such an interior substance, which, nevertheless, thou canst not perceive?
I. I confess it, and my astonishment increases.
Spirit. What then is this something which thou imaginest to be behind the surface?
I. Well—I suppose something similar to the surface,—something tangible.
Spirit. We must ascertain this more distinctly. Canst thou divide the mass of which thou imaginest the body to consist?
I. I can divide it to infinity;—I do not mean with instruments, but in thought. No possible part is the smallest, so that it cannot be again divided.
Spirit. And in this division dost thou ever arrive at a portion of which thou canst suppose that it is no longer perceptible in itself to sight, touch, &c.;—in itself I say, besides being imperceptible to thy own particular organs of sense?
I. By no means.
Spirit. Visible, perceptible absolutely?—or with certain properties of colour, smoothness, roughness, and the like?
I. In the latter way. Nothing is visible or perceptible absolutely, because there is no absolute sense of sight or touch.
Spirit. Then thou dost but spread through the whole mass thy own sensibility, that which is already familiar to thee,—visibility as coloured, tangibility as rough, smooth, or the like; and after all it is this sensibility itself of which alone thou art sensible? Or dost thou find it otherwise?
I. By no means: what thou sayest follows from what I have already understood and admitted.
