets must be subject to this general
law; and if this law exists, these planets must follow the
laws which Kepler discovered. All these laws, all these
relations are indeed observed by the planets with the utmost
exactness; therefore, the power of attraction causes all the
planets to gravitate towards the sun, in like manner as the
moon gravitates towards our globe.
Finally as in all bodies re-action is equal to action, it is
certain that the earth gravitates also towards the moon;
and that the sun gravitates towards both. That every one
of the satellites of Saturn gravitates towards the other four,
and the other four towards it; all five towards Saturn, and
Saturn towards all. That it is the same with regard to
Jupiter; and that all these globes are attracted by the sun,
which is reciprocally attracted by them.
This power of gravitation acts proportionably to the
120 VOLTAIRE
quantity of matter in bodies, a truth, which Sir Isaac has
demonstrated by experiments. This new discovery has been
of use to show that the sun (the centre of the planetary
system) attracts them all in a direct ratio of their quantity
of matter combined with their nearness. From hence Sir
Isaac, rising by degrees to discoveries which seemed not to
be formed for the human mind, is bold enough to compute
the quantity of matter contained in the sun and in every
planet; and in this manner shows, from the simple laws of
mechanics, that every celestial globe ought necessarily to be
where it is placed.
His bare principle of the laws of gravitation accounts for
all the apparent inequalities in the course of the celestial
globes. The variations of the moon are a necessary conse
quence of those laws. Moreover, the reason is evidently
seen why the nodes of the moon perform their revolutions
in nineteen years, and those of the earth in about twenty-
six thousand. The several appearances observed in the
tides are also a very simple effect of this attraction. The
proximity of the moon, when at the full, and when it is
new, and its distance in the quadratures or quarters, com
bined with the action of the sun, exhibit a sensible reason
why the ocean swells and sinks.
After having shown by his sublime theory the course and
inequalities of the planets, he subjects comets to the same
law. The orbit of these fires (unknown for so great a series
of years), which was the terror of mankind and the rock
against which philosophy split, placed by Aristotle below the
moon, and sent back by Descartes above the sphere of
Saturn, is at last placed in its proper seat by Sir Isaac
Newton.
He proves that cornets are solid bodies which move in the
sphere of the sun s activity, and that they describe an
ellipsis so very eccentric, and so near to parabolas, that cer
tain comets must take up above five hundred years in their
revolution.
The learned Dr. Halley is of opinion that the comet seen
in 1680 is the same which appeared in Julius Caesar s time.
This shows more than any other that comets are hard,
opaque bodies; for it descended so near to the sun, as to
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 121
come within a sixth part of the diameter of this planet from
it, and consequently might have contracted a degree of heat
two thousand times stronger than that of red-hot iron; and
would have been soon dispersed in vapour, had it not been
a firm, dense body. The guessing the course of comets be
gan then to be very much in vogue. The celebrated Ber
noulli concluded by his system that the famous comet of
1680 would appear again the I7th of May, 1719. Not a
single astronomer in Europe went to bed that night. How
ever, they needed not to have broke their rest, for the famous
comet never appeared. There is at least more cunning, if
not more certainty, in fixing its return to so remote a dis
tance as five hundred and seventy-five years. As to Mr.
Whiston, he affirmed very seriously that in the time of the
Deluge a comet overflowed the terrestrial globe. And he was
so unreasonable as to wonder that people laughed at him for
making such an assertion. The ancients were almost in the
same way of thinking with Mr. Whiston, and fancied that
comets were always the forerunners of some great calamity
which was to befall mankind. Sir Isaac Newton, on the
contrary, suspected that they are very beneficent, and that
vapours exhale from them merely to nourish and vivify the
planets, which imbibe in their course the several particles
the sun has detached from the comets, an opinion which, at
least, is more probable than the former. But this is not all.
If this power of gravitation or attraction acts on all the
celestial globes, it acts undoubtedly on the several parts of
these globes. For in case bodies attract one another in pro
portion to the quantity of matter contained in them, it can
only be in proportion to the quantity of their parts; and if
this power is found in the whole, it is undoubtedly in the
half, in the quarter, in the eighth part, and so on in in-
finitum.
This is attraction, the great spring by which all Nature is
moved. Sir Isaac Newton, after having demonstrated the
existence of this principle, plainly foresaw that its very name
would offend; and, therefore, this philosopher, in more places
than one of his books, gives the reader some caution about
it. He bids him beware of confounding this name with
what the ancients called occult qualities, but to be satisfied
122
VOLTAIRE
with knowing that there is in all bodies a central force,
which acts to the utmost limits of the universe, according to
the invariable laws of mechanics.
It is surprising, after the solemn protestations Sir Isaac
made, that such eminent men as Mr. Sorin and M. de
Fontenelle should have imputed to this great philosopher the
verbal and chimerical way of reasoning of the Aristotelians;
Mr. Sorin in the Memoirs of the Academy of 1709, and M.
de Fontenelle in the very eulogium of Sir Isaac Newton.
Most of the French (the learned and others) have re
peated this reproach. These are for ever crying out, " Why
did he not employ the word impulsion, which is so well un
derstood, rather than that of attraction, which is unintelligi
ble?"
Sir Isaac might have answered these critics thus : " First,
you have as imperfect an idea of the word impulsion as of
that of attraction; and in case you cannot conceive how one
body tends towards the centre of another body, neither can
you conceive by what power one body can impel another.
" Secondly, I could not admit of impulsion ; for to do this
I must have known that a celestial matter was the agent.
But so far irom knowing that there is any such matter, I
have proved it to be merely imaginary.
" Thirdly, I use the word attraction for no other reason
but to express an effect which I discovered in Nature a
certain and indisputable effect of an unknown principle a
quality inherent in matter, the cause of which persons of
greater abilities than I can pretend to may, if they can, find
out."
"What have you, then, taught us?" will these people say
further ; " and to what purpose are so many calculations to
tell us what you yourself do not comprehend?"
" I have taught you," may Sir Isaac rejoin, " that all bodies
gravitate towards one another in proportion to their quan
tity of matter; that these central forces alone keep the
planets and comets in their orbits, and cause them to move
in the proportion before set down. I demonstrate to you
that it is impossible there should be any other cause which
keeps the planets in their orbits than that general phenome
non of gravity. For heavy bodies fall on the earth accord-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 123
ing to the proportion demonstrated of central forces; and
the planets finishing their course according to these same
proportions, in case there were another power that acted
upon all those bodies, it would either increase their velocity
or change their direction. Now, not one of those bodies
ever has a single degree of motion or velocity, or has any
direction but what is demonstrated to be the effect of the
central forces. Consequently it is impossible there should
be any other principle."
Give me leave once more to introduce Sir Isaac speaking.
Shall he not be allowed to say, " My case and that of the
ancients is very different. These saw, for instance, water
ascend in pumps, and said. the water rises because it abhors
a vacuum. But with regard to myself, I am in the case of
a man who should have first observed that water ascends
in pumps, but should leave others to explain the cause of this
effect. The anatomist, who f rst declared that the motion of
the arm is owing to the contraction of the muscles, taught
mankind an indisputable truth. But are they less obliged
to him because he did not know the reason why the muscles
contract? The cause of the elasticity of the air is unknown,
but he who first discovered this spring performed a very
signal service to natural philosophy. The spring that I dis
covered was more hidden and more universal, and for that
very reason mankind ought to tnank me the more. I have
discovered a new property of matter one of the secrets of
the Creator and have calculated and discovered the effects
of it. After this, shall people quarrel with me about the
name I give it ? "
Vortices may be called an occult quality because their ex
istence was never proved. Attraction, on the contrary, is a
real thing because its effects are demonstrated, and the pro
portions of it are calculated. The cause of this cause is
among the Arcana of the Almighty.
"Precedes hue, et non amplius"
(Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.)
124 yOLTAIRE
LETTER XVI
ON SIR ISAAC NEWTON S OPTICS
THE philosophers of the last age found out a new universe;
and a circumstance which made its discovery more difficult
was that no one had so much as suspected its existence.
The most sage and judicious were of opinion that it was a
frantic rashness to dare so much as to imagine that it was
possible to guess the laws by which the celestial bodies move
and the manner how light acts. Galileo, by his astronomical
discoveries, Kepler, by his calculation, Descartes (at least, in
his dioptrics), and Sir Isaac Newton, in all his works,
severally saw the mechanism of the springs of the world.
The geometricians have subjected infinity to the laws of cal
culation. The circulation of the blood in animals, and of
the sap in vegetables, have changed the face of Nature with
regard to us. A new kind of existence has been given to
bodies in the air-pump. By the assistance of telescopes bodies
have been brought nearer to one another. Finally, the sev
eral discoveries which Sir Isaac Newton has made on light
are equal to the boldest things which the curiosity of man
could expect after so many philosophical novelties.
Till Antonio de Dominis the rainbow was considered as
an inexplicable miracle. This philosopher guessed that it
was a necessary effect of the sun and rain. Descartes gained
immortal fame by his mathematical explication of this so
natural a phenomenon. He calculated the reflections and
refractions of light in drops of rain. And his sagacity on
this occasion was at that time looked upon as next to divine.
But what would he have said had it been proved to him
that he was mistaken in the nature of light ; that he had not
the least reason to maintain that it is a globular body ? That
it is false to assert that this matter, spreading itself through
the whole, waits only to be projected forward by the sun, in
order to be put in action, in like manner as a long staff
acts at one end when pushed forward by the other. That
light is certainly darted by the sun; in fine, that light is
transmitted from the sun to the earth in about seven minutes
though a cannon-ball, which were not to lose any of its
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 125
velocity, could not go that distance in less than twenty-
five years How great would have been his astonishment
had he been told that light does not reflect directly by im
pinging against the solid parts of bodies, that bodies are
not transparent when they have large pores, and that a
man should arise who would demonstrate all these paradoxes,
and anatomise a single ray of light with more dexterity
than the ablest artist dissects a human body. This man
is come. Sir Isaac Newton has demonstrated to the eye, by
the bare assistance of the prism, that light is a composition
of coloured rays, which, being united, form white colour.
A single ray is by him divided into seven, which all fall upon
a piece of linen, or a sheet of white paper, in their order,
one above the other, and at unequal distances. The first
is red, the second orange, the third yellow, the fourth green,
the fifth blue, the sixth indigo, the seventh a violet-purple.
Each of these rays, transmitted afterwards by a hundred
other prisms, will never change the colour it bears; in like
manner, as gold, when completely purged from its dross, will
never change afterwards in the crucible. As a superabundant
proof that each of these elementary rays has inherently
in itself that which forms its colour to the eye, take a small
piece of yellow wood, for instance, and set it in the ray of
a red colour ; this wood will instantly be tinged red. But set
it in the ray of a green colour, it assumes a green colour,
and so of all the rest.
From what cause, therefore, do colo.urs arise in Nature?
It is nothing but the disposition of bodies to reflect the rays
of a certain order and to absorb all the rest.
What, then, is this secret disposition? Sir Isaac Newton
demonstrates that it is nothing more than the density of the
small constituent particles of which a body is composed.
And how is this reflection performed? It was supposed to
arise from the rebounding of the rays, in the same manner
as a ball on the surface of a solid body. But this is a mistake,
for Sir Isaac taught the astonished philosophers that bodies
are opaque for no other reason but because their pores are-
large, that light reflects on our eyes from the very bosom
of those pores, that the smaller the pores of a body are the
snore such a body is transparent. Thus paper, which reflects
126 VOLTAIRE
the light when dry, transmits it when oiled, because the
oil, by filling its pores, makes them much smaller.
It is there that examining the vast porosity of bodies,
every particle having its pores, and every particle of those
particles having its own, he shows we are not certain that
there is a cubic inch of solid matter in the universe, so far
are we from conceiving what matter is. Having thus divided,
as it were, light into its elements, and carried the sagacity
of his discoveries so far as to prove the method of distin
guishing compound colours from such as are primitive, he
shows that these elementary rays, separated by the prism,
are ranged in their order for no other reason but because
they are refracted in that very order; and it is this property
(unknown till he discovered it) of breaking or splitting in
this proportion; it is this unequal refraction of rays, this
power of refracting the red less than the orange colour, &c.,
which he calls the different refrangibility. The most re-
flexible rays are the most refrangible, and from hence he
evinces that the same power is the cause both of the reflec
tion and refraction of light.
But all these wonders are merely but the opening of his
discoveries. He found out the secret to see the vibrations
or fits of light which come and go incessantly, and which
either transmit light or reflect it, according to the density
of the parts they meet with. He has presumed to calculate
the density of the particles of air necessary between two
glasses, the one flat, the other convex on one side, set one
upon the other, in order to operate such a transmission or
reflection, or to form such and such a colour.
From all these combinations he discovers the proportion
in which light acts on bodies and bodies act on light.
He saw light so perfectly, that he has determined to what
degree of perfection the art of increasing it, and of assist
ing our eyes by telescopes, can be carried.
Descartes, from a noble confidence that was very excus
able, considering how strongly he was fired at the first
discoveries he made in an art which he almost first found
out; Descartes, I say, hoped to discover in the stars, by the
assistance of telescopes, objects as small as those we discern
upon the earth.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 127
But Sir Isaac has shown that dioptric telescopes cannot
be brought to a greater perfection, because of that refrac
tion, and of that very refrangibility, which at the same time
that they bring objects nearer to us, scatter too much the
elementary rays. He has calculated in these glasses the
proportion of the scattering of the red and of the blue
rays; and proceeding so far as to demonstrate things which
were not supposed even to exist, he examines the inequalities
which arise from the shape or figure of the glass, and that
which arises from the refrangibility. He finds that the ob
ject glass of the telescope being convex on one side and flat
on the other, in case the flat side be turned towards the ob
ject, the error which arises from the construction and posi
tion of the glass is above five thousand times less than the
error which arises from the refrangibility; and, therefore,
that the shape or figure of the glasses is not the cause why
telescopes cannot be carried to a greater perfection, but
arises wholly from the nature of light.
For this reason he invented a telescope, which discovers
objects by reflection, and not by refraction. Telescopes of
this new kind are very hard to make, and their use is not
easy; but, according to the English, a reflective telescope of
but five feet has the same effect as another of a hundred
feet in length.
LETTER XVII
ON INFINITES IN GEOMETRY, AND SIR ISAAC
NEWTON S CHRONOLOGY
THE labyrinth and abyss of infinity is also a new course Sir
Isaac Newton has gone through, and we are obliged to him
for the clue, by whose assistance we are enabled to trace
its various windings.
Descartes got the start of him also in this astonishing
invention. He advanced with mighty steps in his geometry,
and was arrived at the very borders of infinity, but went
no farther. Dr. Wallis, about the middle of the last century,
was the first who reduced a fraction by a perpetual division
to an infinite series.
The Lord Brouncker employed this series to square the
hyperbola.
128 VOLTAIRE
Mercator published a demonstration of this quadrature;
much about which time Sir Isaac Newton, being then twenty-
three years of age, had invented a general method, to per
form on all geometrical curves what had just before been
tried on the hyperbola.
It is to this method of subjecting everywhere infinity to
algebraical calculations, that the name is given of differential
calculations or of fluxions and integral calculation. It is the
art of numbering and measuring exactly a thing whose
existence cannot be conceived.
And, indeed, would you not imagine that a man laughed
at you who should declare that there are lines infinitely great
which form an angle infinitely little?
That a right line, which is a right line so long as it is
finite, by changing infinitely little its direction, becomes an
infinite curve; and that a curve may become infinitely less
than another curve?
That there are infinite squares, infinite cubes, and infinites
of infinites, all greater than one another, and the last but
one of which is nothing in comparison of the last?
All these things, which at first appear to be the utmost
excess of frenzy, are in reality an effort of the sublety and
extent of the human mind, and the art of finding truths
which till then had been unknown.
This so bold edifice is even founded on simple ideas. The
business is to measure the diagonal of a square, to give the
area of a curve, to find the square root of a number, which
has none in common arithmetic. After all, the imagination
ought not to be startled any more at so many orders of
infinites than at the so well-known proposition, viz., that
curve lines may always be made to pass between a circle
and a tangent, or at that other, namely, that matter is
divisible in infinitum. These two truths have been demon
strated many years, and are no less incomprehensible than
the things we have been speaking of.
For many years the invention of this famous calculation
was denied to Sir Isaac Newton. In Germany Mr. Leibnitz
was considered as the inventor of the differences or moments,
called fluxions, and Mr. Bernoulli claimed the integral cal
culus. However, Sir Isaac is now thought to have first
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 129
made the discovery, and the other two have the glory of
having once made the world doubt whether it was to be
ascribed to him or them. Thus some contested with Dr.
Harvey the invention of the circulation of the blood, as
others disputed with Mr. Perrault that of the circulation
of the sap.
Hartsocher and Leuwenhoek disputed with each other the
honour of having first seen the vermiculi of which mankind
are formed. This Hartsocher also contested with Huygens
the invention of a new method of calculating the distance
of a fixed star. It is not yet known to what philosopher we
owe the invention of the cycloid.
Be this as it will, it is by the help of this geometry
of infinites that Sir Isaac Newton attained to the most
sublime discoveries. I am now to speak of another work,
which, though more adapted to the capacity of the hu
man mind, does nevertheless display some marks of that
creative genius with which Sir Isaac Newton was informed
in all his researches. The work I mean is a chronology of
a new kind, for what province soever he undertook he was
sure to change the ideas and opinions received by the rest
of men.
Accustomed to unravel and disentangle chaos, he was
resolved to convey at least some light into that of the fables
of antiquity which are blended and confounded with history,
and fix an uncertain chronology. It is true that there is no
family, city, or nation, but endeavours to remove its original
as far backward as possible. Besides, the first historians
were the most negligent in setting down the eras: books
were infinitely less common than they are at this time, and,
consequently, authors being not so obnoxious to censure, they
therefore imposed upon the world with greater impunity;
and, as it is evident that these have related a great number
of fictitious particulars, it is probable enough that they also
gave us several false eras.
It appeared in general to Sir Isaac that the world was
five hundred years younger than chronologers declare it to
be. He grounds his opinion on the ordinary course of
Nature, and on the observations which astronomers have
made.
( E ) HC xxxiv
13 Q VOLTAIRE
By the course of Nature we here understand the time that
every generation of men lives upon the earth. The Egyp
tians first employed this vague and uncertain method of cal
culating when they began to write the beginning of their
history. These computed three hundred and forty-one gener
ations from Menes to Sethon ; and, having no fixed era, they
supposed three generations to consist of a hundred years.
In this manner they computed eleven thousand three hun
dred and forty years from Menes s reign to that of Sethon.
The Greeks before they counted by Olympiads followed
the method of the Egyptians, and even gave a little more ex
tent to generations, making each to consist of forty years.
Now, here, both the Egyptians and the Greeks made an
erroneous computation. It is true, indeed, that, according to
the usual course of Nature, three generations last about
a hundred and twenty years; but three reigns are far from
taking up so many. It is very evident that mankind in
general live longer than kings are found to reign, so that
an author who should write a history in which there were no
dates fixed, and should know that nine kings had reigned
over a nation ; such a historian would commit a great error
should he allow three hundred years to these nine monarchs.
Every generation takes about thirty-six years; every reign
is, one with the other, about twenty. Thirty kings of Eng
land have swayed the sceptre from William the Conqueror
to George I., the years of whose reigns added together
amount to six hundred and forty-eight years; which, being
divided equally among the thirty kings, give to every one a
reign of twenty-one years and a half very near. Sixty-
three kings of France have sat upon the throne ; these have,
one with another, reigned about twenty years each. This is
the usual course of Nature. The ancients, therefore, were
mistaken when they supposed the durations in general of
reigns to equal that of generations. They, therefore, al
lowed too great a number of years, and consequently some
years must be subtracted from their computation.
Astronomical observations seem to have lent a still greater
assistance to our philosopher. He appears to us stronger
when he fights upon his own ground.
You know that the earth, besides its annual motion which
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 131
carries it round the sun from west to east in the space of a
year, has also a singular revolution which was quite unknown
till within these late years. Its poles have a very slow ret
rograde motion from east to west, whence it happens that
their position every day does not correspond exactly with the
same point of the heavens. This difference which is so in
sensible in a year, becomes pretty considerable in time; and
in threescore and twelve years the difference is found to be
of one degree, that is to say, the three hundred and sixtieth
part of the circumference of the whole heaven. Thus after
seventy-two years the colure of the vernal equinox which
passed through a fixed star, corresponds with another fixed
star. Hence it is that the sun, instead of being in that part
of the heavens in which the Ram was situated in the time of
Hipparchus, is found to correspond with that part of the
heavens in which the Bull was situated; and the Twins are
placed where the Bull then stood. All the signs have changed
their situation, and yet we still retain the same manner of
speaking as the ancients did. In this age we say that the sun
is in the Ram in the spring, from the same principle of con
descension that we say that the sun turns round.
Hipparchus was the first among the Greeks who observed
some change in the constellations with regard to the equi
noxes, or rather who learnt it from the Egyptians. Philoso
phers ascribed this motion to the stars; for in those ages
people were far from imagining such a revolution in the
earth, which was supposed to be immovable in every re
spect. They therefore created a heaven in which they fixed
the several stars, and gave this heaven a particular motion
by which it was carried towards the east, whilst that all the
stars seemed to perform their diurnal revolution from east
to west. To this error they added a second of much greater
consequence, by imagining that the pretended heaven of the
fixed stars advanced one degree eastward every hundred
years. In this manner they were no less mistaken in their
astronomical calculation than in their system of natural
philosophy. As for instance, an astronomer in that age
would have said that the vernal equinox was in the time of
such and such an observation, in such a sign, and in such a
star. It has advanced two degrees of each since the time
132 VOLTAIRE
that observation was made to the present. Now two de
grees are equivalent to two hundred years; consequently the
astronomer who made that observation lived just so many
years before me. It is certain that an astronomer who had
argued in this manner would have mistook just fifty-four
years; hence it is that the ancients, who were doubly
deceived, made their great year of the world, that is, the
revolution of the whole heavens, to consist of thirty-six
thousand years. But the moderns are sensible that this
imaginary revolution of the heaven of the stars is nothing
else than the revolution of the poles of the earth, which is
performed in twenty-five thousand nine hundred years. It
may be proper to observe transiently in this place, that Sir
Isaac, by determining the figure of the earth, has very hap
pily explained the cause of this revolution.
All this being laid down, the only thing remaining to settle
chronology is to see through what star the colure of the
equinoxes passes, and where it intersects at this time the
ecliptic in the spring; and to discover whether some an
cient writer does not tell us in what point the ecliptic was
intersected in his time, by the same colure of the equinoxes.
Clemens Alexandrinus informs us, that Chiron, who went
with the Argonauts, observed the constellations at the time
of that famous expedition, and fixed the vernal equinox to
the middle of the Ram; the autumnal equinox to the middle
of Libra; our summer solstice to the middle of Cancer, and
our winter solstice to the middle of Capricorn.
A long time after the expedition of the Argonauts, and a
year before the Peloponnesian war, Methon observed tha
the point of the summer solstice passed through the eighth
degree of Cancer.
Now every sign of the zodiac contains thirty degrees. In
Chiron s time, the solstice was arrived at the middle of the
sign, that is to say to the fifteenth degree. A year before the
Peloponnesian war it was at the eighth, and therefore it hac
retarded seven degrees. A degree is equivalent to seventy
two years; consequently, from the beginning of the Pelo
ponnesian war to the expedition of the Argonauts, there
is no more than an interval of seven times seventy
two years, which make five hundred and four years, an<
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 133
not seven hundred years, as the Greeks computed. Thus
in comparing the position of the heavens at this time
with their position in that age, we find that the ex
pedition of the Argonauts ought to be placed about nine
hundred years before Christ, and not about fourteen hun
dred; and consequently that the world is not so old by five
hundred years as it was generally supposed to be. By this
calculation all the eras are drawn nearer, and the several
events are found to have happened later than is computed.
I don t know whether this ingenious system will be favoura
bly received; and whether these notions will prevail so far
with the learned, as to prompt them to reform the chronology
of the world. Perhaps these gentlemen would think it too
great a condescension to allow one and the same man the
glory of having improved natural philosophy, geometry, and
history. This would be a kind of universal monarchy, with
which the principle of self-love that is in man will scarce
suffer him to indulge his fellow-creature; and, indeed, at the
same time that some very great philosophers attacked Sir
Isaac Newton s attractive principle, others fell upon his
chronological system. Time, that should discover to which
of these the victory is due, may perhaps only leave the dis
pute still more undetermined.
LETTER XVIII
ON TRAGEDY
THE English as well as the Spaniards were possessed of
theatres at a time when the French had no more than mov
ing, itinerant stages. Shakspeare, who was considered as
the Corneille of the first-mentioned nation, was pretty nearly
contemporary with Lope de Vega, and he created, as it
were, the English theatre. Shakspeare boasted a strong
fruitful genius. He was natural and sublime, but had not
so much as a single spark of good taste, or knew one rule
of the drama. I will now hazard a random, but, at the
same time, true reflection, which is, that the great merit of
this dramatic poet has been the ruin of the English stage.
There are such beautiful, such noble, such dreadful scenes
134 VOLTAIRE
in this writer s monstrous farces, to which the name of
tragedy is given, that they have always been exhibited with
great success. Time, which alone gives reputation to
writers, at last makes their very faults venerable. Most
of the whimsical gigantic images of this poet, have, through
length of time (it being a hundred and fifty years since they
were first drawn) acquired a right of passing for sublime.
Most of the modern dramatic writers have copied him;
but the touches and descriptions which are applauded in
Shakspeare, are hissed at in these writers; and you will
easily believe that the veneration in which this author i
held, increases in proportion to the contempt which is
shown to the moderns. Dramatic writers don t consider
that they should not imitate him; and the ill-success of
Shakespeare s imitators produces no other effect, than to
make him be considered as inimitable. You remember
that in the tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice, a most ten
der piece, a man strangles his wife on the stage; and that
the poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud that
she dies very unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark, two grave-diggers make a grave, and are all the
time drinking, singing ballads, and making humorous re
flections (natural indeed enough to persons of their pro
fession) on the several skulls they throw up ^ with their
spades; but a circumstance which will surprise you is,
that this ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the
reign of King Charles II., which was that of politeness,
and the Golden Age of the liberal arts; Otway, in his
Venice Preserved, introduces Antonio the senator, and
Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the horrors of the
Marquis of Bedemar s conspiracy. Antonio, the super
annuated senator plays, in his mistress s presence, all the
apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee, who is quite
frantic and out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog,
and bites his mistress s legs, who kicks and whips him.
However, the players have struck these buffooneries (which
indeed were calculated merely for the dregs of the people)
out of Otway s tragedy; but they have still left in Shaks
peare s Julius Casar the jokes of the Roman shoemakers and
cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 135
and Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those
who have hitherto discoursed with you on the English stage,
and especially on the celebrated Shakspeare, have taken
notice only of his errors; and that no one has translated
any of those strong, those forcible passages which atone
for all his faults. But to this I will answer, that nothing
is easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly impertinences
which a poet may have thrown out; but that it is a very
difficult task to translate his fine verses. All your junior
academical sophs, who set up for censors of the eminent
writers, compile whole volumes; but methinks two pages
which display some of the beauties of great geniuses, are
of infinitely more value than all the idle rhapsodies of those
commentators ; and I will join in opinion with all persons
of good taste in declaring, that greater advantage may be
reaped from a dozen verses of Homer or Virgil, than from
all the critiques put together which have been made on
those two great poets.
I have ventured to translate some passages of the most
celebrated English poets, and shall now give you one from
Shakspeare. Pardon the blemishes of the translation for
the sake of the original; and remember always that when
you see a version, you see merely a faint print of a beauti
ful picture. I have made choice of part of the celebrated
soliloquy in Hamlet, which you may remember is as fol
lows :
" To be, or not to be ? that is the question 1
Whether t is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them ? To die ! to sleep !
No more ! and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ! T is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die ! to sleep !
To sleep ; perchance to dream ! Ay, there s the rub ;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor s wrong, the poor man s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law s delay,
136 VOLTAIRE
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o er with the pale cast of thought :
And enterprises of great weight and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action "
My version of it runs thus:
" Demeure, il faut choisir et passer a 1 instant
De la vie a la mort, ou de 1 etre au neant.
Dieux cruels, s il en est, eclairez mon courage.
Faut-il vieillir courbe sous la main qui m outrage,
Supporter, ou finir mon malheur et mon sort?
Qui suis je? Qui m arrete ! et qu est-ce que la mort?
C est la fin de nos maux, c est mon unique asile
Apres de longs transports, c est un sommeil tranquile.
On s endort, et tout meurt, mais un affreux reveil
Doit succeder peut etre aux douceurs du sommeil !
On nous menace, on dit que cette courte vie,
De tourmens eternels est aussi-tot suivie.
O mort ! moment fatal ! affreuse eternite !
Tout coeur a ton seul nom se glace epouvante.
Eh ! qui pourroit sans toi supporter cette vie,
De nos pretres menteurs benir 1 hypocrisie ;
D une indigne maitresse encenser les erreurs,
Ramper sous un ministre, adorer ses hauteurs ;
Et montrer les langueurs de son ame abattue,
A des amis ingrats qui detournent la viie?
La mort seroit trop douce en ces extremitez,
Mais le scrupule parle, et nous crie, arretez ;
II defend a nos mains cet heureux homicide
Et d un heros guerrier, fait un Chretien timide," &c.
Do not imagine that I have translated Shakspeare in
a servile manner. Woe to the writer who gives a literal
version; who by rendering every word of his original, by
that very means enervates the sense, and extinguishes all
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 137
the fire of it. It is on such an occasion one may justly
affirm, that the letter kills, but the Spirit quickens.
Here follows another passage copied from a celebrated
tragic writer among the English. It is Dryden, a poet
in the reign of Charles II. a writer whose genius was
too exuberant, and not accompanied with judgment enough.
Had he written only a tenth part of the works he left
behind him, his character would have been conspicuous in
every part; but his great fault is his having endeavoured
to be universal.
The passage in question is as follows:
" When I consider life, t is all a cheat,
Yet fooled by hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on and think, to-morrow will repay;
To-morrow s falser than the former day ;
Lies more ; and whilst it says we shall be blest
With some new joy, cuts off what we possessed;
Strange cozenage ! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain,
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I m tired with waiting for this chymic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old."
I shall now give you my translation:
" De desseins en regrets et d erreurs en desirs
Les mortels insenses promenent leur folie.
Dans des malheurs presents, dans 1 espoir des plaisirs
Nous ne vivons jamais, nous attendons la vie.
Demain, demain, dit-on, va combler tous nos voeux.
Demain vient, et nous laisse encore plus malheureux.
Quelle est 1 erreur, helas ! du soin qui nous devore,
Nul de nous ne voudroit recommencer son cours.
De nos premiers momens nous maudissons 1 aurore,
Et de la nuit qui vient nous attendons encore,
Ce qu ont en vain promis les plus beaux de nos jours," &c.
It is in these detached passages that the English have
hitherto excelled. Their dramatic pieces, most of which are
barbarous and without decorum, order, or verisimilitude,
dart such resplendent flashes through this gleam, as amaze
and astonish. The style is too much inflated, too unnatural,
too closely copied from the Hebrew writers, who abound
so much with the Asiatic fustian. But then it must be also
138 VOLTAIRE
confessed that the stilts of the figurative style, on which
the English tongue is lifted up, raises the genius at the same
time very far aloft, though with an irregular pace. The
first English writer who composed a regular tragedy, and
infused a spirit of elegance through every part of it, was
the illustrious Mr. Addison. His " Cato " is a masterpiece,
both with regard to the diction and to the beauty and har
mony of the numbers. The character of Cato is, in my
opinion, vastly superior to that of Cornelia in the " Pompey "
of Corneille, for Cato is great without anything like fus
tian, and Cornelia, who besides is not a necessary character,
tends sometimes to bombast. Mr. Addison s Cato appears
to me the greatest character that was ever brought upon
any stage, but then the rest of them do not correspond to
the dignity of it, and this dramatic piece, so excellently
well writ, is disfigured by a dull love plot, which spreads
a certain languor over the whole, that quite murders it.
The custom of introducing love at random and at any
rate in the drama passed from Paris to London about 1660,
with our ribbons and our perruques. The ladies who
adorn the theatrical circle there, in like manner as in this
city will suffer love only to be the theme of every conversa
tion. The judicious Mr. Addison had the effeminate com
plaisance to soften the severity of his dramatic character,
so as to adapt it to the manners of the age, and, from- an
endeavour to please, quite ruined a masterpiece in its kind.
Since his time the drama is become more regular, the
audience more difficult to be pleased, and writers more
correct and less bold. I have seen some new pieces that
were written with great regularity, but which, at the same
time, were very flat and insipid. One would think that the
English had been hitherto formed to produce irregular
beauties only. The shining monsters of Shakspeare give
infinite more delight than the judicious images of the
moderns. Hitherto the poetical genius of the English re
sembles a tufted tree planted by the hand of Nature, that
throws out a thousand branches at random, and spreads
unequally, but with great vigour. It dies if you attempt
to force its nature, and to lop and dress it in the same man
ner as the trees of the Garden of Marli.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 139
LETTER XIX
ON COMEDY
I AM surprised that the judicious and ingenious Mr. de
Muralt, who has published some letters on the English and
French nations, should have confined himself, in treating
of comedy, merely to censure Shadwell the comic writer.
This author was had in pretty great contempt in Mr. de
Muralt s time, and was not the poet of the polite part of
the nation. His dramatic pieces, which pleased some time
in acting, were despised by all persons of taste, and might
be compared to many plays which I have seen in France,
that drew crowds to the play-house, at the same time that
they were intolerable to read; and of which it might be
said, that the whole city of Paris exploded them, and yet
all flocked to see them represented on the stage. Me-
thinks Mr. de Muralt should have mentioned an excellent
comic writer (living when he was in England), I mean
Mr. Wycherley, who was a long time known publicly to be
happy in the good graces of the most celebrated mistress
of King Charles II. This gentleman, who passed his life
among persons of the highest distinction, was perfectly
well acquainted with their lives and their follies, and painted
them with the strongest pencil, and in the truest colours.
He has drawn a misanthrope or man-hater, in imitation
of that of Moliere. All Wycherley s strokes are stronger
and bolder than those of our misanthrope, but then they
are less delicate, and the rules of decorum are not so well
observed in this play. The English writer has corrected
the only defect that is in Moliere s comedy, the thinness of
the plot, which also is so disposed that the characters in it
do not enough raise our concern. The English comedy
affects us, and the contrivance of the plot is very ingenious,
but at the same time it is too bold for the French manners.
The fable is this: A captain of a man-of-war, who is very
brave, open-hearted, and inflamed with a spirit of contempt
for all mankind, has a prudent, sincere friend, whom he
yet is suspicious of. and a mistress that loves him with the
utmost excess of passion. The captain so far from return-
14 Q VOLTAIRE
ing her love, will not even condescend to look upon her,
but confides entirely in a false friend, who is the most
worthless wretch living. At the same time he has given his
heart to a creature, who is the greatest coquette and the
most perfidious of her sex, and he is so credulous as to
be confident she is a Penelope, and his false friend a
Cato. He embarks on board his ship in order to go and
fight the Dutch, having left all his money, his jewels, and
everything he had in the world to this virtuous creature,
whom at the same time he recommends to the care of his
supposed faithful friend. Nevertheless the real man of
honour, whom he suspects so unaccountably, goes on board
the ship with him, and the mistress, on whom he would
not bestow so much as one glance, disguises herself in the
habit of a page, and is with him the whole voyage, with
out his once knowing that she is of a sex different from that
she attempts to pass for, which, by the way, is not over
natural.
The captain having blown up his own ship m an <
gagement, returns to England abandoned and undone, ac
companied by his page and his friend, without knowing
the friendship of the one or the tender passion of the
other. Immediately he goes to the jewel among women,
who he expected had preserved her fidelity to him and the
treasure he had left in her hands. He meets with her
indeed, but married to the honest knave in whom he had
reposed so much confidence, and finds she had acted as
treacherously with regard to the casket he had entrusted
her with. The captain can scarce think it possible that a
woman of virtue and honour can act so vile a part; but to
convince him still more of the reality of it, this very worthy
lady falls in love with the little page, and will force him to
her embraces. But as it is requisite justice should be
done, and that in a dramatic piece virtue ought to be re
warded and vice punished, it is at last found that the captain
takes his page s place and lies with his faithless mistress,
cuckolds his treacherous friend, thrusts his sword through
his body, recovers his casket, and marries his page. You
will observe that this play is also larded with a petulant,
litigious old woman (a relation of the captain), who is
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 141
the most comical character that was ever brought upon the
stage.
Wycherley has also copied from Moliere another play,
of as singular and bold a cast, which is a .kind of Ecole des
Femmes, or, School for Married Women.
The principal character in this comedy is one Horner,
a sly fortune hunter, and the terror of all the City hus
bands. This fellow, in order to play a surer game, causes
a report to be spread, that in his last illness, the surgeons
had found it necessary to have him made a eunuch. Upon
his appearing in this noble character, all the husbands in
town flocked to him with their wives, and now poor Horner
is only puzzled about his choice. However, he gives the
preference particularly to a little female peasant, a very
harmless, innocent creature, who enjoys a fine flush of
health, and cuckolds her husband with a simplicity that
has infinitely more merit than the witty malice of the most
experienced ladies. This play cannot indeed be called the
school of good morals, but it is certainly the school of wit
and true humour.
Sir John Vanbrugh has written several comedies, which
are more humorous than those of Mr. Wycherley, but not
so ingenious. Sir John was a man of pleasure, and like
wise a poet and an architect. The general opinion is,
that he is as sprightly in his writings as he is heavy in
his buildings. It is he who raised the famous Castle of
Blenheim, a ponderous and lasting monument of our unfor
tunate Battle of Hochstet. Were the apartments but as
spacious as the walls are thick, this castle would be com
modious enough. Some wag, in an epitaph he made on Sir
John Vanbrugh, has these lines:
" Earth lie light on him, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee."
Sir John having taken a tour into France before the
glorious war that broke out in 1701, was thrown into the
Bastille, and detained there for some time, without being
ever able t3 discover the motive which had prompted our
ministry to indulge him with this mark of their distinction.
He wrote a comedy during his confinement; and a cir-
142 VOLTAIRE
cumstance which appears to me very extraordinary is, that
we don t meet with so much as a single satirical stroke
against the country in which he had been so injuriously
treated.
The late Mr. Congreve raised the glory of comedy to a
greater height than any English writer before or since his
time. He wrote only a few plays, but they are all ex
cellent in their kind. The laws of the drama are strictly
observed in them ; they abound with characters all which are
shadowed with the utmost delicacy, and we don t meet with
so much as one low or coarse jest. The language is every
where that of men of honour, but their actions are those
of knaves a proof that he was perfectly well acquainted
with human nature, and frequented what we call polite com
pany. He was infirm and come to the verge of life when I
knew him. Mr. Congreve had one defect, which was his
entertaining too mean an idea of his first profession (that
of a writer), though it was to this he owed his fame and
fortune. He spoke of his works as of trifles that were
beneath him; and hinted to me, in our first conversation,
that I should visit him upon no other footing than that of
a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity. I
answered, that had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere
gentleman, I should never have come to see him; and I
was very much disgusted at so unseasonable a piece of
vanity.
Mr. Congreve s comedies are the most witty and regular,
those of Sir John Vanbrugh most gay and humorous, and
those of Mr. Wycherley have the greatest force and spirit.
It may be proper to observe that these fine geniuses never
spoke disadvantageous^ of Moliere; and that none but
the contemptible writers among the English have en
deavoured to lessen the character of that great comic poet.
Such Italian musicians as despise Lully are themselves per
sons of no character or ability ; but a Buononcini esteems
that great artist, and does justice to his merit.
The English have some other good comic writers living,
such as Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Gibber, who is an
excellent player, and also Poet Laureate a t tie which,
how ridiculous soever it may be thought, is yet worth a
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 143
thousand crowns a year (besides some considerable
privileges) to the person who enjoys it. Our illustrious
Corneille had not so much.
To conclude. Don t desire me to descend to particulars
with regard to these English comedies, which I am so fond
of applauding; nor to give you a single smart saying or
humorous stroke from Wycherley or Congreve. We don t
laugh in reading a translation. If you have a mind to
understand the English comedy, the only way to do this
will be for you to go to England, to spend three years in
London, to make yourself master of the English tongue,
and to frequent the playhouse every night. I receive but
little pleasure from the perusal of Aristophanes and Plautus,
and for this reason because I am neither a Greek nor
a Roman. The delicacy of the humour, the allusion, the
a propos all these are lost to a foreigner.
But it is different with respect to tragedy, this treating
only of exalted passions and heroical follies, which the
antiquated errors of fable or history have made sacred.
(Edipus, Electra, and such-like characters, may with as
much propriety be treated of by the Spaniards, the English,
or us, as by the Greeks. But true comedy is the speaking
picture of the follies and ridiculous foibles of a nation; so
that he only is able to judge of the painting who is perfectly
acquainted with the people it represents.
LETTER XX
ON SUCH OF THE NOBILITY AS CULTIVATE
THE BELLES LETTRES
THERE once was a time in France when the polite arts
were cultivated by persons of the highest rank in the state.
The courtiers particularly were conversant in them, al
though indolence, a taste for trifles, and a passion for
intrigue, were the divinities of the country. The Court me-
thinks at this time seems to have given into a taste quite
opposite to that of polite literature, but perhaps the mode
of thinking may be revived in a little time. The French are
of so flexible a disposition, may be moulded into such a
144 VOLTAIRE
variety of shapes, that the monarch needs but command
and he is immediately obeyed. The English generally think,
and learning is had in greater honour among them than in
our country an advantage that results naturally from the
form of their government. There are about eight hundred
persons in England who have a right to speak in public,
and to support the interest of the kingdom and near five or
six thousand may in their turns aspire to the same honour.
The whole nation set themselves up as judges over these,
and every man has the liberty of publishing his thoughts
with regard to public affairs, which shows that all the people
in general are indispensably obliged to cultivate their
understandings. In England the governments of Greece
and Rome are the subject of every conversation, so that
every man is under a necessity of perusing such authors
as treat of them, how disagreeable soever it may be to
him; and this study leads naturally to that of polite litera
ture. Mankind in general speak well in their respective
professions. What is the reason why our magistrates, our
lawyers, our physicians, and a great number of the clergy,
are abler scholars, have a finer taste, and more wit, than
persons of all other professions ? The reason is, because
their condition of life requires a cultivated and enlightened
mind, in the same manner as a merchant is obliged to be
acquainted with his traffic. Not long since an English
nobleman, who was very young, came to see me at Paris
on his return from Italy. He had written a poetical
description of that country, which, for delicacy and polite
ness, may vie with anything we meet with in the Earl of
Rochester, or in our Chaulieu, our Sarrasin, or Chapelle.
The translation I have given of it is so inexpressive of the
strength and delicate humour of the original, that I am
obliged seriously to ask pardon of the author and of all
who understand English. However, as this is the only
method I have to make his lordship s verses known, I
shall here present you with them in our tongue :
" Qu ay je done vu dans 1 Italie?
Orgueil, astuce, et pauvrete,
Grands complimens, peu de bonte
Et beaucoup de ceremonie.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 145
" L extravagante comedie
Que souvent 1 Inquisition
Veut qu on nomme religion
Mais qu ici nous nommons folie.
" La Nature en vain bienfaisante
Veut enricher ses lieux charmans,
Des pretres la main desolante
Etouffe ses plus beaux presens.
" Les monsignors, soy disant Grands,
Seuls dans leurs palais magnifiques
Y sont d illustres faineants,
Sans argent, et sans domestiques.
" Pour les petits, sans liberte,
Martyrs du joug qui les domine,
Us ont fait voeu de pauvrete,
Priant Dieu par oisivete
Et tou jours jeunant par famine.
" Ces beaux lieux du Pape benis
Semblent habitez par les diables ;
Et les habitans miserables
Sont damnes dans le Paradis."
LETTER XXI
ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER AND MR. WALLER
THE Earl of Rochester s name is universally known. Mr.
de St. Evremont has made very frequent mention of him,
but then he has represented this famous nobleman in no
other light than as the man of pleasure, as one who was
the idol of the fair; but, with regard to myself, I would
willingly describe in him the man of genius, the great poet.
Among other pieces which display the shining imagination
his lordship only could boast, he wrote some satires on the
same subjects as those our celebrated Boileau made choice
of. I do not know any better method of improving the taste
than to compare the productions of such great geniuses as
have exercised their talent on the same subject. Boileau
declaims as follows against human reason in his " Satire
on Man :"
146 VOLTAIRE
" Cependant a le voir plein de vapeurs legeres,
Soi-meme se bercer de ses propres chimeres,
Lui seul de la nature est la baze et 1 appui,
Et le dixieme ciel ne tourne que pour lui.
De tous les animaux il est ici le maitre ;
Qui pourroit le nier, poursuis tu? Moi peut-etre.
Ce maitre pretendu qui leur donne des loix,
Ce roi des animaux, combien a-t il de rois ? "
" Yet, pleased with idle whimsies of his brain,
And puffed with pride, this haughty thing would fain
Be think himself the only stay and prop
That holds the mighty frame of Nature up.
The skies and stars his properties must seem,
********
Of all the creatures he s the lord, he cries.
And who is there, say you, that dares deny
So owned a truth? That may be, sir, do I.
This boasted monarch of the world who awes
The creatures here, and with his nod gives laws
This self-named king, who thus pretends to be
The lord of all, how many lords has he ? "
OLDHAM, a little altered.
The Lord Rochester expresses himself, in his " Satire
against Man," in pretty near the following manner. But
I must first desire you always to remember that the ver
sions I give you from the English poets are written with
freedom and latitude, and that the restraint of our versi
fication, and the delicacies of the French tongue, will not
allow a translator to convey into it the licentious im
petuosity and fire of the English numbers:
" Cet esprit que je hais, cet esprit plein d erreur,
Ce n est pas ma raison, c est la tienne, docteur.
C est la raison frivole, inquiete, orgueilleuse
Des sages animaux, rivale dedaigneuse,
Qui croit entr eux et 1 Ange, occuper le milieu,
Et pense etre ici bas 1 image de son Dieu.
Vil atome imparfait, qui croit, doute, dispute
Rampe, s eleve, tombe, et nie encore sa chute,
Qui nous dit je suis libre, en nous montrant ses fers,
Et dont 1 ceil trouble et faux, croit percer 1 univers.
Allez, reverends fous, bienheureux fanatiques,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 14";
Compilez bien 1 amas de vos riens scholastiques,
Peres de visions, et d enigmes sacres,
Auteurs du labirinthe, ou vous vous egarez.
Allez obscurement eclaircir vos misteres,
Et courez dans 1 ecole adorer vos chimeres.
II est d autres erreurs, il est de ces devots
Condamne par eux memes a 1 ennui du repos.
Ce mystique encloitre, fier de son indolence
Tranquille, au sein de Dieu. Que peut il faire ? II pense.
Non, tu ne penses point, miserable, tu dors :
Inutile a la terre, et mis au rang des morts.
Ton esprit enerve croupit dans la molesse.
Reveille toi, sois homme, et sors de ton ivresse.
L homme est ne pour agir, et tu pretens penser ? " &c.
The original runs thus:
" Hold mighty man, I cry all this we know,
And tis this very reason I despise,
This supernatural gift that makes a mite
Think he s the image of the Infinite ;
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the eternal and the ever blest.
This busy, puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools ;
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.
Tis this exalted power, whose business lies
In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer ;
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
Retire to think, cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts are given for action s government,
Where action ceases, thought s impertinent."
Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they
are expressed with an energy and fire which form the poet.
I shall be very far from attempting to examine philosophi
cally into these verses, to lay down the pencil, and take up
the rule and compass on this occasion; my only design
in this letter being to display the genius of the English
poets, and therefore I shall continue in the same view.
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked
148 VOLTAIRE
of in France, and Mr. de la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and
Bayle have written his eulogium, but still his name only
is known. He had much the same reputation in London as
Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion deserved it better.
Voiture was born in an age that was just emerging from
barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant, the
people of which aimed at wit, though they had not the least
pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead
of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than
diamonds. Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous genius,
was the first who shone in this aurora of French literature.
Had he come into the world after those great geniuses who
spread such a glory over the age of Louis XIV., he would
either have been unknown, would have been despised, or
would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded him,
but it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of
that great poet was not yet formed. He was young, and
in an age when persons form a judgment of men from their
reputation, and not from their writings. Besides, Boileau
was very partial both in his encomiums and his censures.
He applauded Segrais, whose works nobody reads; he
abused Quinault, whose poetical pieces every one has got
by heart; and is wholly silent upon La Fontaine. Waller,
though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a finished
poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller s works as are
writ in a tender strain; but then they are languid through
negligence, and often disfigured with false thoughts. The
English had not in his time attained the art of correct
writing. But his serious compositions exhibit a strength
and vigour which could not have been expected from the
softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an
elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is
nevertheless looked upon as a masterpiece. To understand
this copy of verses you are to know that the day Oliver
died was remarkable for a great storm. His poem begins
in this manner:
" II n est plus, s en est fait, soumettons nous au sort,
Le ciel a signale ce jour par des tempetes,
Et la voix des tonnerres eclatant sur nos tetes
Vient d annoncer sa mort.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 149
" Par ses derniers soupirs il ebranle cet lie ;
Cet lie que son bras fit trembler tant de fois,
Quand dans le cours de ses exploits,
II brisoit la tete des Rois,
Et soumettoit un peuple a son joug seul docile.
" Mer tu t en es trouble ; O mer tes flots emus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que 1 effroi de la terre et ton maitre n est plus.
" Tel au ciel autrefois s envola Romulus,
Tel il quitta la Terre, au milieu des orages,
Tel d un peuple guerrier il rec,ut les homages ;
Obei dans sa vie, a sa mort adore,
Son palais fut un Temple," &c.
" We must resign ! heaven his great soul does claim
In storms as loud as his immortal fame ;
His dying groans, his last breath shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile :
About his palace their broad roots are tost
Into the air ; so Romulus was lost !
New Rome in such a tempest missed her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On (Eta s top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruined oaks and pines about him spread.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swelled the sea with such a breath,
That to remotest shores the billows rolled,
Th approaching fate of his great ruler told."
WALLER.
It was this eulogium that gave occasion to the reply (taken
notice of in Bayle s Dictionary), which Waller made to
King Charles II. This king, to whom Waller had a little
before (as is usual with bards and monarchs) presented a
copy of verses embroidered with praises, reproached the
poet for not writing with so much energy and fire as when
he had applauded the Usurper (meaning Oliver). "Sir,"
replied Waller to the king, " we poets succeed better in
fiction than in truth." This answer was not so sincere as
that which a Dutch Ambassador made, who, when the same
monarch complained that his masters paid less regard to
him than they had done to Cromwell : "Ah, sir !" says
the Ambassador, " Oliver was quite another man "
150 VOLTAIRE
It is not my intent to give a commentary on Waller s
character, nor on that of any other person; for I consider
men after their death in no other light than as they were
writers, and wholly disregard everything else. I shall only
observe that Waller, though born in a Court, and to an
estate of five or six thousand pounds sterling a year, was
never so proud or so indolent as to lay aside the happy
talent which Nature had indulged him. The Earls of
Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham,
the Lord Halifax, and so many other noblemen, did not
think the reputation they obtained of very great poets and
illustrious writers, any way derogatory to their quality.
They are more glorious for their works than for their titles.
These cultivated the polite arts w r ith as much assiduity as
though they had been their whole dependence. They also
have made learning appear venerable in the eyes of the
vulgar, who have need to be led in all things by the great;
and who, nevertheless, fashion their manners less after
those of the nobility (in England I mean) than in any other
country in the world.
LETTER XXII
ON MR. POPE AND SOME OTHER FAMOUS POETS
I INTENDED to treat of Mr. Prior, one of the most amiable
English poets, whom you saw Plenipotentiary and Envoy
Extraordinary at Paris in 1712. I also designed to have
given you some idea of the Lord Roscommon s and the Lord
Dorset s muse; but I find that to do this I should be obliged
to write a large volume, and that, after much pains and
trouble, you would have but an imperfect idea of all those
works. Poetry is a kind of music in which a man should
have some knowledge before he pretends to judge of it.
When I give you a translation of some passages from those
foreign poets, I only prick down, and that imperfectly, their
music; but then I cannot express the taste of their harmony.
There is one English poem especially which I should
despair of ever making you understand, the title whereof is
" Hudibras." The subject of it is the Civil War in the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 151
time of the grand rebellion, and the principles and practice
of the Puritans are therein ridiculed. It is Don Quixote,
it is our " Satire Menippee " blended together. I never
found so much wit in one single book as in that, which at
the same time is the most difficult to be translated. Who
would believe that a work which paints in such lively and
natural colours the several foibles and follies of mankind,
and where we meet with more sentiments than words, should
baffle the endeavours of the ablest translator? But the
reason of this is, almost every part of it alludes to par
ticular incidents. The clergy are there made the principal
object of ridicule, which is understood but by few among the
laity. To explain this a commentary would be requisite, and
humour when explained is no longer humour. \ Whoever
sets up for a commentator of smart sayings and repartees
is himself a blockhead. This is the reason why the works
of the ingenious Dean Swift, who has been called the Eng
lish Rabelais, will never be well understood in France. This
gentleman has the honour (in common with Rabelais) of
being a priest, and, like him, laughs at everything; but, in
my humble opinion, the title of the English Rabelais which
is given the dean is highly derogatory to his genius. The
former has interspersed his unaccountably fantastic and
unintelligible book with the most gay strokes of humour; but
which at the same time, has a greater proportion of imper
tinence. He has been vastly lavish of erudition, of smut,
and insipid raillery. An agreeable tale of two pages is pur
chased at the expense of whole volumes of nonsense. There
are but few persons, and those of a grotesque taste, who
pretend to understand and to esteem this work; for, as to
the rest of the nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting
touches which are found in Rabelais and despise his book.
He is looked upon as the prince of buffoons. The readers
are vexed to think that a man who was master of so much
wit should have made so wretched a use of it; he is an in
toxicated philosopher who never wrote but when he was in
liquor.
Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequently the
politest company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the
latter, but then he possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the
152 VOLTAIRE
choice, the good taste, in all which particulars our giggling
rural Vicar Rabelais is wanting. The poetical numbers of
Dean Swift are of a singular and almost inimitable taste;
true humour, whether in prose or verse, seems to be his pe
culiar talent; but whoever is desirous of understanding him
perfectly must visit the island in which he was born.
It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr.
Pope s works. He is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the
most correct poet; and, at the same time, the most harmoni
ous (a circumstance which redounds very much to the
honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth to. He
has mellowed the harsh sounds of the English trumpet to
the soft accents of the flute. His compositions may be
easily translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicu
ous; besides, most of his subjects are general, and relative
to all nations.
His " Essay on Criticism " will soon be known in France
by the translation which 1 Abbe de Renel has made of it.
Here is an extract from his poem entitled the " Rape of
the Lock," which I just now translated with the latitude I
usually take on these occasions ; for, once again, nothing
can be more ridiculous than to translate a poet literally :
" Umbriel, a 1 instant, vieil gnome rechigne,
Va d une aile pesante et d un air renfrogne
Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde,
Ou loin des doux raiions que repand 1 oeil du monde
La Deesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son sejour,
Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a 1 entour,
Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine
Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine.
Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent
Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent,
La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose,
Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause.
N aiant pense jamais, 1 esprit toujours trouble,
L ceil charge, le teint pale, et 1 hypocondre enfle.
La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d elle,
Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle,
Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain,
Et chansonnant les Gens 1 Evangile a la main.
Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchee
Une jeune beaute non loin d elle est couchee,
C est 1 Affectation qui grassale en parlant,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 153
Ecoute sans entendre, et lorgne en regardant.
Qui rougit sans pudeur, et rit de tout sans joie,
De cent maux differens pretend qu elle est la proie;
Et pleine de sante sous le rouge et le fard,
Se plaint avec molesse, et se pame avec art."
* Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome,
And in a vapour reached the dismal dome.
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows.
Here, in a grotto, sheltered close from air,
And screened in shades from day s detested glare,
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head,
Two handmaids wait the throne. Alike in place,
But differing far in figure and in face,
Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid,
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed ;
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons,
Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons.
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and for show."
This extract, in the original (not in the faint translation
I have given you of it), may be compared to the description
of La Molesse (softness or effeminacy), in Boileau s
" Lutrin."
Methinks I now have given you specimens enough from
the English poets. I have made some transient mention of
their philosophers, but as for good historians among them,
I don t know of any; and, indeed, a Frenchman was forced
to write their history. Possibly the English genius, which
is either languid or impetuous, has not yet acquired that un
affected eloquence, that plain but majestic air which his
tory requires. Possibly too, the spirit of party which exhibits
objects in a dim and confused light may have sunk the credit
of their historians. One half of the nation is always at
variance with the other half. I have met with people who
!S4 VOLTAIRE
assured me that the Duke of Marlborough was a coward,
and that Mr. Pope was a fool; just as some Jesuits in
France declare Pascal to have been a man of little or no
genius, and some Jansenists affirm Father Bourdaloiie to have
been a mere babbler. The Jacobites consider Mary Queen
of Scots as a pious heroine, but those of an opposite party
look upon her as a prostitute, an adulteress, a murderer.
Thus the English have memorials of the several reigns, but
no such thing as a history. There is, indeed, now living,
one Mr. Gordon (the public are obliged to him for a trans
lation of Tacitus), who is very capable of writing the his
tory of his own country, but Rapin de Thoyras got the start
of him. To conclude, in my opinion the English have not
such good historians as the French, have no such thing as a
real tragedy, have several delightful comedies, some wonder
ful passages in certain of their poems, and boast of philoso
phers that are worthy of instructing mankind. The English
have reaped very great benefit from the writers of our na
tion, and therefore we ought (since they have not scrupled
to be in our debt) to borrow from them. Both the English
and we came after the Italians, who have been our in
structors in all the arts, and whom we have surpassed in
some. I cannot determine which of the three nations ought
to be honoured with the palm; but happy the writer who
could display their various merits.
LETTER XXIII
ON THE REGARD THAT OUGHT TO BE SHOWN TO
MEN OF LETTERS
NEITHER the English nor any other people have foundations
established in favour of the polite arts like those in France.
There are Universities in most countries, but it is in France
only that we meet with so beneficial an encouragement for
astronomy and all parts of the mathematics, for physic, for
researches into antiquity, for painting, sculpture, and archi
tecture. Louis XIV. has immortalised his name by these
several foundations, and this immortality did not cost him
two hundred thousand livres a year.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 155
I must confess that one of the things I very much wonder
at is, that as the Parliament of Great Britain have promised
a reward of 20,000 sterling to any person who may dis
cover the longitude, they should never have once thought to
imitate Louis XIV. in his munificence with regard to the
arts and sciences.
Merit, indeed, meets in England with rewards of another
kind, which redound more to the honour of the nation. The
English have so great a veneration for exalted talents, that
a man of merit in their country is always sure of making his
fortune. Mr. Addison in France would have been elected a
member of one of the academies, and, by the credit of some
women, might have obtained a yearly pension of twelve
hundred livres, or else might have been imprisoned in the
Bastile, upon pretence that certain strokes in his tragedy of
Cato had been discovered which, glanced at the porter of
some man in power. Mr. Addison was raised to the post of
Secretary of State in England. Sir Isaac Newton was made
Warden of the Royal Mint. Mr. Congreve had a considerable
employment. Mr. Prior was Plenipotentiary. Dr. Swift is
Dean of St. Patrick in Dublin, and is more revered in Ire
land than the Primate himself. The religion which Mr.
Pope professes excludes him, indeed, from preferments of
every kind, but then it did not prevent his gaining two hun
dred thousand livres by his excellent translation of Homer.
I myself saw a long time in France the author of Rhada-
mistus ready to perish for hunger. And the son of one of
the greatest men our country ever gave birth to, and who
was beginning to run the noble career which his father had
set him, would have been reduced to the extremes of misery
had he not been patronised by Monsieur Fagon.
But the circumstance which mostly encourages the arts in
England is the great veneration which is paid them. The
picture of the Prime Minister hangs over the chimney of his
own closet, but I have seen that of Mr. Pope in twenty
noblemen s houses. Sir Isaac Newton was revered in his
lifetime, and had a due respect paid to him after his death;
the greatest men in the nation disputing who should have the
honour of holding up his pall. Go into Westminster Abbey,
and you will find that what raises the admiration of the
156 VOLTAIRE
spectator is not the mausoleums of the English kings, but
the monuments which the gratitude of the nation has erected
to perpetuate the memory of those illustrious men who con
tributed to its glory. We view their statues in that abbey
in the same manner as those of Sophocles, Plato, and other
immortal personages were viewed in Athens; and I am per
suaded that the bare sight of those glorious monuments has
fired more than one breast, and been the occasion of their
becoming great men.
The English have even been reproached with paying too
extravagant honours to mere merit, and censured for inter
ring the celebrated actress Mrs. Oldfield in Westminster
Abbey, with almost the same pomp as Sir Isaac Newton.
Some pretend that the English had paid her these great
funeral honours, purposely to make us more strongly sensible
of the barbarity and injustice which they object to in us, for
having buried Mademoiselle Le Couvreur ignominiously in
the fields.
But be assured from me, that the English were prompted
by no other principle in burying Mrs. Oldfield in Westminster
Abbey than their good sense. They are far from being so
ridiculous as to brand with infamy an art which has immor
talised a Euripides and a Sophocles ; or to exclude from the
body of their citizens a set of people whose business is to
set off with the utmost grace of speech and action those
pieces which the nation is proud of.
Under the reign of Charles I. and in the beginning of the
civil wars raised by a number of rigid fanatics, who at last
were the victims to it; a great many pieces were published
against theatrical and other shows, which were attacked
with the greater virulence because that monarch and his
queen, daughter to Henry IV. of France, were passionately
fond of them.
One Mr. Prynne, a man of most furiously scrupulous prin
ciples, who would have thought himself damned had he worn
a cassock instead of a short cloak, and have been glad to see
one-half of mankind cut the other to pieces for the glory of
God, and the Propaganda Fide; took it into his head to write
a most wretched satire against some pretty good comedies,
which were exhibited very innocently every night before
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 157
their majesties. He quoted the authority of the Rabbis, and
some passages from St. Bonaventure, to prove that the
CEdipus of Sophocles was the work of the evil spirit; that
Terence was excommunicated ipso facto; and added, that
doubtless Brutus, who was a very severe Jansenist, assassin
ated Julius Caesar for no other reason but because he, who
was Pontifex Maximus, presumed to write a tragedy the
subject of which was CEdipus. Lastly, he declared that all
who frequented the theatre were excommunicated, as they
thereby renounced their baptism. This was casting the high
est insult on the king and all the royal family; and as the
English loved their prince at that time, they could not bear
to hear a writer talk of excommunicating him, though they
themselves afterwards cut his head off. Prynne was sum
moned to appear before the Star Chamber; his wonderful
book, from which Father Le Brun stole his, was sentenced
to be burnt by the common hangman, and himself to lose his
ears. His trial is now extant.
The Italians are far from attempting to cast a blemish on
the opera, or to excommunicate Signor Senesino or Signora
Cuzzoni. With regard to myself, I could presume to wish
that the magistrates would suppress I know not what con
temptible pieces written against the stage. For when the
English and Italians hear that we brand with the greatest
mark of infamy an art in which we excel ; that we excom
municate persons who receive salaries from the king; that
we condemn as impious a spectacle exhibited in convents and
monasteries ; that we dishonour sports in which Louis XIV.
and Louis XV., performed as actors; that we give the title
of the devil s works to pieces which are received by magis
trates of the most severe character, and represented before
a virtuous queen; when, I say, foreigners are told of this
insolent conduct, this contempt for the royal authority, and
this Gothic rusticity which some presume to call Christian
severity, what an idea must they entertain of our nation?
And how will it be possible for them to conceive, either that
our laws give a sanction to an art which is declared infa
mous, or that some persons dare to stamp with infamy an
art which receives a sanction from the laws, is rewarded by
kings, cultivated and encouraged by the greatest men, and
158 VOLTAIRE
admired by whole nations? And that Father Le B run s im
pertinent libel against the stage is seen in a bookseller s shop,
standing the very next to the immortal labours of Racine, of
Corneille, of Moliere, &c.
LETTER XXIV
ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY AND OTHER ACADEMIES
THE English had an Academy of Sciences many years be
fore us, but then it is not under such prudent regulations as
ours, the only reason of which very possibly is, because it was
founded before the Academy of Paris; for had it been
founded after, it would very probably have adopted some of
the sage laws of the former and improved upon others.
Two things, and those the most essential to man, are
wanting in the Royal Society of London, I mean rewards and
laws. A seat in the Academy at Paris is a small but secure
fortune to a geometrician or a chemist; but this is so far
from being the case at London, that the several members of
the Royal Society are at a continual, though indeed small
expense. Any man in England who declares himself a lover
of the mathematics and natural philosophy, and expresses an
inclination to be a member of the Royal Society, is immedi
ately elected into it. But in France it is not enough that a
man who aspires to the honour of being a member of the
Academy, and of receiving tfie royal stipend, has a love for
the sciences ;* he must at the same time be deeply skilled in
them ; and is obliged to dispute the seat with competitors who
are so much the more formidable as they are fired by a prin
ciple of glory, by interest, by the difficulty itself, and by that
inflexibility of mind which is generally found in those who de
vote themselves to that pertinacious study, the mathematics.
The Academy of Sciences is prudently confined to the
study of Nature, and, indeed, this is a field spacious enough
for fifty or threescore persons to range in. That of London
mixes indiscriminately literature with physics; but methinks
the founding an academy merely for the polite arts is more
judicious, as it prevents confusion, and the joining, in some
measure, of heterogeneals, such as a dissertation on the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 159
head-dresses of the Roman ladies with a hundred or more
new curves.
As there is very little order and regularity in the Royal
Society, and not the least encouragement; and that the
Academy of Paris is on a quite different foot, it is no wonder
that our transactions are drawn up in a more just and beauti
ful manner than those of the English. Soldiers who are under
a regular discipline, and besides well paid, must necessarily
at last perform more glorious achievements than others who
are mere volunteers. It must indeed be confessed that the
Royal Society boast their Newton, but then he did not owe
his knowledge and discoveries to that body; so far from it,
that the latter were intelligible to very few of his fellow
members. A genius like that of Sir Isaac belonged to all the
academies in the world, because all had a thousand things
to learn of him.
The celebrated Dean Swift formed a design, in the latter
end of the late Queen s reign, to found an academy for the
English tongue upon the model of that of the French. This
project was promoted by the late Earl of Oxford, Lord High
Treasurer, and much more by the Lord Bolingbroke, Secre
tary of State, who had the happy talent of speaking without
premeditation in the Parliament House with as much purity
as Dean Swift wrote in his closet, and who would have
been the ornament and protector of that academy. Those
only would have been chosen members of it whose works
will last as long as the English tongue, such as Dean Swift,
Mr. Prior, whom we saw here invested with a public char
acter, and whose fame in England is equal to that of La
Fontaine in France; Mr. Pope, the English Boileau, Mr.
Congreve, who may be called their Moliere, and several
other eminent persons whose names I have forgot; all these
would have raised the glory of that body to a great height
even in its infancy. But Queen Anne being snatched sud
denly from the world, the Whigs were resolved to ruin the
protectors of the intended academy, a circumstance that
was of the most fatal consequence to polite literature. The
members of this academy would have had a very great ad
vantage over those who first formed that of the French, for
Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, &c. had
160 VOLTAIRE
fixed the English tongue by their writings ; whereas Chape-
lain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, Perrin, Cotin, our first
academicians, were a disgrace to their country ; and so much
ridicule is now attached to their very names, that if an au
thor of some genius in this age had the misfortune to be
called Chapelain or Cotin, he would be under a necessity of
changing his name.
One circumstance, to which the English Academy should
especially have attended, is to have prescribed to themselves
occupations of a quite different kind from those with which
our academicians amuse themselves. A wit of this country
asked me for the memoirs of the French Academy. I an
swered, they have no memoirs, but have printed threescore
or fourscore volumes in quarto of compliments. The gen
tleman perused one or two of them, but without being able
to understand the style in which they were written, though
he understood all our good authors perfectly. "All," says
he, " I see in these elegant discourses is, that the member
elect having assured the audience that his predecessor was a
great man, that Cardinal Richelieu was a very great man,
that the Chancellor Seguier was a pretty great man, that
Louis XIV. was a more than great man, the director answers
in the very same strain, and adds, that the member elect may
also be a sort of great man, and that himself, in quality of
director, must also have some share in this greatness."
The cause why all these academical discourses have un
happily done so little honour to this body is evident enough.
Vitium est temporis potiiis quam hominis (the fault is owing
to the age rather than to particular persons). It grew up
insensibly into a custom for every academician to repeat
these eulogiums at his reception ; it was laid down as a kind
of law that the public should be indulged from time to time
in the sullen satisfaction of yawning over these productions.
If the reason should afterwards be sought, why the greatest
geniuses who have been incorporated into that body have
sometimes made the worst speeches, I answer, that it is
wholly owing to a strong propension, the gentlemen in ques
tion had to shine, and to display a thread-bare, worn-out sub
ject in a new and uncommon light. The necessity of saying
something, the perplexity of having nothing to say, and a de-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 161
sire of being witty, are three circumstances which alone are
capable of making even the greatest writer ridiculous. These
gentlemen, not being able to strike out any new thoughts,
hunted after a new play of words, and delivered themselves
without thinking at all : in like manner as people who should
seem to chew with great eagerness, and make as though they
were eating, at the same time that they were just starved.
It is a law in the French Academy, to publish all those
discourses by which only they are known, but they should
rather make a law never to print any of them.
But the Academy of the Belles Lettres have a more pru
dent and more useful object, which is, to present the public
with a collection of transactions that abound with curious
researches and critiques. These transactions are already
esteemed by foreigners; and it were only to be wished that
some subjects in them had been, more thoroughly examined,
and that others had not been treated at all. As, for in
stance, we should have been very well satisfied, had they
omitted I know not what dissertation on the prerogative of
the right hand over the left; and some others, which, though
not published under so ridiculous a title, are yet written on
subjects that are almost as frivolous and silly.
The Academy of Sciences, in such of their researches as
are of a more difficult kind and a more sensible use, embrace
the knowledge of nature and the improvements of the arts.
We may presume that such profound, such uninterrupted pur
suits as these, such exact calculations, such refined discover
ies, such extensive and exalted views, will, at last, produce
something that may prove of advantage to the universe.
Hitherto, as we have observed together, the most useful dis
coveries have been made in the most barbarous times. One
would conclude that the business of the most enlightened
ages and the most learned bodies, is, to argue and debate on
things which were invented by ignorant people. We know
exactly the angle which the sail of a ship is to make with
the keel in order to its sailing better; and yet Columbus
discovered America without having the least idea of the
property of this angle: however, I am far from inferring
from hence that we are to confine ourselves merely to a
hnd practice, but happy it were, would naturalists and
p HC xxxiv
162 LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH
geometricians unite, as much as possible, the practice with
the theory.
Strange, but so it is, that those things which reflect the
greatest honour on the human mind are frequently of the
least benefit to it ! A man who understands the four funda
mental rules of arithmetic, aided by a little good sense, shall
amass prodigious wealth in trade, shall become a Sir Peter
Delme, a Sir Richard Hopkins, a Sir Gilbert Heathcote,
whilst a poor algebraist spends his whole life in searching
for astonishing properties and relations in numbers, which
at the same time are of no manner of use, and will not ac
quaint him with the nature of exchanges. This is very
nearly the case with most of the arts: there is a certain
point beyond which all researches serve to no other purpose
than merely to delight an inquisitive mind. Those ingenious
and useless truths may be compared to stars which, by being
placed at too great a distance, cannot afford us the least
light.
With regard to the French Academy, how great a service
would they do to literature, to the language, and the nation,
if, instead of publishing a set of compliments annually, they
would give us new editions of the valuable works written
in the age of Louis XIV., purged from the several errors
of diction which are crept into them. There are many of
these errors in Corneille and Moliere, but those in La Fon
taine are very numerous. Such as could not be corrected
might at least be pointed out. By this means, as all the Euro
peans read those works, they would teach them our language
in its utmost purity which, by that means, would be fixed to
a lasting standard; and valuable French books being then
printed at the King s expense, would prove one of the most
glorious monuments the nation could boast. I have been
told that Boileau formerly made this proposal, and that it has
since been revived by a gentleman eminent fo~ his genius,
his fine sense, and just taste for criticism; but this thought
has met with the fate of many other useful projects, of being
applauded and neglected.
ON THE INEQUALITY AMONG
MANKIND
BY
J. J. ROUSSEAU
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU was born at Geneva, June 28, 1712,
the son of a watchmaker of French origin. His education was
irregular, and though he tried many professions-including en
graving, music, and teaching he found it difficult to support
himself in any of them. The discovery of his talent as a writer
came with the winning of a prize offered by the Academy of
Dijon for a discourse on the question, "Whether the progress
of the sciences and of letters has tended to corrupt or to elevate
morals." He argued so brilliantly that the tendency of civi
lization was degrading that he became at once famous. The
discourse here printed on the causes of inequality among men
was written in a similar competition.
He now concentrated his powers upon literature, producing
two novels, "La Nouvelle Heloise," the forerunner and parent
of endless sentimental and picturesque fictions; and "Emile, ou
I Education," a work which has had enormous influence on the
theory and practise of pedagogy down to our own time and in
which the Savoyard Vicar appears, who is used as the mouthpiece
for Rousseau s own religious ideas. "Le Contrat Social" (1762)
elaborated the doctrine of the discourse on inequality. Both his
torically and philosophically it is unsound; but it was the chief
literary source of the enthusiasm for liberty, fraternity, and
equality, which inspired the leaders of the French Revolution,
and its effects passed far beyond France.
His most famous work, the "Confessions," was published after
his death. This book is a mine of information as to his life,
but it is far from trustworthy; and the picture it gives of the
author s personality and conduct, though painted in such a
way as to make it absorbingly interesting, is often unpleasing
in the highest degree. But it is one of the great autobiographies
of the world.
During Rousseau s later years he was the victim of the de
lusion of persecution; and although he was protected by a
succession of good friends, he came to distrust and quarrel with
each in turn. He died at Ermenonville, near Paris, July 2,
the most widely influential French writer of his age.
164
INTRODUCTION 165
The Savoyard Vicar and his "Profession of Faith" are intro
duced into "Emile" not, according to the author, because he
wishes to exhibit his principles as those which should be taught,
but to give an example of the way in which religious matters
should be discussed with the young. Nevertheless, it is univer
sally recognised that these opinions are Rousseau s own, and rep
resent in short form his characteristic attitude toward religious
belief. The Vicar himself is believed to combine the traits of
two Savoyard priests whom Rousseau knew in his youth. The
more important was the Abbe Gaime, whom he had known at
Turin; the other, the Abbe Gdtier, who had taught him at
Annecy.
A
QUESTION
PROPOSED BY THE
ACADEMY OF DIJON
What is the Origin of the Inequality
among Mankind; and whether such
Inequality is authorized by the Law
of Nature?
A DISCOURSE
UPON THE ORIGIN AND
THE FOUNDATION OF THE INEQUALITY AMONG
MANKIND
f I ^IS of man I am to speak; and the very question, in
answer to which I am to speak of him, sufficiently
-- informs me that I am going to speak to men;
for to those alone, who are not afraid of honouring truth,
it belongs to propose discussions of this kind. I shall
therefore maintain with confidence the cause of mankind
before the sages, who invite me to stand up in its defence;
and I shall think myself happy, if I can but behave in a
manner not unworthy of my subject and of my judges.
I conceive two species of inequality among men; one
which I call natural, or x physical inequality, because it is
established by nature, and consists in the difference of age,
health, bodily strength, and the qualities of the mind, or
of the soul; the other which may be termed moral, or
political inequality, because it depends on a kind of con
vention, and is established, or at least authorized, by the
common consent of mankind. This species of inequality
consists in the different privileges, which some men enjoy,
to the prejudice of others, such as that off being richer,
more honoured, more powerful, and even that of exacting
obedience from them.
It were absurd to ask, what is the cause of natural
inequality, seeing the bare definition of natural inequality
answers the question: it would be more absurd still to en
quire, if there might not be some essential connection be
tween the two species of inequality, as it would be asking,
in other words, if those who command are necessarily bet
ter men than those who obey; and if strength of body or
of mind, wisdom or virtue are always to be found in indi-
167
16 8 ROUSSEAU
viduals, in the same proportion with power, or riches: a
question, fit perhaps to be discussed by slaves in the hearing
of their masters, but unbecoming free and reasonable be
ings in quest of truth.
What therefore is precisely the subject of this discourse?
It is to point out, in the progress of things, that moment,
when, right taking place of violence, nature became sub
ject to law; to display that chain of surprising events, in
consequence of which the strong submitted to serve the
weak, and the people to purchase imaginary ease, at the
expense of real happiness.
The philosophers, who have examined the foundations
of society, have, every one of them, perceived the necessity
of tracing it back to a state of nature, but not one of them
has ever arrived there. Some of them have not scrupled
to attribute to man in that state the ideas of justice and
injustice, without troubling their heads to prove, that he
really must have had such ideas, or even that such ideas
were useful to him: others have spoken of the natural
right of every man to keep what belongs to him, without
letting us know what they meant by the word belong;
others, without further ceremony ascribing to the strongest
an authority over the weakest, have immediately struck out
government, without thinking of the time requisite for
men to form any notion of the things signified by the words
authority and government. All of them, in fine, constantly
N harping on wants, avidity, oppression, desires and pride,
have transferred to the state of nature ideas picked up in
the bosom of society. In speaking of savages they described
citizens. Nay, few of our own writers seem to have so
much as doubted, that a state of nature did once actually
exit ; though it plainly appears by Sacred History, that even
the first man, immediately furnished as he was by God him
self with both instructions and precepts, never lived in
that state, and that, if we give to the books of Moses that
credit which every Christian philosopher ought to give to
them, we must deny that, even before the deluge, such a
state ever existed among men, unless they fell into it by
some extraordinary event: a paradox very difficult to main
tain, and altogether impossible to prove.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 169
Let us begin therefore, by laying aside facts, for they
do not affect the question. The researches, in which we
may engage on this occasion, are not to be taken for
historical truths, but merely as hypothetic?! and corr i-
tional reasonings, fitter to illustrate the n?-nrr of things,
than to show their true origin, like those systems, which
our naturalists daily make of the formation of the world.
Religion commands us to believe, that men, having been
drawn by God himself out of a state of nature, are un
equal, because it is his pleasure they should be so; but
religion does not forbid us to draw conjectures solely
from the nature of man, considered in itself, and from that
of the beings which surround him, concerning the fate of
mankind, had they been left to themselves. This is then
the question I am to answer, the question I propose to
examine in the present discourse. As mankind in general
have an interest in my subject, I shall endeavour to use
a language suitable to all nations: or rather, forgetting the
circumstances of time and place in order to think of nothing
but the men I speak to, I shall suppose myself in the
Lyceum of Athens, repeating the lessons of my masters
before the Platos and the Xenocrates of that famous
seat of philosophy as my judges, and in presence of the
whole human species as my audience.
O man, whatever country you may belong to, whatever
your opinions may be, attend to my words; you shall hear
your history such as I think I have read it, not in books
composed by those like you, for they are liars, but in the
book of nature which never lies. All that I shall repeat
after her, must be true, without any intermixture of false
hood, but where I may happen, without intending it, to
introduce my own conceits. The times I am going to
speak of are very remote. How much you are changed
from what you once were! Tis in a manner the life of
your species that I am going to write, from the qualities
which you have received, and which your education and
your habits could deprave, but could not destroy. There
is, I am sensible, an age at which every individual of you
would choose to stop; and you will look out for the age
at which, had you your wish, your species had stopped.
170 ROUSSEAU
Uneasy at your present condition for reasons which
threaten your unhappy posterity with still greater un
easiness, you will perhaps wish it were in your power to
go back; and this sentiment ought to be considered, as
the panegyric of your first parents, the condemnation of
your contemporaries, and a source of terror to all those who
may have the misfortune of succeeding you.
DISCOURSE
FIRST PART
HOWEVER important it may be, in order to form a
proper judgment of the natural state of man, to
consider him from his origin, and to examine him,
as it were, in the first embryo of the species; I shall not at
tempt to trace his organization through its successive ap
proaches to perfection: I shall not stop to examine in the
animal system what he might have been in the beginning,
to become at last what he actually is; I shall not inquire
whether, as Aristotle thinks, his neglected nails were no
better at first than crooked talons; whether his whole body
was not, bear-like, thick covered with rough hair; and
whether, walking upon all-fours, his eyes, directed to
the earth, and confined to a horizon of a few paces extent,
did not at once point out the nature and limits of his ideas.
I could only form vague, and almost imaginary, conjectures
on this subject. Comparative anatomy has not as yet been
sufficiently improved; neither have the observations of nat
ural philosophy been sufficiently ascertained, to establish
upon such foundations the basis of a solid system. For
this reason, without having recourse to the supernatural in
formations with which we have been favoured on this head,
or paying any attention to the changes, that must have hap
pened in the conformation of the interior and exterior parts
of man s body, in proportion as he applied his members to
new purposes, and took to new aliments, I shall suppose his
conformation to have always been, what we now behold it;
that he always walked on two feet, made the same use of his
hands that we do of ours, extended his looks over the whole
face of nature, and measured with his eyes the vast extent
of the heavens.
171
172 ROUSSEAU
If I strip this being, thus constituted, of all the super
natural gifts which he may have received, and of all the
artificial faculties, which we could not have acquired but by
slow degrees; if I consider him, in a word, such as he must
have issued from the hands of nature; I see an animal less
strong than some, and less active than others, but, upon the
whole, the most advantageously organized of any; I see
him satisfying the calls of hunger under the first oak, and
those of thirst at the first rivulet; I see him laying himself
down to sleep at the foot of the same tree that afforded him
his meal; and behold, this done, all his wants are com
pletely supplied.
The earth left to its own natural fertility and covered with
immense woods, that no hatchet ever disfigured, offers at
every step food and shelter to every species of animals.
Men, dispersed among them, observe and imitate their in
dustry, and thus rise to the instinct of beasts; with this ad
vantage, that, whereas every species of beasts is confined to
one peculiar instinct, man, who perhaps has not any that
particularly belongs to him, appropriates to himself those
of all other animals, and lives equally upon most of the dif
ferent aliments, which they only divide among themselves;
a circumstance which qualifies him to find his subsistence,
with more ease than any of them.
Men, accustomed from their infancy to the inclemency
of the weather, and to the rigour of the different seasons;
inured to fatigue, and obliged to defend, naked and
without arms, their life and their prey against the other
wild inhabitants of the forest, or at least to avoid their
fury by flight, acquire a robust and almost unalterable
habit of body; the children, bringing with them into the
world the excellent constitution of their parents, and
strengthening it by the same exercises that first produced
it, attain by this means all the vigour that the human
frame is capable of. Nature treats them exactly in the
same manner that Sparta treated the children of her citizens;
those who come well formed into the world she renders
strong and robust, and destroys all the rest; differing in
this respect from our societies, in which the state, by per
mitting children to become burdensome to their par-
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 173
ents, murders them all without distinction, even in the
wombs of the.r mothers.
The body being the only instrument that savage man is
acauainted with, he employs it to different uses, of which
ours, for want of practice, are incapable ; and we may thank
our industry for the loss of that strength and agility, which
necessity obliges him to acquire. Had he a hatchet, would
his hand so easily snap off from an oak so stout a branch ?
Had he a sling, would it dart a stone to so great a dis
tance ? Had he a ladder, would he run so nimbly up a tree ?
Had he a horse, would he with such swiftness shoot along
the plain? Give civilized man but time to gather about him
all his machines, and no doubt he will be an overmatch for
the savage: but if you have a mind to see a contest still
more unequal, place them naked and unarmed one opposite
to the other; and you will soon discover the advantage there
is in perpetually having all our forces at our disposal, in
being constantly prepared against all events, and in always
carrying ourselves, as it were, whole and entire about us.
Hobbes would have it that man is naturally void of fear,
and always intent upon attacking and fighting. An illus
trious philosopher thinks on the contrary, and Cumberland
and Puffendorff likewise affirm it, that nothing is more fear
ful than man in a state of nature, that he is always in a
tremble, and ready to fly at the first motion he perceives,
at the first noise that strikes his ears. This, indeed, may be
very true in regard to objects with which he is not acquaint
ed; and I make no doubt of his being terrified at every new
sight that presents itself, as often as he cannot distinguish
the physical good and evil which he may expect from it,
nor compare his forces with the dangers he has to encounter;
circumstances that seldom occur in a state of nature, where
all things proceed in so uniform a manner, and the face of
the earth is not liable to those sudden and continual changes
occasioned in it by the passions and inconstancies of collected
bodies. But savage man living among other animals with
out any society or fixed habitation, and finding himself early
under a necessity of measuring his strength with theirs, soon
makes a comparison between both, and finding that he sur
passes them more in address, than they surpass him in
174 ROUSSEAU
strength, he learns not to be any longer in dread of them.
Turn out a bear or a wolf against a sturdy, active, resolute
savage, (and this they all are,) provided with stones and a
good stick ; and you will soon find that the danger is at least
equal on both sides, and that after several trials of this
kind, wild beasts, who are not fond of attacking each other,
will not be very fond of attacking man, whom they have
found every whit as wild as themselves. As to animals who
have really more strength than man has address, he is, in
regard to them, what other weaker species are, who find
means to subsist notwithstanding; he has even this great
advantage over such weaker species, that being* equally fleet
with them, and finding on every tree an almost inviolable asy
lum, he is always at liberty to take it or leave it, as he likes
best, and of course to fight or to fly, whichever is most agree
able to him. To this we may add that no animal naturally
makes war upon man, except in the case of self-defence or
extreme hunger; nor ever expresses against him any of these
violent antipathies, which seem to indicate that some par
ticular species are intended by nature for the food of others.
But there are other more formidable enemies, and against
which man is not provided with the same means of defence;
I mean natural infirmities, infancy, old age, and sickness of
every kind, melancholy proofs of our weakness, whereof the
two first are common to all animals, and the last chiefly at
tends man living in a state of society. It is even observable
in regard to infancy, that the mother being able to carry her
child about with her, wherever she goes, can perform the
duty of a nurse with a great deal less trouble, than the fe
males of many other animals, who are obliged to be con
stantly going and coming with no small labour and fatigue,
one way to look out for their own subsistence, and another
to suckle and feed their young ones. True it is that, if the
woman happens to perish, her child is exposed to the great
est danger of perishing with her; but this danger is common
to a hundred other species, whose young ones require a
great deal of time to be able to provide for themselves; and
if our infancy is longer than theirs, our life is longer like
wise ; so that, in this respect too, all things are in a manner
equal; not but that there are other rules concerning the
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 175
duration of the first age of life, and the number of the young
of man and other animals, but they do not belong to my
subject. With old men, who stir and perspire but little, the
demand for food diminishes with their abilities to provide
it; and as a savage life would exempt them from the gout
and the rheumatism, and old age is of all ills that which
human assistance is least capable of alleviating, they would
at last go off, without its being perceived by others that they
ceased to exist, and almost without perceiving it themselves.
In regard to sickness, I shall not repeat the vain and false
declamations made use of to discredit medicine by most men,
while they enjoy their health ; I shall only ask if there are any
solid observations from which we may conclude that in those
countries where the healing art is most neglected, the mean
duration of man s life is shorter than in those where it is
most cultivated? And how is it possible this should be the
case, if we inflict more diseases upon ourselves than medi
cine can supply us with remedies ! [j"he extreme inequali
ties in the manner of living of the several classes of man
kind, the excess of idleness in some, and of labour in others,
the facility of irritating and satisfying our sensuality and
our appetites, the too exquisite and out of the way aliments
of the rich, which fill them with fiery juices, and bring on
indigestions, the unwholesome food of the poor, of which
even, bad as it is, they very often fall short, and the want of
which tempts them, every opportunity that offers, to eat
greedily and overload their stomachs ; watchings, excesses of
every kind, immoderate transports of all the passions, fa
tigues, waste of spirits, in a word, the numberless pains and
anxieties annexed to every condition, and which the mind of
man is constantly a prey to; these are the fatal proofs that
most of our ills are of our own making, and that we might
have avoided them all by adhering to the simple, uniform
and solitary way of life prescribed to us by nature. Allow
ing that nature intended we should always enjoy good health,
I dare almost affirm that a state of rcf erfinn is n stale against
nature, and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal.
We need only call to mind the good constitution of savages,
of those at least whom we have not destroyed by our strong
liquors ; we need only reflect, that they are strangers to almost
176 ROUSSEAU
every disease, except those occasioned by wounds and old age,
to be in a manner convinced that the history of human dis
eases might be easily composed by pursuing that of civil so
cieties. Such at least was the opinion of Plato, who con
cluded from certain remedies made use of or approved by
Podalyrus and Macaon at the Siege of Troy, that several
disorders, which these remedies were found to bring on in
his days, were not known among men at that remote period.
Man therefore, in a state of nature where there are so
few sources of sickness, can have no great occasion for
physic, and still less for physicians; neither is the human
species more to be pitied in this respect, than any other
species of animals. Ask those who make hunting their rec
reation or business, if in their excursions they meet with
many sick or feeble animals. They meet with many carry
ing the marks of considerable wounds, that have been per
fectly well healed and closed up; with many, whose bones
formerly broken, and whose limbs almost torn off, have com
pletely knit and united, without any other surgeon but time,
any other regimen but their usual way of living, and whose
cures were not the less perfect for their not having been
tortured with incisions, poisoned with drugs, or worn out by
diet and abstinence. In a word, however useful medicine
well administered may be to us who live in a state of society,
it is still past doubt, that if, on the one hand, the sick sav
age, destitute of help, has nothing to hope from nature, on
the other, he has nothing to fear but from his disease; a
circumstance, which oftens renders his situation preferable
to ours.
Let us therefore beware of confounding savage man
with the men, whom we daily see and converse with.
Nature behaves towards all animals left to her care with
a predilection, that seems to prove how jealous she is of
that prerogative. The horse, the cat, the bull, nay the ass
itself, have generally a higher stature, and always a more
robust constitution, more vigour, more strength and courage
in their forests than in our houses; they lose half these
advantages by becoming domestic animals; it looks as if
all our attention to treat them kindly, and to feed them
well, served only to bastardize them. It is thus with man
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 177
himself, In proportion as he becomes sociable and a slave
to others, he becomes weak, fearful, mean-spirited, and t
soft and effeminate way of living at once completes the
enervation of his strength and of his courage. We may
add, that there must be still a wider difference ^ between
man and man in a savage and domestic condition, than
between beast and beast ; for as men and beasts have been
treated alike by nature, all the conveniences with which men
indulge themselves more than they do the beasts tamed by
them, are so many particular causes which make them
degenerate more sensibly.
Nakedness therefore, the want of houses, and of all
these unnecessaries, which we consider as so very necessary,
are not such mighty evils in respect to these primitive men,
and much less still any obstacle to their preservation.
Their skins, it is true, are destitute of hair; but then they
have no occasion for any such covering in warm climates;
and in cold climates they soon learn to apply to that use
those of the animals they have conquered; they have but
two feet to run with, but they have two hands to defend
themselves with, and provide for ail their wants; it cost;
them perhaps a great deal of time and trouble to make
their children walk, but the mothers carry them with ease ;
an advantage not granted to other species of animals, with
whom the mother, when pursued, is obliged to abandon
her young ones, or regulate her steps by theirs. In short,
unless we admit those singular and fortuitous concurrences
of circumstances, which I shall speak of hereafter, ^ and
which, it is very possible, may never have existed, it is
evident, in every state of the question, that the man, who
first made himself clothes and built himself a cabin, supplied
himself with things which he did not much want, since he
had lived without them till then; and why should he not
have been able to support in his riper years, the same kind
of life, which he had supported from his infancy?
Alone, idle, and always surrounded with danger, savage
man must be fond of sleep, and sleep lightly like other
animals, who think but little, and may, in a manner, be
said to sleep all the time they do not think: self-preserva
tion being almost his only concern, he must exercise those
178 ROUSSEAU
faculties most, which are most serviceable in attacking and
in defending, whether to subdue his prey, or to prevent his
becoming that of other animals: those organs, on the con
trary, which softness and sensuality can alone improve,
must remain in a state of rudeness, utterly incompatible with
all manner of delicacy; and as his senses are divided on
this point, his touch and his taste must be extremely coarse
and blunt; his sight, his hearing, and his smelling equally
subtle: such is the animal state in general, and accordingly
if we may believe travellers, it is that of most savage
nations. We must not therefore be surprised, that the
Hottentots of the Cape of Good Hope, distinguish with
their naked eyes ships on the ocean, at as great a distance
as the Dutch can discern them with their glasses; nor that
the savages of America should have tracked the Spaniards
with their noses, to as great a degree of exactness, as the
best dogs could have done; nor that all these barbarous
nations support nakedness without pain, use such large
quantities of Piemento to give their food a relish, and
drink like water the strongest liquors of Europe.
As ^ yet I have considered man merely in his physical
capacity; let us now endeavour to examine him in a meta
physical and moral light.
I^can discover nothing in any mere animal but an in
genious machine, to which nature has given senses to wind
itself up, and guard, to a certain degree, against every-
nng that might destroy or disorder it. I perceive the very
same things in the human machine, with this d^erence,
that nature alone operates in all the operations of the
beast whereas man, as a free agent, has a share in his.
Dne chooses by instinct; the other by an act of liberty; for
which reason the beast cannot deviate from the rules that
jave been prescribed to it, even in cases where such
ition might be useful, and man often deviates from
i laid down for him to his prejudice. Thus a
reon would starve near a dish of the best flesh-meat, and
i a heap of fruit or corn, though both might very well
* PP T* L t7 lth the f d which th y thus disdain, did
iey but bethink themselves to make a trial of it: it is in
nner dissolute men run into excesses, which bring
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 179
on fevers and death itself; because the mind depraves the
senses, and when nature ceases to speak, the will still con
tinues to dictate.
All animals must be allowed to have ideas, since all
animals have senses; they even combine their ideas to a
certain degree, and, in this respect, it is only the difference
of such degree, that constitutes the difference between man
and beast: some philosophers have even advanced, that
there is a greater difference between some men and some
others, than between some men and some beasts; it is not
therefore so much the understanding that constitutes, among
animals, the specifical distinction of man, as his quality of
a free agent. Nature speaks to all animals, and beasts obey
her voice. Man feels the same impression, but he at the
same time perceives that he is free to resist or to acquiesce;
and it is in the consciousness of this liberty, that the spirit
uality of his soul chiefly appears: for natural philosophy
explains, in some measure, the mechanism of the senses
and the formation of ideas; but in the power of willing, or
rather of choosing, and in the consciousness of this power,
nothing can be discovered but acts, that are purely
spiritual, and cannot be accounted for by the laws of
mechanics.
But though the difficulties, in which all these questions are
involved, should leave some room to dispute on this dif
ference between man and beast, there is another very
specific quality that distinguishes them, and a quality which
will admit of no dispute ; this is the faculty of improvement ;
a faculty which, as circumstances offer, successively un
folds all the other faculties, and resides among us^not only in
the species, but in the individuals that compose it; whereas
a beast is, at the end of some months, all he ever will be
during the rest of his life; and his species, at the end of
a thousand years, precisely what it was the first year of
that long period. Why is man alone subject to dotage?
Is it not, because he thus returns to his primitive condition?
And because, while the beast, which has acquired nothing
and has likewise nothing to lose, continues always in pos
session of his instinct, man, losing by old age, or by accident,
all the acquisitions he had made in consequence of his per-
180 ROUSSEAU
fectibility, thus falls back even lower than beasts them
selves? It would be a melancholy necessity for us to be
obliged to allow, that this distinctive and almost unlimited
faculty is the source of all man s misfortunes; that it is
this faculty, which, though by slow degrees, draws them out
of their original condition, in which his days would slide
away insensibly in peace and innocence ; that it is this faculty
which, in a succession of ages, produces his discoveries and
mistakes, his virtues and his vices, and, at long run, renders
him both his own and nature s tyrant. It would be
shocking to be obliged to commend, as a beneficent being
whoever he was that first suggested to the Oronoco Indians
: use of those boards which they bind on the temples of
their children, and which secure to them the enjoyment of
some part at least of their natural imbecility and happiness.
Savage man, abandoned by nature to pure instinct or
rather indemnified for that which has perhaps been denied
to him by faculties capable of immediately supplying the
place of it, and of raising him afterwards a great deal
higher, would therefore begin with functions that were
merely animal: to see and to feel would be his first
:ondition, which he would enjoy in common with other
umals. To will and not to will, to wish and to fear would
; first, and in a manner, the only operations of his soul,
all new circumstances occasioned new developments
> Let moralists say what they will, the human understanding
3 greatly indebted to the passions, which, on their side
are likewise universally allowed to be greatly indebted to
the human understanding. It is by the activitv of our pas
sions, that our reason improves: we covet knowledge merely
because we covet enjoyment, and it is impossible to conceive
why a man exempt from fears and desires should take the
trouble to reason. The passions, in their turn, owe their
to our wants, and their increase to our progress in
tence; for we cannot desire or fear anything, but in
consequence of the ideas we have of it, or of the simple im
pulses of nature; and savage man, destitute of every species
F knowledge, experiences no passions but those of this last
s desires never extend beyond his physical wants;
he knows no goods but food, a female, and rest- he
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 181
fears no evil but pain, and hunger; I say pain, and not
death ; for no animal, merely as such, will ever know what
it is to die, and the knowledge of death, and of its terrors,
is one of the first acquisitions made by man, in consequence
of his deviating from the animal state.
I could easily, were it requisite, cite facts in support of
this opinion, and show, that the progress of the mind has
everywhere kept pace exactly with the wants, to which
nature had left the inhabitants exposed, or to which cir
cumstances had subjected them, and consequently to the
passions, which inclined them to provide for these wants.
I could exhibit in Egypt the arts starting up, and extending
themselves with the inundations of the Nile; I could pursue
them in their progress among the Greeks, where they were
seen to bud forth, grow, and rise to the heavens, in the
midst of the sands and rocks of Attica, without being able
to take root on the fertile banks of the Eurotas ; I would ob
serve that, in general, the inhabitants of the north are more
industrious than those of the south, because they can less
do without industry; as if nature thus meant to make all
things equal, by giving to the mind that fertility she has
denied to the soil.
But exclusive of the uncertain testimonies of history,
who does not perceive that everything seems to remove
from savage man the temptation and the means of altering
his condition? His imagination paints nothing to him;
his heart asks nothing from him. His moderate wants are
so easily supplied with what he everywhere finds ready
to his hand, and he stands at such a distance from the de
gree of knowledge requisite to covet more, that he can
neither have foresight nor curiosity. The spectacle of nature,
by growing quite familiar to him, becomes at last equally
indifferent. It is constantly the same order, constantly the
same revolutions ; he has not sense enough to feel surprise
at the sight of the greatest wonders; and it is not in his
mind we must look for that philosophy, which man must
have to know how to observe once, what he has every day
seen. His soul, which nothing disturbs, gives itself up
entirely to the consciousness of its actual existence, with
out any thought of even the nearest futurity; and his pro-
182 ROUSSEAU
jects, equally confined with his views, scarce extend to
the end of the day. Such is, even at present, the degree of
foresight in the Caribbean: he sells his cotton bed in the
morning, and comes in the evening, with tears in his eyes,
to buy it back, not having foreseen that he should want it
again the next night.
"he more we meditate on this subject, the wider does the
distance between mere sensation and the most simple knowl
edge become in our eyes; and it is impossible to conceive
how man, by his own powers alone, without the assistance
of communication, and the spur of necessity, could have got
over so great an interval. How many ages perhaps re
volved, before men beheld any other fire but that of the
heavens? How many different accidents must have con
curred to make them acquainted with the most common
uses of this element? How often have they let it go out,
before they knew the art of reproducing it? And how
often perhaps has not every one of these secrets perished
with the discoverer? What shall we say of agriculture,
an art which requires so much labour and foresight; which
depends upon other arts ; which, it is very evident, cannot
be practised but in a society, if not a formed one, at least
one of some standing, and which does not so much serve
to draw aliments from the earth, for the earth would yield
them without all that trouble, as to oblige her to produce
those things, which we like best, preferably to others? But)
let us suppose that men had multiplied to such a degree, that
the natural products of the earth no longer sufficed for their
support; a supposition which, by the bye, would prove that
this kind of life would be very advantageous to the human
species; let us suppose that, without forge or anvil, the in
struments of husbandry had dropped from the heavens into
the hands of savages, that these men had got the better
of that mortal aversion they all have for constant labour;
that they had learned to foretell their wants at so great
a distance of time; that they had guessed exactly how they
were to break the earth, commit their seed to it, and plant
trees; that they had found out the art of grinding their
corn, and improving by fermentation the juice of their
grapes; all operations which we must allow them to have
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 183
learned from the gods, since we cannot conceive how they
should make such discoveries of themselves; after all these
fine presents, what man would be mad enough to cultivate
a field, that may be robbed by the first comer, man or beast,
who takes a fancy to the produce of it. And would any
man consent to spend his day in labour and fatigue, when
the rewards of his labour and fatigue became more and
more precarious in proportion to his want of them? In a
word, how could this situation engage men to cultivate the
earth, as long as it was not parcelled out among them, that
is, as long as a state of nature subsisted.
Though we should suppose savage man as well versed in the
art of thinking, as philosophers make him ; though we were,
after them, to make him a philosopher himself, discovering
of himself the sublimest truths, forming to himself, by the
most abstract arguments, maxims of justice and reason
drawn from the love of order in general, or from the known
will of his Creator : in a word, though we were to suppose his
mind as intelligent and enlightened, as it must, and is, in
fact, found to be dull and stupid; what benefit would the
species receive from all these metaphysical discoveries,
which could not be communicated, but must perish with the
individual who had made them? What progress could
mankind make in the forests, scattered up and down among
the other animals? And to what degree could men mutually
improve and enlighten each other, when they had no fixed
habitation, nor any need of each other s assistance; when
the same persons scarcely met twice in their whole lives,
and on meeting neither spoke to, or so much as knew
each other?
Let us consider how many ideas we owe to the use of
speech; how much grammar exercises, and facilitates the
operations of the mind; let us, besides, reflect on the im
mense pains and time that the first invention of languages
must have required: Let us add these reflections to the
preceding; and then we may judge how many thousand ages
must have been requisite to develop successively the opera
tions, which the human mind is capable of producing.
I must now beg leave to stop one moment to consider the
perplexities attending the origin of languages. I might here
!84 ROUSSEAU
barely cite or repeat the researches made, in relation to this
question, by the Abbe de Condillac, which all fully confirm
my system, and perhaps even suggested to me the first idea
of it. But, as the manner, in which the philosopher resolves
the difficulties of his own starting, concerning the origin of
arbitrary signs, shows that he supposes, what I doubt, namely
a kind of society already established among the inventors of
languages; I think it my duty, at the same time that I refer
to his reflections, to give my own, in order to expose the
same difficulties in a light suitable to my subject. The first
that offers is how languages could become necessary ; for as
there was no correspondence uetween men, nor the least
necessity for any, there is no conceiving the necessity of this
invention, nor the possibility of it, if it was not indispensable.
I might say, with many others, that languages are the fruit
of the domestic intercourse between fathers, mothers, and
children : but this, besides its not answering any difficulties,
would be committing the same fault with those, who rea
soning on the state of nature, transfer to it ideas collected in
society, always consider families as living together under
one roof, and their members as observing among themselves
an union, equally intimate and permanent with that which we
see exist in a civil state, where so many common interests con
spire to unite them; whereas in this primitive state, as there
were neither houses nor cabins, nor any kind of property,
every one took up his lodging at random, and seldom con
tinued above one night in the same place ; males and females
united without any premeditated design, as chance, occasion,
or desire brought them together, nor had they any great
occasion for language to make known their thoughts to each
other. They parted with the same ease. The mother
suckled her children, when just born, for her own sake; but
afterwards out of love and affection to them, when habit
and custom had made them dear to her ; but they no sooner
gained strength enough to run about in quest of food than
they separated even from her of their own accord; and as
they scarce had any other method of not losing each other,
than that of remaining constantly in each other s sight, they
soon came to such a pass of forgetfulness, as not even to
know each other, when they happened to meet again. I must
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 185
further observe that the child having all his wants to ex
plain, and consequently more things to say to his mother,
than the mother can have to say to him, it is he that must
be at the chief expense of invention, and the language he
makes use of must be in a great measure his own work;
this makes the number of languages equal to that of the
individuals who are to speak them; and this multiplicity
of languages is further increased by their roving and vag
abond kind of life, which allows no idiom time enough to
acquire any consistency; for to say that the mother would
have dictated to the child the words he must employ to
ask her this thing and that, may well enough explain in
what manner languages, already formed, are taught,
but it does not show us in what manner they are first
formed.
Let us suppose this first difficulty conquered : Let us for a
moment consider ourselves at this side of the immense space,
which must have separated the pure state of nature from that
in which languages became necessary, and let us, after allow
ing such necessity, examine how languages could begin
to be established. A new difficulty this, still more stubborn
than the preceding; for if men stood in need of speech to
learn to think, they must have stood in still greater need of
the art of thinking to invent that of speaking; and though
we could conceive how the sounds of the voice came to be
taken for the conventional interpreters of our ideas we
should not be the nearer knowing who could have been the in
terpreters of this convention for such ideas, as, in conse
quence of their not having any sensible objects, could not
be made manifest by gesture or voice; so that we can scarce
form any tolerable conjectures concerning the birth of this
art of communicating our thoughts, and establishing a cor
respondence between minds : a sublime art which, though so
remote from its origin, philosophers still behold at such a
prodigious distance from its perfection, that I never met with
one of them bold enough to affirm it would ever arrive there,
though the revolutions necessarily produced by time were
suspended in its favour; though prejudice could be banished
from, or would be at least content to sit silent in the presence
of our academies, and though these societies should conse-
186 ROUSSEAU
crate themselves, entirely and during whole ages, to the
study of this intricate object.
The first language of man, the most universal and most
energetic of all languages, in short, the only language he
had occasion for, before there was a necessity of per
suading assembled multitudes, was the cry of nature. As
this cry was never extorted but by a kind of instinct in the
most urgent cases, to implore assistance in great danger, or
relief in great sufferings, it was of little use in the common
occurrences of life, where more moderate sentiments gen
erally prevail. When the ideas of men began to extend and
multiply, and a closer communication began to take place
among them, they laboured to devise more numerous signs,
and a more extensive language: they multiplied the inflec
tions of the voice, and added to them gestures, which are,
in their own nature, more expressive, and whose meaning
depends less on any prior determination. They therefore
expressed visible and movable objects by gestures and those
which strike the ear, by imitative sounds: but as gestures
scarcely indicate anything except objects that are actually
present or can be easily described, and visible actions; as
they are not of general use, since darkness or the interposi
tion of an opaque medium renders them useless; and as be
sides they require attention rather than excite it: men at
length bethought themselves of substituting for them the ar
ticulations of voice, which, without having the same relation
to any determinate object, are, in quality of instituted signs,
fitter to represent all our ideas ; a substitution, which could
only have been made by common consent, and in a manner
pretty difficult to practise by men, whose rude organs were
unimproved by exercise; a substitution, which is in itself
more difficult to be conceived, since the motives to this
unanimous agreement must have been somehow or another
expressed, and speech therefore appears to have been ex
ceedingly requisite to establish the use of speech.
We must allow that the words, first made use of by men,
had in their minds a much more extensive signification, than
those employed in languages of some standing, and that,
considering how ignorant they were of the division of
speech into its constituent parts; they at first gave every
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 187
word the meaning of an entire proposition. When after
wards they began to perceive the difference between the
subject and attribute, and between verb and noun, a distinc
tion which required no mean effort of genius, the sub
stantives for a time were only so many proper names, the
infinitive was the only tense, and as to adjectives, great
difficulties must have attended the development of the idea
that represents them, since every adjective is an abstract
word, and abstraction is an unnatural and very painful
operation.
At first they gave every object a peculiar name, without
any^ regard to its genus or species, things which these first
institutors of language were in no condition to distinguish;
and every individual presented itself solitary to their minds,
as it stands in the table of nature. If they called one
oak A, they called another oak B : so that their dictionary
must have been more extensive in proportion as their knowl
edge of things was more confined. It could not but be a
very difficult task to get rid of so diffuse and embarrassing
a nomenclature; as in order to marshal the several beings
under common and generic denominations, it was necessary
to be first acquainted with their properties, and their dif
ferences; to be stocked with observations and definitions,
that is to say, to understand natural history and meta
physics, advantages which the men of these times could
not have enjoyed.
Besides, general ideas cannot be conveyed to the mind
without the assistance of words, nor can the understanding
seize them without the assistance of propositions. This is
one of the reasons, why mere animals cannot form such
ideas, nor ever acquire the perfectibility which depends on
such an operation. When a monkey leaves without the
least hesitation one nut for another, are we to think he
has any general idea of that kind of fruit, and that he com
pares these two individual bodies with his archetype notion
of them? No, certainly; but the sight of one of these nuts
calls back to his memory the sensations which he has re
ceived from the other; and his eyes, modified after some
certain manner, give notice to his palate of the modification
it is in its turn going to receive. Every general idea is
188 ROUSSEAU
purely intellectual ; let the imagination tamper ever so little
with it, it immediately becomes a particular idea. Endeavour
to represent to yourself the image of a tree in general, you
never will be able to do it; in spite of all your efforts
it will appear big or little, thin or tufted, of a bright or a
deep colour; and were you master to see nothing in it, but
what can be seen in every tree, such a picture would no
longer resemble any tree. Beings perfectly abstract are
perceivable in the same manner, or are only conceivable by
the assistance of speech. The definition of a triangle can
alone give you a just idea of that figure: the moment you
form a triangle in your mind, it is this or that particular tri
angle and no other, and you cannot avoid giving breadth to
its lines and colour to its area. We must therefore make use
of propositions; we must therefore speak to have general
ideas; for the moment the imagination stops, the mind must
stop too, if not assisted by speech. If therefore the first
inventors could give no names to any ideas but those they
had already, it follows that the first substantives could never
have been anything more than proper names.
.But when by means, which I cannot conceive, our new
grammarians began to extend their ideas, and generalize
their words, the ignorance of the inventors must have con
fined this method to very narrow bounds; and as they had
at first too much multiplied the names of individuals for
want of being acquainted with the distinctions called genus
and species, they afterwards made too few genera and
species for want of having considered beings in all their
differences ; to push the divisions far enough, they must have
had more knowledge and experience than we can allow them,
and have made more researches and taken more pains, than
we can suppose them willing to submit to. Now if, even
at this present time, we every day discover new species,
which had before escaped all our observations, how many
species must have escaped the notice of men, who judged
of things merely from their first appearances ! As to the
primitive classes and the most general notions, it were super
fluous to add that these they must have likewise overlooked :
how, for example, could they have thought of or understood
the words, matter, spirit, substance, mode, figure, motion,
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 189
since even our philosophers, who for so long a time have
been constantly employing these terms, can themselves
scarcely understand them, and since the ideas annexed to
these words being purely metaphysical, no models of them
could be found in nature?
I stop at these first advances, and beseech my judges to
suspend their lecture a little, in order to consider, what
a great way language has still to go, in regard to the
invention of physical substantives alone, (though the easiest
part of language to invent,) to be able to express all the
sentiments of man, to assume an invariable form, to bear
being spoken in public and to influence society: I earnestly
entreat them to consider how much time and knowledge must
have been requisite to find out numbers, abstract words,
the aorists, and all the other tenses of verbs, the particles,
and syntax, the method of connecting propositions and argu
ments, of forming all the logic of discourse. For my own
part, I am so scared at the difficulties that multiply at every
step, and so convinced of the almost demonstrated impos
sibility of languages owing their birth and establishment to
means that were merely human, that I must leave to who
ever may please to take it up, the task of discussing this
difficult problem. " Which was the most necessary, society
already formed to invent languages, or languages already
invented to form society?"
But be the case of these origins ever so mysterious, we
may at least infer from the little care which nature has
taken to bri^g- men together by mutual wants, and make the
use of speech easy to them, how little she has done towards
making them sociable, and how little she has contributed
to anything which they themselves have done to become
so. In fact, it is impossible to conceive, why, in this
primitive state, one man should have more occasion for the
assistance of another, than one monkey, or one wolf for
that of another animal of the same species; or supposing
that he had, what motive could induce another to assist
him; or even, in this last case, how he, who wanted as
sistance, and he from whom it was wanted, could agree
among themselves upon the conditions. Authors, I know,
are continually telling us, that in this state man would have
190 BOUSSEAU
been a most miserable creature; and if it is true, as I fancy
I have proved it, that he must have continued many ages
without either the desire or the opportunity of emerging
from such a state, this their assertion could only serve
to justify a charge against nature, and not any against the
being which nature had thus constituted; but, if I thoroughly
understand this term miserable, it is a word, that either
has no meaning, or signifies nothing, but a privation at
tended with pain, and a suffering state of body or soul;
now I would fain know what kind of misery can be that of
a free being, whose heart enjoys perfect peace, and body
perfect health? And which is aptest to become insupportable
to those who enjoy it, a civil or a natural life? In civil
life we can scarcely meet a single person who does not com
plain of his existence; many even throw away as much of
it as they can, and the united force of divine and human laws
can hardly put bounds to this disorder. Was ever any free
savage known to have been so much as tempted to complain
of life, and lay violent hands on himself? Let us therefore
judge with less pride on which side real misery is to be
placed. Nothing, on the contrary, must have been so unhappy
as savage man, dazzled by flashes of knowledge, racked
by passions, and reasoning on a state different from that
in which he saw himself placed. It was in consequence of
a very wise Providence, that the faculties, which he potenti
ally enjoyed, were not to develop themselves but in propor
tion as there offered occasions to exercise them, lest they
should be superfluous or troublesome to him when he did
not want them, or tardy and useless when he did. He had
in his instinct alone everything requisite to live in a state
of nature; in his cultivated reason he has barely what is
necessary to live in a state of society.
It appears at first sight that, as there was no kind of
moral relations between men in this state, nor any known
duties, they could not be either good or bad, and had neither
vices nor virtues, unless we take these words in a physical
sense, and call vices, in the individual, the qualities which
may prove detrimental to his own preservation, and virtues
those which may contribute to it; in which case we should
be obliged to consider him as most virtuous, who made
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 191
least resistance against the simple impulses of nature. But
without deviating from the usual meaning of these terms, it
is proper to suspend the judgment we might form of such
a situation, and be upon our guard against prejudice, till,
the balance in hand, we have examined whether there are
more virtues or vices among civilized men; or whether
the improvement of their understanding is sufficient to com
pensate the damage which they mutually do to each other,
in proportion as they become better informed of the services
which they ought to do; or whether, upon the whole, they
would not be much happier in a condition, where they
had nothing to fear or to hope from each other, than in that
where they had submitted to an universal subserviency, and
have obliged themselves to depend for everything upon the
good will of those, who do not think themselves obliged
to give anything in return.
But above all things let us beware concluding with
Hobbes, that man, as having no idea of goodness, must be
n:U irally bad; that he is vicious because he does not know
what virtue is; that he always refuses to do any service
to those of his own species, because he believes that none
is due to them; that, in virtue of that right which he justly
claims to everything he wants, he foolishly looks upon
himself as proprietor of the whole universe. Hobbes very
plainly saw the flaws in all the modern definitions of
natural right: but the consequences, which he draws from
his own definition, show that it is, in the sense he under
stands it, equally exceptionable. This author, to argue
from his own principles, should say that the state of nature,
being that where the care of our own preservation interferes
least with the preservation of others, was of course the
most favourable to peace, and most suitable to mankind;
wl creas he advances the very reverse in consequence of
his having injudiciously admitted, as objects of that care
which savage man should take of his preservation, the sat
isfaction of numberless passions which are the worfc of
society, and have rendered laws necessary. A bad man,
says he, is a robust child. But this is not proving that
savage man is a robust child; and though we were to grant
that he was, what could this philosopher infer from such
192 ROUSSEAU
a concession? That if this man, when robust, depended on
others as much as when feeble, there is no excess that he
would not be guilty of. He would make nothing of striking
his mother when she delayed ever so little to give him the
breast; he would claw, and bite, and strangle without re
morse the first of his younger brothers, that ever so acci
dentally jostled or otherwise disturbed him. But these are
two contradictory suppositions in the state of nature, to be
robust and dependent. Man is weak when dependent,
and his own master before he grows robust. Hobbes did
not consider that the same cause, which hinders savages
from making use of their reason, as our jurisconsults
pretend, hinders them at the same time from making
an ill use of their faculties, as he himself pretends; so
that we may say that savages are not bad, precisely be
cause they don t know what it is to be good; for it is neither
the development of the understanding, nor the curb of the
law, but the calmness of their passions and their ignorance
of vice that hinders them from doing ill : tantus plus in illis
proficlt vitiorum ignorantia, quam in his cognito virtutis.
There is besides another principle that has escaped Hobbes,
and which, having been given to man to moderate, on cer
tain occasions, the blind and impetuous sallies of self-love,
or the desire of self-preservation previous to the appear
ance of that passion, allays the ardour, with which he
naturally pursues his private welfare, by an innate abhor
rence to see beings suffer that resemble him. I shall not
surely be contradicted, in granting to man the only natural
virtue,, which the most passionate detractor of human vir
tues could not deny him, I mean that of pity, a disposition
suitable to creatures weak as we are, and liable to so many
evils ; a virtue so much the more universal, and withal use
ful to man, as it takes place in him of all manner of reflec
tion; and so natural, that the beasts themselves sometimes
give evident signs of it. Not to speak of the tenderness
of mothers for their young; and of the dangers they face
to screen them from danger ; with what reluctance are horses
known to trample upon living bodies; one animal never
passes unmoved by the dead carcass of another animal of
the same species: there are even some who bestow a kind
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 193
of sepulture upon their dead fellows; and the mournful
lowings of cattle, on their entering the slaughter-house, pub
lish the impression made upon them by the horrible spectacle
they are there struck with. It is with pleasure we see the
author of the fable of the bees, forced to acknowledge man
a compassionate and sensible being; and lay aside, in the
example he offers to confirm it, his cold and subtle style,
to place before us the pathetic picture of a man, who, with
his hands tied up, is obliged to behold a beast of prey tear
a child from the arms of his mother, and then with his
teeth grind the tender limbs, and with his claws rend the
throbbing entrails of the innocent victim. What horrible
emotions must not such a spectator experience at the sight
of an event which does not personally concern him? What
anguish must he not suffer at his not being able to assist
the fainting mother or the expiring infant?
Such is the pure motion of nature, anterior to all manner
of reflection; such is the force of natural pity, which the
most dissolute manners have as yet found it so difficult to
extinguish, since we every day see, in our theatrical repre
sentation, those men sympathize with the unfortunate and
weep at their sufferings, who, if in the tyrant s place, would
aggravate the torments of their enemies. Mandeville was
very sensible that men, in spite of all their morality, would
never have been better than monsters, if nature had not given
them pity to assist reason: but he did not perceive that
from this quality alone flow all the social virtues, which
he would dispute mankind the possession of. In fact, what
is generosity, what clemency, what humanity, but pity ap
plied to the weak, to the guilty, or to the human species in
general? Even benevolence and friendship, if we judge
right, will appear the effects of a constant pity, fixed upon
a particular object: for to wish that a person may not suffer,
what is it but to wish that he may be happy ? Though it were
true that commiseration is no more than a sentiment, which
puts us in the place of him who suffers, a sentiment obscure
but active in the savage, developed but dormant in civilized
man, how could this notion affect the truth of what I
advance, but to make it more evident. In fact, commisera
tion must be so much the more energetic, the more inti-
(G) HC xxxiv
19 4 ROUSSEAU
mately the animal, that beholds any kind of distress, identifies
himself with the animal that labours under it. Now it is evi
dent that this identification must have been infinitely more
perfect in the state of nature than in the state of reason. It
is reason that engenders self-love, and reflection that strength
ens it; it is reason that makes man shrink into himself; it is
reason that makes him keep aloof from everything that can
trouble or afflict him : it is philosophy that destroys his con
nections with other men ; it is in consequence of her dictates
that he mutters to himself at the sight of another in distress,
You may perish for aught I care, nothing can hurt me. Noth
ing less than those evils, which threaten the whole species,
can disturb the calm sleep of the philosopher, and force him
from his bed. One man may with impunity murder another
under his windows ; he has nothing to do but clap his hands
to his ears, argue a little with himself to hinder nature, that
startles within him, from identifying him with the unhappy
sufferer. Savage man wants this admirable talent; and for
want of wisdom and reason, is always ready foolishly to
obey the first whispers of humanity. In riots and street-
brawls the populace flock together, the prudent man sneaks
off. They are the dregs of the people, the poor basket
and barrow-women, that part the combatants, and hinder
gentle folks from cutting one another s throats.
It is therefore certain that pity is a natural sentiment, which,
by moderating in every individual the activity of self-love,
contributes to the mutual preservation of the whole species.
It is this pity which hurries us without reflection to the as
sistance of those we see in distress; it is this pity which, in
a state of nature, stands for laws, for manners, for virtue,
with this advantage, that no one is tempted to disobey her
sweet and gentle voice: it is this pity which will always
hinder a robust savage from plundering a feeble child, or
infirm old man, of the subsistence they have acquired with
pain and difficulty, if he has but the least prospect of pro
viding for himself by any other means : it is this pity which,
instead of that sublime maxim of argumentative justice,
Do to others as you would have others do to you, inspires
all men with that other maxim of natural goodness a great
deal less perfect, but perhaps more useful, Consult your
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 195
own happiness with as little prejudice as you can to that of
others. It is in a word, in this natural sentiment, rather
than in fine-spun arguments, that we must look for the cause
of that reluctance which every man would experience to do
evil, even independently of the maxims of education. Though
it may be the peculiar happiness of Socrates and other
geniuses of his stamp, to reason themselves into virtue, the
human species would long ago have ceased to exist, had it
depended entirely for its preservation on the reasonings of
the individuals that compose it.
With passions so tame, and so salutary a curb, men,
rather wild than wicked, and more attentive to guard against
mischief than to do any to other animals, were not exposed
to any dangerous dissensions: As they kept up no manner
of correspondence with each other, and were of course
strangers to vanity, to respect, to esteem, to contempt; as
they had no notion of what we call Meum and Tuum, nor any
true idea of justice; as they considered any violence they were
liable to, as an evil that could be easily repaired, and not
as an injury that deserved punishment; and as they never
so much as dreamed of revenge, unless perhaps mechanically
and unpremeditatedly, as a dog who bites the stone that has
been thrown at him ; their disputes could seldom be attended
with bloodshed, were they never occasioned by a more con
siderable stake than that of subsistence: but there is a more
dangerous subject of contention, which I must not leave
unnoticed.
Among the passions which ruffle the heart of man, there
is one of a hot and impetuous nature, which renders the
sexes necessary to each other; a terrible passion which de
spises all dangers, bears down all obstacles, and to which in
its transports it seems proper to destroy the human species
which it is destined to preserve. What must become of
men abandoned to this lawless and brutal rage, without
modesty, without shame, and every day disputing the objects
of their passion at the expense of their blood?
We must in the first place allow that the more violent
the passions, the more necessary are laws to restrain them:
but besides that the disorders and the crimes, to which these
passions daily give rise among us, sufficiently prove the in-
196 ROUSSEAU
sufficiency of laws for that purpose, we would do well to
look back a little further and examine, if these evils did not
spring up with the laws themselves ; for at this rate, though
the laws were capable of repressing these evils, it is the
least that might be expected from them, seeing it is no
more than stopping the progress of a mischief which they
themselves have produced.
Let us begin by distinguishing between what is moral and
what is physical in the passion called love. The physical
part of it is that general desire which prompts the sexes
to unite with each other; the moral part is that which de
termines that desire, and fixes it upon a particular object
to the exclusion of all others, or at least gives it a greater
degree of energy for this preferred object. Now it is easy
to perceive that the moral part of love is a factitious senti
ment, engendered by society, and cried up by the women
with great care and address in order to establish their
empire, and secure command to that sex which ought to
obey. This sentiment, being founded on certain notions
of beauty and merit which a savage is not capable of
having, and upon comparisons which he is not capable
of making, can scarcely exist in him : for as his mind
was never in a condition to form abstract ideas of reg
ularity and proportion, neither is his heart susceptible of
sentiments of admiration and love, which, even without
our perceiving it, are produced by our application of
these ideas; he listens solely to the dispositions implanted
in him by nature, and not to taste which he never
was in a way of acquiring; and every woman answers
his purpose.
Confined entirely to what is physical in love, and happy
enough not to know these preferences which sharpen the
appetite for it, at the same time that they increase the diffi
culty of satisfying such appetite, men, in a state of nature,
must be subject to fewer and less violent fits of that passion,
and of course there must be fewer and less violent disputes
among them in consequence of it. The imagination which
causes so many ravages among us, never speaks to the heart
of savages, who peaceably wait for the impulses of nature,
yield to these impulses without choice and with more pleas-
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 197
ure than fury; and whose desires never outlive their neces
sity for the thing desired.
Nothing therefore can be more evident, than that it is
society alone, which has added even to love itself as well
as to all the other passions, that impetuous ardour, which
so often renders it fatal to mankind; and it is so much the
more ridiculous to represent savages constantly murder
ing each other to glut their brutality, as this opinion is
diametrically opposite to experience, and the Caribbeans,
the people in the world who have as yet deviated least
from the state of nature, are to all intents and purposes
the most peaceable in their amours, and the least subject
to jealousy, though they live in a burning climate which
seems always to add considerably to the activity of these
passions.
As to the inductions which may be drawn, in respect to
several species of animals, from the battles of the males,
who in all seasons cover our poultry yards with blood, and
in spring particularly cause our forests to ring again with
the noise they make in disputing their females, we must
begin by excluding all those species, where nature has evi
dently established, in the relative power of the sexes, rela
tions different from those which exist among us: thus from
the battle of cocks we can form no induction that will affect
the human species. In the species, where the proportion is
better observed, these battles must be owing entirely to the
fewness of the females compared with the males, or, which
is all one, to the exclusive intervals, during which the fe
males constantly refuse the addresses of the males; for if
the female admits the male but two months in the year, it is
all the same as if the number of females were five-sixths
less than what it is : now neither of these cases is applicable
to the human species, where the number of females gen
erally surpasses that of males, and where it has never been
observed that, even among savages, the females had, like
those of other animals, stated times of passion and indiffer
ence. Besides, among several of these animals the whole
species takes fire all at once, and for some days nothing is
to be seen among them but confusion, tumult, disorder and
bloodshed ; a state unknown to the human species where love
198 ROUSSEAU
is never periodical. We can not therefore conclude from
the battles of certain animals for the possession of their
females, that the same would be the case of man in a state of
nature ; and though we might, as these contests do not destroy
the other species, there is at least equal room to think they
would not be fatal to ours ; nay it is very probable that they
would cause fewer ravages than they do in society, espe
cially in those countries where, morality being as yet held
in some esteem, the jealousy of lovers, and the vengeance
of husbands every day produce duels, murders and even
worse crimes; where the duty of an eternal fidelity serves
only to propagate adultery; and the very laws of continence
and honour necessarily contribute to increase dissoluteness,
and multiply abortions.
Let us conclude that savage man, wandering about in the
forests, without industry, without speech, without any fixed
residence, an equal stranger to war and every social con
nection, without standing in any shape in need of his fellows,
as well as without any desire of hurting them, and perhaps
even without ever distinguishing them individually one from
the other, subject to few passions, and finding in himself all
he wants, let us, I say, conclude that savage man thus cir
cumstanced had no knowledge or sentiment but such as are
proper to that condition, that he was alone sensible of his
real necessities, took notice of nothing but what it was his
interest to see, and that his understanding made as little
progress as his vanity. If he happened to make any dis
covery, he could the less communicate it as he did not even
know his children. The art perished with the inventor;
there was neither education nor improvement; generations
succeeded generations to no purpose ; and as all constantly set
out from the same point, whole centuries rolled on in the
rudeness and barbarity of the first age; the species was
grown old, while the individual still remained in a state of
childhood.
If I have enlarged so much upon the supposition of this
primitive condition, it is because I thought it my duty, con
sidering what ancient errors and inveterate prejudices I
have to extirpate, to dig to the very roots, and show in a
true picture of the state of nature, how much even natural
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 199
inequality falls short in this state of that reality and in
fluence which our writers ascribe to it.
In fact, we may easily perceive that among the differ
ences, which distinguish men, several pass for natural, which
are merely the work of habit and the different kinds of life
adopted by men living in a social way. Thus a robust or
delicate constitution, and the strength and weakness which
depend on it, are oftener produced by the hardy or effem
inate manner in which a man has been brought up, than by
the primitive constitution of his body. It is the same thus
in regard to the forces of the mind ; and education not only
produces a difference between those minds which are culti
vated and those which are not, but even increases that
which is found among the first in proportion to their
culture; for let a giant and a dwarf set out in the same
path, the giant at every step will acquire a new advantage
over the dwarf. Now, if we compare the prodigious variety
in the education and manner of living of the different orders
of men in a civil state, with the simplicity and uniformity
that prevails in the animal and savage life, where all the
individuals make use of the same aliments, live in the same
manner, and do exactly the same things, we shall easily con-
eive how much the difference between man and man in the
state of nature must be less than in the state of society, and
how much every inequality of institution must increase the
natural inequalities of the human species.
But though nature in the distribution of her gifts should
really affect all the preferences that are ascribed to her, what
advantage could the most favoured derive from her partiality
to the prejudice -f others, in a state of things, which scarce
:ted any kind of relation between her pupils? Of what
service can beauty be, where there is no love ? What will wit
avail people who don t speak, or craft those who have no
to transact? Authors are constantly crying out that
the strongest would oppress the weakest; but let them explain
what they mean by the word oppression. One man will rule
with violence, another will groan under a constant subjec-
o all his caprices: this is indeed precisely what I ob-
erve among us, but I don t see how it can be said of savage
men, into whose heads it would be a harder matter to drive
200 ROUSSEAU
even the meaning of the words domination and servitude.
One man might, indeed, seize on the fruits which another had
gathered, on the game which another had killed, on the cav
ern which another had occupied for shelter ; but how~ is it
possible he should ever exact obedience from him, and what
chains of dependence can there be among men who possess
nothing? If I am driven from one tree, I have nothing to
do but look out for another; if one place is made uneasy to
me, what can hinder me from taking up my quarters else
where ? But suppose I should meet a man so much superior
to me in strength, and withal so wicked, so lazy and so
barbarous as to oblige me to provide for his subsistence while
he remains idle; he must resolve not to take his eyes from
me a single moment, to bind me fast before he can take the
least nap, lest I should kill him or give him the slip during
his sleep: that is to say, he must expose himself voluntarily
to much greater troubles than what he seeks to avoid, than
any he gives me. And after all, let him abate ever so little
of his vigilance; let him at some sudden noise but turn his
head another way; I am already buried in the forest, my
fetters are broke, and he never sees me again.
But without insisting any longer upon these details, every
one must see that, as the bonds of servitude are formed
merely by the mutual dependence of men one upon another
and the reciprocal necessities which unite them, it is im
possible for one man to enslave another, without having first
reduced him to a condition in which he can not live without
the enslaver s assistance ; a condition which, as it does not
exist in a state of nature, must leave every man his own
master, and render the law of the strongest altogether vain
and useless.
Having proved that the inequality, which may subsist be
tween man and man in a state of nature, is almost imper-
ceivable, and that it has very little influence, I must now
proceed to show its origin, and trace its progress, in the
successive developments of the human mind. After having
showed, that perfectibility, the social virtues, and the other
faculties, which natural man had received in potentia, could
never be developed of themselves, that for that purpose there
was a necessity for the fortuitous concurrence of several
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 201
foreign causes, which might never happen, and without
which he must have eternally remained in his primitive con
dition; I must proceed to consider and bring together the
different accidents which may have perfected the human un
derstanding by debasing the species, render a being wicked
by rendering him sociable, and from so remote a term bring
man at last and the world to the point in which we now
see them.
I must own that,, as the events I am about to describe
might have happened many different ways, my choice of
these I shall assign can be grounded on nothing but mere
conjecture; but besides these conjectures becoming reasons,
when they are not only the most probable that can be drawn
from the nature of things, but the only means we can have
of discovering truth, the consequences I mean to deduce
from mine will not be merely conjectural, since, on the prin
ciples I have just established, it is impossible to form any
other system, that would not supply me with the same results,
and from which I might not draw the same conclusions.
This will authorize me to be the more concise in my reflec
tions on the manner, in which the lapse of time makes amends
for the little verisimilitude of events ; on the surprising power
of very trivial causes, when they act without intermission;
on the impossibility there is on the one hand of destroying
certain Hypotheses, if on the other we can not give them
the degree of certainty which facts must be allowed to
possess; on its being the business of history, when two facts
are proposed, as real, to be connected by a chain of inter
mediate facts which are either unknown or considered as
such, to furnish such facts as may actually connect them;
and the business of philosophy, when history is silent, to
point out similar facts which may answer the same purpose ;
in fine on the privilege of similitude, in regard to events, to
reduce facts to a much smaller number of different classes
than is generally imagined. It suffices me to offer these ob
jects to the consideration of my judges; it suffices me to
have conducted my inquiry in such a manner as to save com
mon readers the trouble of considering them.
SECOND PART
THE first man, who, after enclosing a piece of ground,
took it into his head to say, " This is mine," and found
people simple enough to believe him, was the true
founder of civil society. How many crimes, how many wars,
how many murders, how many misfortunes and horrors,
would that man have saved the human species, who pulling
up the stakes or filling up the ditches should have cried to
his fellows: Be sure not to listen to this imposter; you are
lost, if you forget that the fruits of the earth belong equally
to us all, and the earth itself to nobody ! But it is highly
probable that things were now come to such a pass, that they
could not continue much longer in the same way; for as
this idea of property depends on several prior ideas which
could only spring up gradually one after another, it was
not formed all at once in the human mind: men must have
made great progress; they must have acquired a great
stock of industry and knowledge, and transmitted and in
creased it from age to age before they could arrive at this
last term of the state of nature. Let us therefore take up
things a little higher, and collect into one point of view, and
in their most natural order, this slow succession of events
and mental improvements.
The first sentiment of man was that of his existence, his
first care that of preserving it. The productions of the earth
yielded him all the assistance he required ; instinct prompted
him to make use of them. Among the various appetites,
which made him at different times experience different modes
of existence, there was one that excited him to perpetuate
his species; and this blind propensity, quite void of any
thing like pure love or affection, produced nothing but an
act that was merely animal. The present heat once al
layed, the sexes took no further notice of each other, and
even the child ceased to have any tie in his mother, the
moment he ceased to want her assistance.
Such was the condition of infant man ; such was the life
of an animal confined at first to pure sensations, and so far
from harbouring any thought of forcing her gifts from
202
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 203
nature, that he scarcely availed himself of those which she
offered to him of her own accord. But difficulties soon
arose, and there was a necessity for learning how to surmount
them: the height of some trees, which prevented his reach
ing their fruits; the competition of other animals equally
fond of the same fruits; the fierceness of many that even
aimed at his life; these were so many circumstances, which
obliged him to apply to bodily exercise. There was a neces
sity for becoming active, swift-footed, and sturdy in battle.
The natural arms, which are stones and the branches of
trees, soon offered themselves to his assistance. He learned
to surmount the obstacles of nature, to contend in case of
necessity with other animals, to dispute his subsistence even
with other men, or indemnify himself for the loss of what
ever he found himself obliged to part with to the strongest.
In proportion as the human species grew more numerous,
and extended itself, its pains likewise multiplied and in
creased. The difference of soils, climates and seasons,
might have forced men to observe some difference in their
way of living. Bad harvests, long and severe winters, and
scorching summers which parched up all the fruits of the
earth, required extraordinary exertions of industry. On
the sea shore, and the banks of rivers, they invented the line
and the hook, and became fishermen and ichthyophagous. In
the forests they made themselves bows and arrows, and be
came huntsmen and warriors. In the cold countries they
covered themselves with the skins of the beasts they had
killed ; thunder, a volcano, or some happy accident made them
acquainted with fire, a new resource against the rigours of
winter: they discovered the method of preserving this ele
ment, then that of reproducing it, and lastly the way of
preparing with it the flesh of animals, which heretofore
they devoured raw from the carcass.
This reiterated application of various beings to himself,
and to one another, must have naturally engendered in the
mind of man the idea of certain relations. These relations,
which we express by the words, great, little, strong, weak,
swift, slow, fearful, bold, and the like, compared occasionally,
and almost without thinking of it, produced in him some
kind of reflection, or rather a mechanical prudence, which
204 ROUSSEAU
pointed out to him the precautions most essential to his
preservation and safety.
The new lights resulting from this development increased
his superiority over other animals, by making him sensible of
it. He laid himself out to ensnare them; he played them a
thousand tricks; and though several surpassed him in strength
or in swiftness, he in time became the master of those that
could be of any service to him, and a sore enemy to those
that could do him any mischief. Tis thus, that the first
look he gave into himself produced the first emotion of
pride in him; tis thus that, at a time he scarce knew how
to distinguish between the different ranks of existence, by
attributing to his species the first rank among animals in
general, he prepared himself at a distance to pretend to it as
an individual among those of his own species in particular.
Though other men were not to him what they are to us,
and he had scarce more intercourse with them than with
other animals, they were not overlooked in his observations.
The conformities, which in time he might discover between
them, and between himself and his female, made him judge
of those he did not perceive; and seeing that they all behaved
as himself would have done in similar circumstances, he
concluded that their manner of thinking and willing was
quite conformable to his own; and this important truth,
when once engraved deeply on his mind, made him follow,
by a presentiment as sure as any logic, and withal much
quicker, the best rules of conduct, which for the sake of
his own safety and advantage it was proper he should ob
serve towards them.
Instructed by experience that the love of happiness is
the sole principle of all human actions, he found himself
in a condition to distinguish the few cases, in which common
interest might authorize him to build upon the assistance
of his fellows, and those still fewer, in which a competition
of interests might justly render it suspected. In the first
case he^ united with them in the same flock, or at most by
some kind of free association which obliged none of its
members, and lasted no longer than the transitory necessity
that had given birth to it. In the second case every one
aimed at his own private advantage, either by open force
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 205
if he found himself strong enough, or by cunning and address
if he thought himself too weak to use violence.
Such was the manner in which men might have insensibly
acquired some gross idea of their mutual engagements and
the advantage of fulfilling them, but this only as far as
their present and sensible interest required; for as to fore
sight they were utter strangers to it, and far from troubling
their heads about a distant futurity, they scarce thought of
the day following-. Was a deer to be taken? Every one
saw that to succeed he must faithfully stand to his post;
but suppose a hare to have slipped by within reach of any
one of them, it is not to be doubted but he pursued it with
out scruple, and when he had seized his prey never re
proached himself with having made his companions miss
theirs.
We may easily conceive that such an intercourse scarce
required a more refined language than that of crows and
monkeys, which flock together almost in the same manner.
Inarticulate exclamations, a great many gestures, and some
imitative sounds, must have been for a long time the univer
sal language of mankind, and by joining to these in every
country some articulate and conventional sounds, of which,
as I have already hinted, it is not very easy to explain the
institution, there arose particular languages, but rude,
imperfect, and such nearly as are to be found at this day
among several savage nations. My pen straightened by the
rapidity of time, the abundance of things I have to say, and
the almost insensible progress of the first improvements,
flies like an arrow over numberless ages, for the slower
the succession of events, the quicker I may allow myself to
be in relating them.
At length, these first improvements enabled man to im
prove at a greater rate. Industry grew perfect in proportion
as the mind became more enlightened. Men soon ceasing
to fall asleep under the first tree, or take shelter in the first
cavern, lit upon some hard and sharp kinds of stone re
sembling spades or hatchets, and employed them to dig the
ground, cut down trees, and with the branches build huts,
which they afterwards bethought themselves of plastering
over with clay or dirt. This was the epoch of a first revo-
206 ROUSSEAU
lution, which produced the establishment and distinction of
families, and which introduced a species of property,
and along with it perhaps a thousand quarrels and
battles. As the strongest however were probably the first
to make themselves cabins, which they knew they were able
to defend, we may conclude that the weak found it much
shorter and safer to imitate than to attempt to dislodge
them: and as to those, who were already provided with
cabins, no one could have any great temptation to
seize upon that of his neighbour, not so much because it
did not belong to him, as because it could be of no service
to him ; and as besides to make himself master of it, he must
expose himself to a very sharp conflict with the present
occupiers.
The first developments of the heart were the effects of
a new situation, which united husbands and wives, parents
and children, under one roof; the habit of living together
gave birth to the sweetest sentiments the human species is
acquainted with, conjugal and paternal love. Every family
became a little society, so much the more firmly united, as
a mutual attachment and liberty were the only bonds of it;
and it was now that the sexes, whose way of life had been
hitherto the same, began to adopt different manners and
customs. The women became more sedentary, and accus
tomed themselves to stay at home and look after the children,
while the men rambled abroad in quest of subsistence for the
whole family. The two sexes likewise by living a little more
at their ease began to lose somewhat of their usual ferocity
and sturdiness; but if on the one hand individuals became
less able to engage separately with wild beasts, they on the
other were more easily got together to make a common
resistance against them.
In this new state of things, the simplicity and solitariness
of man s life, the limitedness of his wants, and the instru
ments which he had invented to satisfy them, leaving him
a great deal of leisure, he employed it to supply himself
with several conveniences unknown to his ancestors; and
this was the first yoke he inadvertently imposed upon him
self, and the first source of mischief which he prepared for
his children; for besides continuing in this manner to soften
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 207
both body and mind, these conveniences having through
use lost almost all their aptness to please, and even degen
erated into real wants, the privation of them became far
more intolerable than the possession of them had been
agreeable; to lose them was a misfortune, to possess them
no happiness.
Here we may a little better discover how the use of
speech insensibly commences or improves in the bosom of
every family, and may likewise from conjectures concerning
the manner in which divers particular causes might have
propagated language, and accelerated its progress by ren
dering it every day more and more necessary. Great in
undations or earthquakes surrounded inhabited districts
with water or precipices, portions of the continent were by
revolutions of the globe torn off and split into islands. It
is obvious that among men thus collected, and forced to
live together, a common idiom must have started up much
sooner, than among those who freely wandered through the
forests of the main land. Thus it is very possible that the
inhabitants of the islands formed in this manner, after their
first essays in navigation, brought among us the use of
speech; and it is very probable at least that society and
languages commenced in islands and even acquired perfec
tion there, before the inhabitants of the continent knew
anything of either.
Everything now begins to wear a new aspect. Those
who heretofore wandered through the woods, by taking to a
more settled way of life, gradually flock together, coalesce
into several separate bodies, and at length form in every
country distinct nations, united in character and manners,
not by any laws or regulations, but by an uniform manner
of life, a sameness of provisions, and the common influence
of the climate. A permanent neighborhood must at last
infallibly create some connection between different fam
ilies. The transitory commerce required by nature soon
produced, among the youth of both sexes living in con
tiguous cabins, another kind of commerce, which besides
being equally agreeable is rendered more durable by mutual
intercourse. Men begin to consider different objects, and
to make comparisons; they insensibly acquire ideas of merit
208 ROUSSEAU
and beauty, and these soon produce sentiments of preference.
By seeing each other often they contract a habit, which
makes it painful not to see each other always. Tender and
agreeable sentiments steal into the soul, and are by the
smallest opposition wound up into the most impetuous fury :
Jealousy kindles with love; discord triumphs; and the gen
tlest of passions requires sacrifices of human blood to
appease it.
In proportion as ideas and sentiments succeed each other,
and the head and the heart exercise themselves, men continue
to shake off their original wildness, and their connections
become more intimate and extensive. They now begin to
assemble round a great tree: singing and dancing, the gen
uine offspring of love and leisure, become the amuse
ment or rather the occupation of the men and women, free
from care, thus gathered together. Every one begins
to survey the rest, and wishes to be surveyed himself; and
public esteem acquires a value. He who sings or dances
best; the handsomest, the strongest, the most dexterous, the
most eloquent, comes to be the most respected : this was the
first step towards inequality, and at the same time towards
vice. From these first preferences there proceeded on one
side vanity and contempt, on the other envy and shame;
and the fermentation raised by these new leavens
at length produced combinations fatal to happiness and
innocence.
Men no sooner began to set a value upon each other, and
know what esteem was, than each laid claim to it, and it
was no longer safe for any man to refuse it to another.
Hence the first duties of civility and politeness, even among
savages; and hence every voluntary injury became an af
front^ as besides the mischief, which resulted from it as
an injury, the party offended was sure to find in it a con
tempt for his person more intolerable than the mischief
It was thus that every man, punishing the contempt
expressed for him by others in proportion to the value he
set upon himself, the effects of revenge became terrible, and
men learned to be sanguinary and cruel. Such precisely
was the degree attained by most of the savage nations with
whom we are acquainted. And it is for want of sufficiently
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 209
distinguishing ideas, and observing at how great a distance
these people were from the first state of nature, that so
many authors have hastily concluded that man is naturally
cruel, and requires a regular system of police to be reclaimed ;
whereas nothing can be more gentle than he in his prim
itive state, when placed by nature at an equal distance from
the stupidity of brutes, and the pernicious good sense of
civilized man; and equally confined by instinct and reason
to the care of providing against the mischief which threat
ens him, he is withheld by natural compassion from doing
any injury to others, so far from being ever so little prone
even to return that which he has received. For according
to the axiom of the wise Locke, Where there is no prop
erty, there can be no injury.
But we must take notice, that the society now formed and
the relations now established among men required in them
qualities different from those, which they derived from
their primitive constitution; that as a sense of morality
began to insinuate itself into human actions, and every
man, before the enacting of laws, was the only judge
and avenger of the injuries he had received, that good
ness of heart suitable to the pure state of nature by no
means suited infant society; that it was necessary pun
ishments should become severer in the same proportion
that the opportunities of offending became more frequent,
and the dread of vengeance add strength to the too weak
curb of the law. Thus, though men were become less
patient, and natural compassion had already suffered some
alteration, this period of the development of the human
faculties, holding a just mean between the indolence of the
primitive state, and the petulant activity of self-love, must
have been the happiest and most durable epoch. The more
we reflect on this state, the more convinced we shall be, that
it was the least subject of any to revolutions, the best for
man, and that nothing could have drawn him out of
it but some fatal accident, which, for the public good, should
never have happened. The example of the savages, most of
whom have been found in this condition, seems to confirm
that mankind was formed ever to remain in it, that this
condition is the real youth of the world, and that all ulterior
J10 ROUSSEAU
improvements have been so many steps, in appearance
towards the perfection of individuals, but in fact towards
the decrepitness of the species.
As long as men remained satisfied with their rustic cabins ;
as long as they confined themselves to the use of clothes
made of the skins of other animals, and the use of thorns
and fish-bones, in putting these skins together; as long as
they continued to consider feathers and shells as sufficient
ornaments, and to paint their bodies of different colours,
to improve or ornament their bows and arrows, to form and
scoop out with sharp-edged stones some little fishing boats,
or clumsy instruments of music; in a word, as long as they
undertook such works only as a single person could finish,
and stuck to such arts as did not require the joint endeavours
of several hands, they lived free, healthy, honest and happy,
as much as their nature would admit, and continued to enjoy
with each other all the pleasures of an independent inter
course; but from the moment one man began to stand in
need of another s assistance; from the moment it appeared
an advantage for one man to possess the quantity of provi
sions requisite for two, all equality vanished; property
started up ; labour became necessary ; and boundless forests
became smiling fields, which it was found necessary to
water with human sweat, and in which slavery and misery
were soon seen to sprout out and grow with the fruits of
the earth.
Metallurgy and agriculture were the two arts whose in
vention produced this great revolution. With the poet, it
is gold and silver, but with the philosopher it is iron and
corn, which have civilized men, and ruined mankind. Ac
cordingly both one and the other were unknown to the
savages of America, who for that very reason have al
ways continued savages; nay other nations seem to have
continued in a state of barbarism, as long as they continued
to exercise one only of these arts without the other; and
perhaps one of the best reasons that can be assigned, why
Europe has been, if not earlier, at least more constantly
and better civilized than the other quarters of the world,
is that she both abounds most in iron and is best qualified
to produce corn.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 211
It is a very difficult matter to tell how men came to
know anything of iron, and the art of employing it: for
we are not to suppose that they should of themselves think
of digging it out of the mines, and preparing it for fusion,
before they knew what could be the result of such a process.
On the other hand, there is the less reason to attribute this
discovery to any accidental fire, as mines are formed no
where but in dry and barren places, and such as are bare
of trees and plants, so that it looks as if nature had taken
pains to keep from us so mischievous a secret. Nothing
therefore remains but the extraordinary circumstance of
some volcano, which, belching forth metallic substances
ready fused, might have given the spectators a notion of
imitating that operation of nature; and after all we must
suppose them endued with an extraordinary stock of
courage and foresight to undertake so painful a work, and
have, at so great a distance, an eye to the advantages they
might derive from it; qualities scarcely suitable but to
heads more exercised, than those of such discoverers can
be supposed to have been.
^ As to agriculture, the principles of it were known a long
time before the practice of it took place, and it is hardly
possible that men, constantly employed in drawing their
subsistence from trees and plants, should not have early
hit on the means employed by nature for the generation of
vegetables; but in all probability it was very late before
their industry took a turn that way, either because trees,
which with their land and water game supplied them with
sufficient food, did not require their attention; or because
they did not know the use of corn; or because they had no
instruments to cultivate it; or because they were destitute
of foresight in regard to future necessities; or in fine, be
cause they wanted means to hinder others from running
away with the fruit of their labours. We may believe that
on their becoming more industrious they began their agri
culture by cultivating with sharp stones and pointed sticks
a few pulse or roots about their cabins; and that it was
a long-time before they knew the method of preparing corn,
and were provided with instruments necessary to raise it
in large quantities; not to mention the necessity there is,
212
ROUSSEAU
in order to follow this occupation and sow lands, to con
sent to lose something at present to gain a great deal here
after; a precaution very foreign to the turn of man s mind
in a savage state, in which, as I have already taken notice,
he can hardly foresee his wants from morning to night.
For this reason the invention of other arts must have
been necessary to oblige mankind to apply to that of agri
culture. As soon as men were wanted to fuse and forge
iron, others were wanted to maintain them. The more
hands were employed in manufactures, the fewer hands were
left to provide subsistence for all, though the number of
mouths to be supplied with food continued the same ; and as
some required commodities in exchange for their iron, the
rest at last found out the method of making iron subservient
to the multiplication of commodities. Hence on the one
hand husbandry and agriculture, and on the other the art
of working metals and of multiplying the uses of them.
To the tilling of the earth the distribution of it neces
sarily succeeded, and to property once acknowledged, the
first rules of justice: for to secure every man his own,
every man must have something. Moreover, as men began
to extend their views to futurity, and all found themselves
in possession of more or less goods capable of being lost,
every one in particular had reason to fear, lest reprisals
should be made on him for any injury he might do to others.
This origin is so much the more natural, as it is impossible
to conceive how property can flow from any other source
but industry; for what can a man add but his labour to
things which he has not made, in order to acquire a property
in them? Tis the labour of the hands alone, which giving
the husbandman a title to the produce of the land he has
tilled gives him a title to the land itself, at least till he has
gathered in the fruits of it, and so on from year to year;
and this enjoyment forming a continued possession is easily
transformed into a property. The ancients, says Grotius,
by giving to Ceres the epithet of Legislatrix, and to a
festival celebrated in her honour the name of Thesmorphoria,
insinuated that the distribution of lands produced a new
kind of right; that is, the right of property different from
that which results from the law of nature.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 213
Things thus circumstanced might have remained equal,
if men s talents had been equal, and if, for instance, the
use of iron, and the consumption of commodities had always
held an exact proportion to each other; but as this propor
tion had no support, it was soon broken. The man that had
most strength performed most labour; the most dexterous
turned his labour to best account; the most ingenious found
out methods of lessening his labour; the husbandman re
quired more iron, or the smith more corn, and while both
worked equally, one earned a great deal by his labour, while
the other could scarce live by his. It is thus that natural
inequality insensibly unfolds itself with that arising from
a variety of combinations, and that the difference among
men, developed by the difference of their circumstances, be
comes more sensible, more permanent in its effects, and be
gins to influence in the same proportion the condition of
private persons.
Things once arrived at this period, it is an easy matter to
imagine the rest. I shall not stop to describe the successive
inventions of other arts, the progress of language, the trial
and employments of talents, the inequality of fortunes,
the use or abuse of riches, nor all the details which
follow these, and which every one may easily supply. I
shall just give a glance at mankind placed in this new order
of things.
Behold then all our faculties developed; our memory and
imagination at work, self-love interested; reason rendered
active; and the mind almost arrived at the utmost bounds
of that perfection it is capable of. Behold all our natural
qualities put in motion ; the rank and condition of every man
established, not only as to the quantum of property and the
power of serving or hurting others, but likewise as to
genius, beauty, strength or address, merit or talents; and as
these were the only qualities which could command respect, it
was found necessary to have or at least to affect them. It
was requisite for men to be thought what they really were
not. To be and to appear became two very different
things, and from this distinction sprang pomp and knavery,
and all the vices which form their train. On the other
hand, man, heretofore free and independent, was now in
214 ROUSSEAU
consequence of a multitude of new wants brought tinder
subjection, as it were, to all nature, and especially to his
fellows, whose slave in some sense he became even by be
coming their master; if rich, he stood in need of their ser
vices, if poor, of their assistance; even mediocrity itself
could not enable him to do without them. He must there
fore have been continually at work to interest them in his
happiness, and make them, if not really, at least apparently
find their advantage in labouring for his : this rendered him
sly and artful in his dealings with some, imperious and cruel
in his dealings with others, and laid him under the neces
sity of using ill all those whom he stood in need of, as often
as he could not awe them into a compliance with his will,
and did not find it his interest to purchase it at the expense
of real services. In fine, an insatiable ambition, the rage of
raising their relative fortunes, not so much through real ne
cessity, as to over-top others, inspire all men with a wicked
inclination to injure each other, and with a secret jealousy
so much the more dangerous, as to carry its point with the
greater security, it often puts on the face of benevolence. In
a word, sometimes nothing was to be seen but a contention of
endeavours on the one hand, and an opposition of interests on
the other, while a secret desire of thriving at the expense of
others constantly prevailed. Such were the first effects of
property, and the inseparable attendants of infant inequality.
Riches, before the invention of signs to represent them,
could scarce consist in anything but lands and cattle, the only
real goods which men can possess. Butiwhen estates in
creased so much in number and in extent as to take in whole
countries and touch each other, it became impossible for one
man to aggrandise himself but at the expense of some other ;!
and the supernumerary inhabitants, who were too weak"*br
too indolent to make such acquisitions in their turn, impov
erished without losing anything, because while everything
about them changed they alone remained the same, were
obliged to receive or force their subsistence from the hands
of the rich. And hence began to flow, according to the
different characters of each," domination and slavery, or
violence and rapine. The rich on their side scarce began
to taste the pleasure of commanding, when they preferred
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 215
it to every other; and making use of their old slaves to ac
quire new ones, they no longer thought of anything but sub
duing and enslaving their neighbours; like those ravenous
wolves, who having once tasted human flesh, despise every
other food, and devour nothing but men for the future.
It is thus that the most powerful or the most wretched,
respectively considering their power and wretchedness as
a kind of title to the substance of others, even equivalent to
that of property, the equality once broken was followed by
the most shocking disorders. It is thus that the usurpations
of the rich, the pillagings of the poor, and the unbridled pas
sions of all, by stifling the cries of natural compassion, and
the as yet feeble voice of justice, rendered man avaricious,
wicked and ambitious. There arose between the title of
the strongest, and that of the first occupier a perpetual con
flict, which always ended in battery and bloodshed. In
fant society became a scene of the most horrible warfare:
Mankind thus debased and harassed, and no longer able to
retreat, or renounce the unhappy acquisitions it had made;
labouring, in short merely to its confusion by the abuse of
those faculties, which in themselves do it so much honour,
brought itself to the very brink of ruin and destruction.
Attonitus novitate mali, divesque miser que,
Effugerc optat opes y et quce modb voverat^ edit.
But it is impossible that men should not sooner or later
have made reflections on so wretched a situation, and upon
the calamities with which they were overwhelmed- The
rich in particular must have soon perceived how much they
suffered by a perpetual war, of which they alone supported
all the expense, and in which, though all risked life, they
alone risked any substance. Besides, whatever colour they
might pretend to give their usurpations, they sufficiently saw
that these usurpations were in the main founded upon false
and precarious titles, and that what they had acquired by
mere force, others could again by mere force wrest out of
their hands, without leaving them the least room to complain
of such a proceeding. Even those, who owed all their riches
to their own industry, could scarce ground their acquisitions
upon a better title. It availed them nothing to say, Twas I
216 ROUSSEAU
built this wall; I acquired this spot by my labour. Who
traced it out for you, another might object, and what right
have you to expect payment at our expense for doing that
we did not oblige you to do? Don t you know that num
bers of your brethren perish, or suffer grievously for want of
what you possess more than suffices nature, and that you
should have had the express and unanimous consent of man
kind to appropriate to yourself of their common, more than
was requisite for your private subsistence? Destitute of
solid reasons to justify, and sufficient force to defend him
self; crushing individuals with ease, but with equal ease
crushed by numbers; one against all, and unable, on account
of mutual jealousies, to unite with his equals against ban
ditti united by the common hopes of pillage; the rich man,
thus pressed by necessity, at last conceived the deepest proj
ect that ever entered the human mind: this was to employ
in his favour the very forces that attacked him, to make
allies of his enemies, to inspire them with other maxims, and
make them adopt other institutions as favourable to his
pretensions, as the law of nature was unfavourable to them.
With this view, after laying before his neighbours all the
horrors of a situation, which armed them all one against
another, which rendered their possessions as burdensome as
their wants were intolerable, and in which no one could
expect any safety either in poverty or riches, he easily
invented specious arguments to bring them over to his pur
pose. " Let us unite," said he, " to secure the weak from op
pression, restrain the ambitious, and secure to every man the
possession of what belongs to him: Let us form rules of jus
tice and peace, to which all may be obliged to conform, which
shall not except persons, but may in some sort make amends
for the caprice of fortune, by submitting alike the powerful
and the weak to the observance of mutual duties. In a word,
instead of turning our forces against ourselves, let us collect
them into a sovereign power, which may govern us by wise
laws, may protect and defend all the members of the associa
tion, repel common enemies, and maintain a perpetual con
cord and harmony among us."
Much fewer words of this kind were sufficient to draw in
a parcel of rustics, whom it was an easy matter to impose
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 217
upon, who had besides too many quarrels among themselves
to live without arbiters, and too much avarice and ambi
tion to live long without masters. All offered their necks
to the yoke in hopes of securing their liberty; for though
they had sense enough to perceive the advantages of a
political constitution, they had not experience enough to
see beforehand the dangers of it; those among them, who
were best qualified to foresee abuses, were precisely those
who expected to benefit by them; even the soberest
judged it requisite to sacrifice one part of their liberty
to ensure the other, as a man, dangerously wounded in
any of his limbs, readily parts with it to save the rest
of his body.
Such was, or must have been, had man been left to him
self, the origin of society and of the laws, which increased
the fetters of the weak, and the strength of the rich;
irretrievably destroyed natural liberty, fixed for ever the
laws of property and inequality; changed an artful usurpation
into an irrevocable title; and for the benefit of a few am
bitious individuals subjected the rest of mankind to per
petual labour, servitude, and misery. We may easily con
ceive how the establishment of a single society rendered
that of all the rest absolutely necessary, and how, to make
head against united forces, it became necessary for the rest
of mankind to unite in their turn. Societies once formed in
this manner, soon multiplied or spread to such a degree, as
to cover the face of the earth ; and not to leave a corner in
the whole universe, where a man could throw off the yoke,
and withdraw his head from under the often ill-conducted
sword which he saw perpetually hanging over it. The civil
law being thus become the common rule of citizens, the law
of nature no longer obtained but among the different so
cieties, in which, under the name of the law of nations, it
was qualified by some tacit conventions to render com
merce possible, and supply the place of natural compassion,
which, losing by degrees all that influence over societies
which it originally had over individuals, no longer exists
but in some great souls, who consider themselves as citizens
of the world, and forcing the imaginary barriers that sepa
rate people from people, after the example of the Sovereign
218 ROUSSEAU
Being from whom we all derive our existence, make the
whole human race the object of their benevolence.
Political bodies, thus remaining in a state of nature among
themselves, soon experienced the inconveniences which had
obliged individuals to quit it; and this state became much
more fatal to these great bodies, than it had been before to
the individuals which now composed them. Hence those
national wars, those battles, those murders, those reprisals,
which make nature shudder and shock reason; hence all
those horrible prejudices, which make it a virtue and an
honour to shed human blood. The worthiest men learned to
consider the cutting the throats of their fellows as a duty;
at length men began to butcher each other by thousands
without knowing for what; and more murders were com
mitted in a single action, and more horrible disorders at the
taking of a single town, than had been committed in the state
of nature during ages together upon the whole face of the
earth. Such are the first effects we may conceive to have
arisen from the division of mankind into different societies.
Let us return to their institution.
I know that several writers have assigned other origins of
political society; as for instance, the conquests of the power
ful, or the union of the weak; and it is no matter which of
these causes we adopt in regard to what I am going to
establish; that, however, which I have just laid down, seems
to me the most natural, for the following reasons: First,
because, in the first case, the right of conquest being in
fact no right at all, it could not serve as a foundation for any
other right, the conqueror and the conquered ever remaining
with respect to each other in a state of war, unless the con
quered, restored to the full possession of their liberty, should
freely choose their conqueror for their chief. Till then,
whatever capitulations might have been made between them,
as these capitulations were founded upon violence, and of
course de facto null and void, there could not have existed in
this hypothesis either a true society, or a political body, or
any other law but that of the strongest. Second, because
these words strong and weak, are ambiguous in the second
case; for during the interval between the establishment of
the right of property or prior occupation and that of political
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 21t
government, the meaning of these terms is better expressed
by the words poor and rich, as before the establishment of
laws men in reality had no other means of reducing their
equals, but by invading the property of these equals, or by
parting with some of their own property to them. Third,
because the poor having nothing but their liberty to lose, it
would have been the height of madness in them to give up
willingly the only blessing they had left without obtaining
some consideration for it: whereas the rich being sensible,
if I may say so, in every part of their possessions, it was much
easier to do them mischief, and therefore more incumbent
upon them to guard against it; and because, in fine, it is but
reasonable to suppose, that a thing has been invented by him
to whom it could be of service rather than by him to whom
it must prove detrimental.
Government in its infancy had no regular and permanent
form. For want of a sufficient fund of philosophy and ex
perience, men could see no further than the present incon
veniences, and never thought of providing remedies for fu
ture ones, but in proportion as they arose. In spite of all
the labours of the wisest legislators, the political state still
continued imperfect, because it was in a manner the work of
chance ; and, as the foundations of it were ill laid, time, though
sufficient to discover its defects and suggest the remedies for
them, could never mend its original vices. Men were con
tinually repairing; whereas, to erect a good edifice, they
should have begun as Lycurgus did at Sparta, by clearing the
area, and removing the old materials. Society at first con
sisted merely of some general conventions which all the
members bound themselves to observe, and for the perform
ance of which the whole body became security to every in
dividual. Experience was necessary to show the great weak
ness of such a constitution, and how easy it was for those,
who infringed it, to escape the conviction or chastisement of
faults, of which the public alone was to be both the witness
and the judge; the laws could not fail of being eluded a
thousand ways; inconveniences and disorders could not but
multiply continually, till it was at last found necessary to
think of committing to private persons the dangerous trust of
public authority, and to magistrates the care of enforcing
220 ROUSSEAU
obedience to the people : for to say that chiefs were elected
before confederacies were formed, and that the ministers of
the laws existed before the laws themselves, is a supposition
too ridiculous to deserve I should seriously refute it.
It would be equally unreasonable to imagine that men at
first threw themselves into the arms of an absolute master,
without any conditions or consideration on his side ; and that
the first means contrived by jealous and unconquered men
for their common safety was to run hand over head into
slavery. In fact, why did they give themselves superiors, if
it was not to be defended by them against oppression, and pro
tected in their lives, liberties, and properties, which are in a
manner the constitutional elements of their being? Now in
the relations between man and man, the worst that can hap
pen to one man being to see himself at the discretion of an
other, would it not have been contrary to the dictates of good
sense to begin by making over to a chief the only things for
the preservation of which they stood in need of his assist
ance? What equivalent could he have offered them for so
fine a privilege ? And had he presumed to exact it on pre
tense of defending them, would he not have immediately re
ceived the answer in the apologue? What worse treatment
can we expect from an enemy? It is therefore past dispute,
and indeed a fundamental maxim of political law, that people
gave themselves chiefs to defend their liberty and not be
enslaved by them. If we have a prince, said Pliny to Trajan,
it is in order that he may keep us from having a master.
Political writers argue in regard to the love of liberty with
the same philosophy that philosophers do in regard to the
state of nature; by the things they see they judge of things
very different which they have never seen, and they attribute
to men a natural inclination to slavery, on account of the
patience with which the slaves within their notice cany the
yoke; not reflecting that it is with liberty as with innocence
and virtue, the value of which is not known but by those
who possess them, though the relish for them is lost with the
things themselves. I know tEe charms of your country,
said Brasidas to a satrap who was comparing the life of the
Spartans with that of the Persepolites ; but you can not know
the pleasures of mine.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 221
As an unbroken courser erects his mane, paws the ground,
and rages at the bare sight of the bit, while a trained horse
patiently suffers both whip and spur, just so the barbarian
will never reach his neck to the yoke which civilized man
carries without murmuring but prefers the most stormy
liberty to a calm subjection. It is not therefore by the ser
vile disposition of enslaved nations that we must judge of
the natural dispositions of man for or against slavery, but by
the prodigies done by every free people to secure themselves
from oppression. I know that the first are constantly crying
up that peace and tranquillity they enjoy in their irons, and
that miserrimam servitutem pacem appellant: but when I see
the others sacrifice pleasures, peace, riches, power, and even
life itself to the preservation of that single jewel so much
slighted by those who have lost it; when I see free-born
animals through a natural abhorrence of captivity dash their
brains out against the bars of their prison; when I see mul
titudes of naked savages despise European pleasures, and
brave hunger, fire and sword, and death itself to preserve
their independency ; I feel that it belongs not to slaves to
argue concerning liberty.
As to paternal authority, from which several have derived
absolute government and every other mode of society, it is
sufficient, without having recourse to Locke and Sidney, to
observe that nothing in the world differs more from the
cruel spirit of despotism that the gentleness of that authority,
which looks more to the advantage of him who obeys than
to the utility of him who commands; that by the law of na
ture the father continues master of his child no longer than
the child stands in need of his assistance; that after that
term they become equal, and that then the son, entirely inde
pendent of the father, owes him no obedience, but only re
spect. Gratitude is indeed a duty which we are bound to
pay, but which benefactors can not exact. Instead of saying
that civil society is derived from paternal authority, we
should rather say that it is to the former that the latter owes
its principal force: No one individual was acknowledged as
the father of several other individuals, till they settled about
him. The father s goods, which he can indeed dispose of as
he pleases, are the ties which hold his children to their de-
222 ROUSSEAU
pendence upon him, and he may divide his substance among
them in proportion as they shall have deserved his attention
by a continual deference to his commands. Now the sub
jects of a despotic chief, far from having any such favour to
expect from him, as both themselves and all they have are
his property, or at least are considered by him as such, are
obliged to receive as a favour what he relinquishes to them
of their own property. He does them justice when he
strips them ; he treats them with mercy when he suffers them
to live. By continuing in this manner to compare facts with
right, we should discover as little solidity as truth in the
voluntary establishment of tyranny ; and it would be a hard
matter to prove the validity of a contract which was binding
only on one side, in which one of the parties should stake
everything and the other nothing, and which could turn out
to the prejudice of him alone who had bound himself.
This odious system is even, at this day, far from being
that of wise and good monarchs, and especially of the kings
of France, as may be seen by divers passages in their edicts,
and particularly by that of a celebrated piece published in
1667 in the name and by the orders of Louis XIV. ^ " Let
it therefore not be said that the sovereign is not subject to
the laws of his realm, since, that he is, is a maxim of the
law of nations which flattery has sometimes attacked, but
which good princes have always defended as the tutelary
divinity of their realms. How much more reasonable is it
to say with the sage Plato, that the perfect happiness of
a state consists in the subjects obeying their prince, the
prince obeying the laws, and the laws being equitable and
always directed to the good of the public? I shall not stop
to consider, if, liberty being the most noble faculty of man,
it is not degrading one s nature, reducing one s self to the
level of brutes, who are the slaves of instinct, and^ even
offending the author of one s being, to renounce without
reserve the most precious of his gifts, and submit to the
commission of all the crimes he has forbid us, merely to
gratify a mad or a cruel master; and if this sublime artist
ought to be more irritated at seeing his work destroyed
than at seeing it dishonoured. I shall only ask what right
those, who were not afraid thus to degrade themselves,
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 223
Could have to subject their dependants to the same ignominy,
and renounce, in the name of their posterity, blessings for
which it is not indebted to their liberality, and without which
life itself must appear a burthen to all those who are worthy
to live.
Puffendorf says that, as we can transfer our property
from one to another by contracts and conventions, we may
likewise divest ourselves of our liberty in favour of other
men. This, in my opinion, is a very poor way of arguing;
for, in the first place, the property I cede to another be
comes by such cession a thing quite foreign to me, and the
abuse of which can no way affect me; but it concerns me
greatly that my liberty is not abused, and I can not, without
incurring the guilt of the crimes I may be forced to commit,
expose myself to become the instrument of any. Besides,
the right of property being of mere human convention and
institution, every man may dispose as he pleases of what he
possesses : But the case is otherwise with regard to the essen
tial gifts of nature, such as life and liberty, which every man
is permitted to enjoy, and of which it is doubtful at least
whether any man has a right to divest himself: By giving up
the one, we degrade our being; by giving up the other we
annihilate it as much as it is our power to do so ; and as no
temporal enjoyments can indemnify us for the loss of
either, it would be at once offending both nature and reason
to renounce them for any consideration. But though we
could transfer our liberty as we do our substance, the dif
ference would be very great with regard to our children,
who enjoy our substance but by a cession of our right;
whereas liberty being a blessing, which as men they hold
from nature, their parents have no right to strip them of it ;
so that as to establish slavery it was necessary to do violence
to nature, so it was necessary to alter nature to perpetuate
such a right; and the jurisconsults, who have gravely pro
nounced that the child of a slave comes a slave into the
world, have in other words decided, that a man does not
come a man into the world.
It therefore appears to me incontestably true, that not only
governments did not begin by arbitrary power, which is but
the corruption and extreme term of government, and at
224 ROUSSEAU
length brings it back to the law of the strongest, against
which governments were at first the remedy, but even that,
allowing they had commenced in this manner, such power
being illegal in itself could never have served as a founda
tion to the rights of society, nor of course to the inequality
of institution.
I shall not now enter upon the inquiries which still remain
to be made into the nature of the fundamental pacts of every
kind of government, but, following the common opinion, con-
fine myself in this place to the establishment of the political
body as a real contract between the multitude and the chiefs
elected by it. A contract by which both parties oblige them
selves to the observance of the laws that are therein stipu
lated, and form the bands of their union. The multitude
having, on occasion of the social relations between them,
concentered all their wills in one person, all the articles, in
regard to which this will explains itself, become so many
fundamental laws, which oblige without exception all the
members of the state, and one of which laws regulates the
choice and the power of the magistrates appointed to look
to the execution of the rest. This power extends to every
thing that can maintain the constitution, but extends to
nothing that can alter it. To this power are added honours,
that may render the laws and the ministers of them respect
able; and the persons of the ministers are distinguished
by certain prerogatives, which may make them amends for
the great fatigues inseparable from a good administration.
The magistrate, on his side, obliges himself not to use
the power with which he is intrusted but conformably to
the intention of his constituents, to maintain every one of
them in the peaceable possession of his property, and upon
all occasions prefer the good of the public to his own
private interest.
Before experience had demonstrated, or a thorough knowl
edge of the human heart had pointed out, the abuses insepa
rable from such a constitution, it must have appeared so much
the more perfect, as those appointed to look to its preserva
tion were themselves most concerned therein ; for magistracy
and its rights being built solely on the fundamental laws, as
soon as these ceased to exist, the magistrates would cease
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 225
to be lawful, the people would no longer be bound to obey
them, and, as the essence of the state did not consist in the
magistrates but in the laws, the members of it would imme
diately become entitled to their primitive and natural liberty.
A little reflection would afford us new arguments in con
firmation of this truth, and the nature of the contract might
alone convince us that it can not be irrevocable: for if there
was no superior power capable of guaranteeing the fidelity
of the contracting parties and of obliging them to fulfil their
mutual engagements, they would remain sole judges in their
own cause, and each of them would always have a right to
renounce the contract, as soon as he discovered that the
other had broke the conditions of it, or that these conditions
ceased to suit his private convenience. Upon this principle,
the right of abdication may probably be founded. Now, to
consider as we do nothing but what is human in this in
stitution, if the magistrate, who has all the power in his own
hands, and who appropriates to himself all the advantages of
the contract, has notwithstanding a right to divest himself
of his authority; how much a better right must the people,
who pay for all the faults of its chief, have to renounce
their dependence upon him. But the shocking dissensions
and disorders without number, which would be the necessary
consequence of so dangerous a privilege, show more than
anything else how much human governments stood in need
of a more solid basis than that of mere reason, and how
necessary it was for the public tranquillity, that the will of
the Almighty should interpose to give to sovereign authority,
a sacred and inviolable character, which should deprive sub
jects of the mischievous right to dispose of it to whom they
pleased. If mankind had received no other advantages from
religion, this alone would be sufficient to make them adopt
and cherish it, since it is the means of saving more blood
than fanaticism has been the cause of spilling. But to re
sume the thread of our hypothesis.
The various forms of government owe their origin to
the various degrees of inequality between the members, at
the time they first coalesced into a political body. Where
a man happened to be eminent for power, for virtue, for
riches, or for credit, he became sole magistrate, and the
( H ) HC xxxiv
226 ROUSSEAU
state assumed a monarchical form; if many of pretty equal
eminence out-topped all the rest, they were jointly elected and
this election produced an aristocracy; those, between whose
fortune or talents there happened to be no such dispropor
tion and who had deviated less from the state of nature, re
tained in common the supreme administration, and formed
a democracy. Time demonstrated which of these forms
suited mankind best. Some remained altogether subject to
the laws- others soon bowed their necks to masters, ine
former laboured to preserve their liberty; the latter thought
of nothing but invading that of their neighbours, jealous at
seeing others enjoy a blessing which themselves had lost.
In a word, riches and conquest fell to the share of the one,
and virtue and happiness to that of the other.
In these various modes of government the offices at first
were all elective; and when riches did not preponderate, the
preference was" given to merit, which gives a natural as
cendant, and to age, which is the parent of deliberateness
in council, and experience in execution. The ancients
among the Hebrews, the Geronts of Sparta, the Senate (
Rome, nay, the very etymology of our word seigneur, show
how much gray hairs were formerly respected. The oftener
the choice fell upon old men, the oftener it became necessary
to repeat it, and the more the trouble of such repetitions be
came sensible; electioneering took place; factions arose; the
parties contracted ill blood; civil wars blazed forth; the lives
of the citizens were sacrificed to the pretended happiness of
the state; and things at last came to such a pass, as to be
ready to relapse into their primitive confusion. The ambi
tion of the principal men induced them to take advantage
of these circumstances to perpetuate the hitherto temporary
charges in their families; the people already inured to de
pendence, accustomed to ease and the conveniences of life,
and too much enervated to break their fetters, consented to
the increase of their slavery for the sake of securing their
tranquillity; and it is thus that chiefs, become hereditary,
contracted the habit of considering magistracies as a family
estate, and themselves as proprietors of those communities,
of which at first they were but mere officers; to call their
fellow-citizens their slaves; to look upon them, like so many
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 227
cows or sheep, as a part of their substance ; and to style them
selves the peers of Gods, and Kings of Kings.
By pursuing the progress of inequality in these different
revolutions, we shall discover that the establishment of laws
and^of the right of property was the first term of it; the
institution of magistrates the second; and the third and last
the changing of legal into arbitrary power ; so that the dif
ferent states of rich and poor were authorized by the first
epoch; those of powerful and weak by the second; and by
the third those of master and slave, which formed the last
degree of inequality, and the term in which all the rest at
last end, till new revolutions entirely dissolve the govern
ment, or bring it back nearer to its legal constitution.
To conceive the necessity of this progress, we are not so
much to consider the motives for the establishment of
political bodies, as the forms these bodies assume in their
administration; and the inconveniences with which they are
essentially attended; for those vices, which render social
institutions necessary, are the same which render the abuse
of such institutions unavoidable; and as (Sparta alone ex-
cepted, whose laws chiefly regarded the education of chil
dren, and where Lycurgus established such manners and
customs, as in a great measure made laws needless,) the
laws, in general less strong than the passions, restrain men
without changing them; it would be no hard matter to prove
that every government, which carefully guarding against all
alteration and corruption should scrupulously comply with
the ends of its institution, was unnecessarily instituted; and
that a country, where no one either eluded the laws, or
made an ill use of magistracy, required neither laws nor
magistrates.
Political distinctions are necessarily attended with civil
distinctions. The inequality between the people and the chiefs
increase so fast as to be soon felt by the private members,
and appears among them in a thousand shapes according
to their passions, their talents, and the circumstances of
affairs. The magistrate can not usurp any illegal power
without making himself creatures, with whom he must
divide it. Besides, the citizens of a free state suffer them
selves to be oppressed merely in proportion as, hurried oa
228 ROUSSEAU
by a blind ambition, and looking rather below than above
them, they come to love authority more than independence.
When they submit to fetters, tis only to be the better able
to fetter others in their turn. It is no easy matter to make
him obey, who does not wish to command; and the most
refined policy would find it impossible to subdue those men,
who only desire to be independent; but inequality easily
gains ground among base and ambitious souls, ever ready
to run the risks of fortune, and almost indifferent whether
they command or obey, as she proves either favourable or
adverse to them. Thus then there must have been a time,
when the eyes of the people were bewitched to such a
degree, that their rulers needed only to have said to the
most pitiful wretch, " Be great you and all your posterity,"
to make him immediately appear great in the eyes of every
one as well as in his own; and his descendants took still
more upon them, in proportion to their removes from him:
the more distant and uncertain the cause, the greater the
effect ; the longer line of drones a family produced, the more
illustrious it was reckoned.
Were this a proper place to enter into details, I could
easily explain in what manner inequalities in point of credit
and authority become unavoidable among private persons
the moment that, united into one body, they are obliged
to compare themselves one with another, and to note the
differences which they find in the continual use every man
must make of his neighbour. These differences are of several
kinds ; but riches, nobility or rank, power and personal merit,
being in general the principal distinctions, by which men
in society measure each other, I could prove that the
harmony or conflict between these different forces is the
surest indication of the good or bad original constitution of
any state : I could make it appear that, as among these four
kinds of inequality, personal qualities are the source of all
the rest, riches is that in which they ultimately terminate,
because, being the most immediately useful to the prosperity
of individuals, and the most easy to communicate, they are
made use of to purchase every other distinction. By this
observation we are enabled to judge with tolerable exact
ness, how much any people has deviated from its primitive
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 229
institution, and what steps it has still to make to the ex
treme term of corruption. I could show how much this
universal desire of reputation, of honours, of preference,
with which we are all devoured, exercises and compares our
talents and our forces: how much it excites and multiplies
our passions; and, by creating an universal competition,
rivalship, or rather enmity among men, how many dis
appointments, successes, and catastrophes of every kind it
daily causes among the innumerable pretenders whom it
engages in the same career. I could show that it is to this
itch of being spoken of, to this fury of distinguishing our
selves which seldom or never gives us a moment s respite,
that we owe both the best and the worst things among us,
our virtues and our vices, our sciences and our errors, our
conquerors and our philosophers; that is to say, a great
many bad things to a very few good ones. I could prove, in
short, that if we behold a handful of rich and powerful men
seated on the pinnacle of fortune and greatness, while the
crowd grovel in obscurity and want, it is merely because the
first prize what they enjoy but in the same degree that
others want it, and that, without changing their condition,
they would cease to be happy the minute the people ceased
to be miserable.
But these details would alone furnish sufficient matter for
a more considerable work, in which might be weighed the
advantages and disadvantages of every species of govern
ment, relatively to the rights of man in a state of nature,
and might likewise be unveiled all the different faces under
which inequality has appeared to this day, and may here
after appear to the end of time, according to the nature of
these several governments, and the revolutions time must
unavoidably occasion in them. We should then see the
multitude oppressed by domestic tyrants in consequence of
those very precautions taken by them to guard against
foreign masters. We should see oppression increase con
tinually without its being ever possible* for the oppressed
to know where it would stop, nor what lawful means they
had left to check its progress. We should see the rights of
citizens, and the liberties of nations extinguished by slow
degrees, and the groans, and protestations and appeals of the
230 ROUSSEAU
weak treated as seditious murmurings. We should see policy
confine to a mercenary portion of the people the honour of
defending the common cause. We should see imposts made
necessary by such measures, the disheartened husbandman
desert his field even in time of peace, and quit the plough
to take up the sword. We should see fatal and whimsical
rules laid down concerning the point of honour. We should
see the champions of their country sooner or later become
her enemies, and perpetually holding their poniards to the
breasts of their fellow citizens. Nay, the time would come
when they might be heard to say to the oppressor of their
country :
Pectore si frairis gladium juguloquc parentis
Condere me jubeas* gravidaque in viscera partu
Conjugis, in vitd peragam tamen omnia dextrA.
From the vast inequality of conditions and fortunes, from
the great variety of passions and of talents, of useless arts,
of pernicious arts, of frivolous sciences, would issue clouds
of prejudices equally contrary to reason, to happiness, to
virtue. We should see the chiefs foment everything that
tends to weaken men formed into societies by dividing them ;
everything that, while it gives society an air of apparent
harmony, sows in it the seeds of real division; everything
that can inspire the different orders with mutual distrust
and hatred by an opposition of their rights and interest, and
of course strengthen that power which contains them all.
Tis from the bosom of this disorder and these revolutions,
that despotism gradually rearing up her hideous crest, ^and
devouring in every part of the state all that still remained
sound and untainted, would at last issue to trample upon the
laws and the people, and establish herself upon the^ ruins
of the republic. The times immediately preceding this last
alteration would be times of calamity and trouble: but at
last everything would be swallowed up by the monster; and
the people would no longer have chiefs or laws, but only
tyrants. At this fatal period all regard to virtue and man
ners would likewise disappear ; for despotism, cui ex honesto
nulla est spes, tolerates no other master, wherever it reigns ;
the moment it speaks, probity and duty lose all their in-
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 231
fluence, and the blindest obedience is the only virtue the
miserable slaves have left them to practise.
This is the last term of inequality, the extreme point which
closes the circle and meets that from which we set out.
Tis here that all private men return to their primitive
equality, because they are no longer of any account; and
that, the subjects having no longer any law but that of
their master, nor the master any other law but his passions,
all notions of good and principles of justice again dis
appear. Tis here that everything returns to the sole law
of the strongest, and of course to a new state of nature
different from that with which we began, in as much as the
first was the state of nature in its purity, and the last the
consequence of excessive corruption. There is, in other
respects, so little difference between these two states, and
the contract of government is so much dissolved by des
potism, that the despot is no longer master than he con
tinues the strongest, and that, as soon as his slaves can
expel him, they may do it without his having the least right
to complain of their using him ill. The insurrection, which
ends in the death or despotism of a sultan, is as juridical
an act as any by which the day before he disposed of the
lives and fortunes of his subjects. Force alone upheld him,
force alone overturns him. Thus all things take place and
succeed in their natural order; and whatever may be the
upshot of these hasty and frequent revolutions, no one man
has reason to complain of another s injustice, but only of his
own indiscretion or bad fortune.
By thus discovering and following the lost and for
gotten tracks, by which man from the natural must have
arrived at the civil state; by restoring, with the intermediate
positions which I have been just indicating, those which
want of leisure obliges me to suppress, or which my imag
ination has not suggested, every attentive reader must un
avoidably be struck at the immense space which separates
these two states. Tis in this slow succession of things
he may meet with the solution of an infinite number of
problems in morality and politics, which philosophers are
puzzled to solve. He will perceive that, the mankind of one
age not being the mankind of another, the reason why
232 ROUSSEAU
Diogenes could not find a man was, that he sought among
his cotemporaries the man of an earlier period: Cato, he will
then see, fell with Rome and with liberty, because he did
not suit the age in which he lived; and the greatest of men
served only to astonish that world, which would have cheer
fully obeyed him, had he come into it five hundred years
earlier. In a word, he will find himself in a condition to
understand how the soul and the passions of men by insen
sible alterations change as it were their nature; how it
comes to pass, that at the long run our wants and our
pleasures change objects; that, original man vanishing by
degrees, society no longer offers to our inspection but an
assemblage of artificial men and factitious passions, which
are the work of all these new relations, and have no foun
dation in nature. Reflection teaches us nothing on that
head, but what experience perfectly confirms. Savage
man and civilised man differ so much at bottom in point of
inclinations and passions, that what constitutes the supreme
happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair.
The first si^hs for nothing but repose and liberty; he
desires only to live, and to be exempt from labour; nay,
the ataraxy of the most confirmed Stoic falls short of his
consummate indifference for every other object. On the
contrary, the citizen always in motion, is perpetually sweat
ing and toiling, and racking his brains to find out occupa
tions still more laborious: He continues a drudge to his last
minute; nay, he courts death to be able to live, or re
nounces life to acquire immortality. He cringes to men
in power whom he hates, and to rich men whom he despises ;
he ftirlvs at nothing to have the honour of serving them;
he is not ashamed to value himself on his own weakness
and the protection they afford him ; and proud of his chains,
he speaks with disdain of those who have not the honour
of being the partner of his bondage. What a spectacle must
the painful and envied labours of an European minister
of state form in the eyes of a Caribbean ! How many cruel
deaths would not this indolent savage prefer to such a
horrid life, which very often is not even sweetened by the
pleasure of doing good? But to see the drift of so many
cares, his mind should first have affixed some meaning to
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 233
these words power and reputation; he should be apprised
that there are men who consider as something the looks of
the rest of mankind, who know how to be happy and satis
fied with themselves on the testimony of others sooner than
upon their own. In fact, the real source of all those dif
ferences, is that the savage lives within himself, whereas
the citizen, constantly beside himself, knows only how
to live in the opinion of others; insomuch that- it is, if
I may say so, merely from their judgment that he derives
the consciousness of his own existence. It is foreign to my
subject to show how this disposition engenders so much
indifference for good and evil, notwithstanding so many and
such fine discourses of morality; how everything, being
reduced to appearances, becomes mere art and mummery;
honour, friendship, virtue, and often vice itself, which we
at last learn the secret to boast of; how, in short, ever
inquiring of others what we are, and never daring to ques
tion ourselves on so delicate a point, in the midst of so
much philosophy, humanity, and politeness, and so many
sublime maxims, we have nothing to show for ourselves but
a deceitful and frivolous exterior, honour without virtue,
reason without wisdom, and pleasure without happiness.
It is sufficient that I have proved that this is not the original
condition of man, and that it is merely the spirit of society,
and the inequality which society engenders, tint thus change
and transform all our natural inclinations.
I have endeavoured to exhibit the origin and progress of
inequality, the institution and abuse of political societies, as
far as these things are capable of being deduced from the
nature of man by the mere light of reason, and independ
ently of those sacred maxims which give to the sovereign
authority the sanction of divine right. It follows from this
picture, that as there is scarce any inequality among men
in a state of nature, all that which we now behold owes
its force and its growth to the development of our faculties
and the improvement of our understanding, and at last
becomes permanent and lawful by the establishment of
property and 
