The King of the Universe: A Dream

It is a topic surely more relevant to various people’s personal devotional process than to the limits that should surely be imposed on scholarship of A Dreaming Hermit as a document of its time (first published in 1770). I’m talking about instances where Catholic dogma was theoretically open to the kind of reading Louis-Sébastien Mercier provides—though the Church had to catch up across the centuries. The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe is about Christ being the “maker of all things visible and invisible,” as priests are saying around the world on this Sunday the twenty-third in 2025, the day of that solemnity; this solemnity was not declared by a pope until the early twentieth century; it was over half a century after that it rehabilitated the astronomer Galileo in 1992.) In the meantime, in the chapter that follows in the mid-eighteenth century, it is evident that a vein of thought had opened up with scientific discovery and the Enlightenment and that there was out in North Atlantic society, a dearth of answers to a dreamer’s question. One senses here a range of biblical tropes, especially that of the Ancient of Days:

Dream XI

One of my friends, who comes to see me from time to time, brought me new books to show me how the knowledge of the people of letters has improved since I  left society. Among these books were natural histories held in high regard. I dove into them eagerly, because I had always loved that kind of science. What struck me then and there was the difference between the new philosophy and the one from my day. The modern philosophy seemed to have the advantage; but parts of it shocked me. I was repulsed to see how the reasoning of the new philosophers was all geared toward finding physical causes for everything and pitching a battle against the Creator, inch by inch, one might say, on the production of his works, but I thought I saw the truth in how the views were laid out; I let myself be taken along and convinced; I could not stop reading. When night came, I promptly lit my lamp, sat down on my bed, and kept reading. As I was not used to staying up, sleep dragged my eyelids down, and I tumbled into sleep. I dreamt I was in a clump of woods, my book in my hand as I probed the new philosophical systems. A venerable elderly man came into view between the trees; his age was marked by white hair and a long and tufted beard that came down to his belly. Nothing about him seemed wizened. His sizable, majestic forehead inspired respect, he had gentle eyes, and his face was full of grace. He wore an elm crown and leaned on an ivory cane. I was struck by his simple, noble manner and stood up to greet him. He asked: “What are you dreaming about, my son?” I told him I had just read a book that had plagued me with doubts.... He sat down on the grass and had me join him at his side. “It was fifty years ago that I left the Court, the posts, and honors, to enjoy my life in these woods and study nature: it is the most splendid and fascinating work a man can do; but this sort of knowledge must result in deep and abiding tributes to the Creator: I am nothing before the Creator when I consider the magnificence of the universe: on the one hand, I get lost in the vastness of those spirals that hold a thousand worlds and on the other, in the minuteness of those animals who live inside the world of a drop of water. The least output is a matter for deep admiration. Oh my son, how the human spirit has strayed after making chance out to be the mother of the wonders of Creation. Doesn’t everything we see in the universe fly in the face of this absurdity? Isn’t reason itself repulsed by it? Aren’t this blade of grass, this acorn enough to make clear that a mighty being presided over the world when it formed and over the tiniest objects too? Consider on your own and see if you fail to recognise the hand of God upon you. Since thousands of men are making discoveries in nature and about themselves, do they know yet how they breathe, live, speak, and think? And yet they claim to explain everything and argue with the Almighty for the glory of having done everything. If at least they were of good faith, we would pity them for their blindness, but discredit reason by going against reason itself. If the reproduction of an insect escapes their feeble eyes, they conclude that chance created it, and all other living creatures raise their voices in vain; we do not see how this fellow comes to exist, so it must be the work of corruption, dust, an accident. For our sake, my son, let us love the hand that made us and supports us. We need only ourselves to recognize His might. When I consider this power that philosophers cannot explain with my utmost will, I use my body, a machine so handsome I cry out with glory and joy that I’m the work of a God.” I was listening closely and with respect for this wise elder as he talked, when the lamp I had left burning caught my straw bed on fire, scared me back to my senses, and led me to realise I was burning down my cell. It was not easy to put it out, and after cursing modern philosophy, which had almost caused me to burn alive, I went to sleep peacefully and savored tranquil sleep the rest of the night.