of a higher order.
If a man, having no sensations, were to think, he would only think as a pure spirit; he would not be in relation with the external world, nor would he be a man in the sense in which we use this word. In such a case the body is superfluous, and there is no reason why it should be united to the soul.
If we admit sensations, and abstract reason, man is converted into a brute. He feels, but does not think: he experiences impressions, but does not combine them, for he is incapable of reflecting. Every thing succeeds in him as a series of necessary, isolated phenomena, which indicate nothing, lead to nothing, and are nothing but affections of a particular being who does not comprehend them, nor render to himself an account of them. It is even difficult to say of what kind are his relations with the external world. Arguing from appearances and analogy, it is probable that brutes also make their sensations objective; but ordinarily, their objectiveness differs from ours. Let us take sleep for example. If brutes sleep, and they probably do sleep, as certain appearances seem to indicate, it would not be strange should they not distinguish as we do between waking and sleeping.
This supposes some reflection upon acts, some comparison between the order and constancy of some, and the disorder and inconstancy of others; a reflection which man makes even in infancy, and continues to make all his life without adverting to it. When we awake from a deep sleep, we sometimes remain for several moments in doubt if we are asleep or awake: this doubt alone supposes a comparative reflection of the two states. What do we do in order to resolve this doubt? We examine the place where we are; and the fact that we are abed, in the silence and darkness of night, indicates that the previous vision had no connection with our situation, and therefore that we were asleep. Without this reflection, the sensations of sleeping and waking would be connected, and all confounded in one and the same class.
The instinct conceded to brutes, but denied to men, shows that reason was given to us in order to appreciate sensations.
There are, then, in man no criteria of truth absolutely isolated. They are all in relation with each other, they mutually affirm and complete each other; for we must note that those truths, of which all men are certain, do in some sense rest upon all the criteria.
Sensations instinctively lead us to believe in the existence of an external world; and if this belief be submitted to the examination of reason, it confirms the same truth, resting upon the general ideas of cause and effect. The pure understanding knows certain principles, and assents to them as to necessary truths. The senses, if these principles be submitted to their experience, confirm them as much as their own perfection, or that of the instruments which they use, permit. "All the radii of a circle are equal." This is a necessary truth. The senses perceive no perfect circle, but they see that the more perfect the instrument is with which they construct it, so much more nearly equal are the radii. "There is no change without a cause to produce it." The senses cannot prove the proposition in all its universality, for they are by nature limited to a determinate number of particular cases; but, so far as their experience goes, they discover the order of such a dependence in the succession of phenomena.
The senses mutually aid each other. The sensation of one sense is compared with those of the others, when there arises a doubt as to its correspondence with its object. We seem to hear the whistling of the wind; but our hearing has more than once deceived us: to make sure of the truth we look at trees or other objects. We see a figure, but there is not light sufficient to distinguish it from a shadow, we approach and touch it.
The intellectual and moral faculties also exercise a salutary influence upon each other. Ideas rectify sentiments, and sentiments ideas. The value of the ideas of one order is verified by those of another order; and the same with sentiments. Pity for one suffering punishment inspires the pardon of all criminals; the indignation inspired at seeing the victims of crime, induces to the application of punishment; both sentiments involve something that is good; but the one would engender impunity, the other cruelty; it is to temper them that the ideas of justice exist. But this justice in its turn might pronounce excessively absolute sentences; justice is one, and the circumstances of peoples very different. Justice only considers the culpability, and consequently pronounces such sentences. A sentence may not be proper; for here come in other moral ideas of a distinct order, the amendment of the guilty joined with reparation made to the injured party; ideas also of public convenience which are not repugnant to sound morals, and which may direct their application.
Complete truth, like perfect good, exists only with harmony. This is a necessary law, and to it man is subject. Since we do not intuitively see the infinite truth in which all truths are one, and all good is one; and as we are in relation with a world of finite, and consequently multiple beings, we need different powers to place us in contact, so to speak, with this variety of truths and finite goods; but as they, in their turn, spring from one same principle, and are directed to one same end, they are submitted to harmony, which is the unity of multiplicity.
339. With these doctrines we believe philosophy without skepticism to be possible. Examination is not excluded; on the contrary, it is extended and completed. This method has another advantage; it does not make philosophy extravagant, and philosophers exceptional. Philosophy cannot be so generalized as to become popular; human nature is opposed to this; but there is not on the other hand any necessity of condemning it to a misanthropic isolation by force of extravagant professions. In such a case philosophy degenerates into philosophism. Exposition of facts, conscientious examination, clear language; such we conceive sound philosophy to be. This does not require it to cease to be profound, unless by profoundness be meant darkness. The rays of the sun light up the remotest depths of space.
340. I am aware that some philosophers of our age think otherwise, that they deem it necessary, when they examine the fundamental questions of philosophy, to shake the foundations of the world; and yet I have never been able to persuade myself that it was necessary to destroy in order to examine, or that in order to become philosophers we ought to become madmen. We may render the unreasonableness and extravagance of these masters of humanity sensible by an allegory, although the simplicity of my language may somewhat mortify their philosophical profoundness. The reader needs some solace and rest, now that he has followed me through such abstruse treatises, which all the power of the writer does not suffice to illustrate, and still less to render attractive.
A noble, rich, and numerous family preserves in magnificent archives the records of its nobility, alliances, and possessions. Some of these documents are hardly legible, either on account of the handwriting, their great antiquity, or the wear and tear of years. There is also a suspicion that many of these documents are apocryphal; although it is certain that many must be authentic, since the nobility and other rights of the family, so universally recognized, must be founded on some of them, and it is known that no other exists. Such is the state of things. Some curious person enters the archives, and casting a glance upon the shelves, recesses, and drawers, says: "This is all confusion; to distinguish what is authentic from the apocryphal, and put all in good order, we must light a fire at the four corners of the archives, and then examine the ashes."
What shall we think of such a proceeding? This curious person is the philosopher who, to distinguish the true and the false in our cognitions, begins by denying all truth, all certainty, all reason.
We may be told that there is no question of denying, but of doubting; but whoever doubts all truth, destroys it; whoever doubts all certainty denies it; whoever doubts all reason annihilates it. Prudence and common sense in small things are based upon the same principles as wisdom in great things. Let us go on with our allegory, and see what common sense would indicate ought to be done in this case.
To take an inventory of whatever now exists, without forgetting any thing, however contemptible it may appear; to make such temporary classifications as are deemed most proper to facilitate the examination, reserving the final classification to the close; to note carefully dates, characters, references, and thus to distinguish priority and posteriority; to see if there may be
