Full text of "The genius of Christianity ; or, The spirit and beauty of the Christian religion"

BR
121

THE

Sprit nA grants nf % Christian Jdigim.

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND,

o/ "IVarefc tn Greece and Palestine," "The Martyrs," "Atala," tte. etc. x(^

JJefcr anb dLompUte translation from %

WITH A

Preface, Biographical Notice of the Anthor, and Critical and Explanatory Notee.

BY CHARLES I. WHITE, D.D.

, W. fttAJ,
, WWW

NINTH RBVIBED EDITION.

BALTIMORE :
PUBLISHED BY JOHN MURPHY & CO.

PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

1871.

6280

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by
JOHN MURPHY & CO.

in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
District of Maryland.

PREFACE.

IN 1798, while the author of this work was residing
in London, exiled from France by the horrors of the
Revolution, and gaining a subsistence by the produc
tions of his pen, which were tinctured with the skep
ticism and infidelity of the times, he was informed of
the death of his venerable mother, whose last days
had been embittered by the recollection of his errors,
and who had left him, in her dying moments, a solemn
admonition to retrace his steps. The thought of having
saddened the old age of that tender and religious
parent who had borne him in her womb, overwhelmed
him with confusion ; the tears gushed from his eyes,
and the Christian sentiments in which he had been
educated returned under the impulses of a generous
and affectionate heart: "I wept and I believed" But
the trouble which harassed his mind did not entirely
vanish, until he had formed the plan of redeeming his
first publications by the consecration of his splendid
abilities to the honor of religion. Such was the origin
of the Genius of Christianity, in the composition of which
he labored with "all the ardor of a son who was erect
ing a mausoleum to his mother."*

* Memoires (f Outre- Tombe, vol. i.

6 PREFACE.

When this work made its appearance, in 1802, in
fidelity was the order of the day in France. That
beautiful country, whose people had once held so pro
minent a rank among the Catholic nations of Europe,
presented but a vast scene of ruins, the fatal conse
quences of that systematic war which impious sophists
had waged against religion during the latter half of
the eighteenth century. The Revolution had swept
away in its desolating course all the landmarks of the
ancient society. Churches and altars had been over
thrown ; the priests of God had been massacred, or
driven into exile ; asylums of virtue and learning had
been profaned and laid waste ; every thing august and
sacred had disappeared. In the political and social
sphere the same terrific destruction was witnessed.
After a succession of convulsions, which had over
thrown the Bourbon dynasty, and during which the
passions of men had rioted amid the wildest anarchy
and the most savage acts of bloodshed, the chief au
thority became vested in a consul whose mission was
to re-establish social order, and whose efforts in that
direction were gladly welcomed by the nation, grown
weary and sick, as it were, of the dreadful calamities
that had come upon them. It was an auspicious mo
ment for the fearless champion of Christianity, to
herald the claims of that religion whose doctrines con
stitute the only safe guide of the governing and the
governed. But, among a people who to a great extent
had conceived a.profound antipathy to the theory and
practice of religion, by the artful and persevering
efforts of an infidel philosophy to render the Christian
name an object of derision and contempt, a new

PREFACE. 7

method of argument was necessary to obtain even a
hearing in the case, much more to bring back the
popular mind to a due veneration for the Church and
her teachings. It would have been useless, when the
great principles of religious belief were disregarded,
when the authority of ages was set at naught, to un
dertake the vindication of Christianity by the exhi
bition of those external evidences which demonstrate
its divine origin. Men had become deluded with the
idea that the Christian religion had been a serious ob
stacle in the way of human progress; that, having
been invented in a barbarous age, its dogmas were
absurd and its ceremonies ridiculous; that it tended
to enslave the mind, opposed the arts and sciences,
and was in general hostile to the liberty of man and
the advancement of civilization. It was necessary,
therefore, in order to refute these errors, to exhibit
the intrinsic excellence and beauty of the Christian
religion, to show its analogy with the dictates of na
tural reason, its admirable correspondence with the in
stincts of the human heart, its ennobling influence
upon literature and the arts, its beneficent effects upon
society, its wonderful achievements for the civilization
and happiness of nations, its infinite superiority over
all other systems, in elevating the character, improving
the condition, and answering the wants of man, under
all the circumstances of life ; in a word, to show, ac
cording to the design of our author, not that the Chris
tian religion is excellent because it comes from G-od, hit that
it comes from God because it is excellent.

For this purpose, he passes in review the principal

8 PREFACE.

mysteries and tenets of Christianity, draws a compa
rison between Christian and pagan literature, displays
the advantages which painting, sculpture, and the
other arts, have derived from religious inspiration, its
accordance with the scenes of nature and the senti
ments of the heart, describes the wonders of mis
sionary enterprise, the extensive services of the mo
nastic orders, and concludes with a general survey of
the immense blessings conferred upon mankind by
the Christian Church. In displaying this magnificent
picture to the contemplation of the reader, the author
employs all the resources of ancient and modern
learning, the information derived from extensive
travel and a profound study of human nature, and
those ornaments of style which the loftiest poetry and
the most glowing fancy can place at his command.
In turn the philosopher, the historian, the traveller,
and the poet, he adopts every means of promoting the
great end in view, to enamor the heart of man with
the charms of religion, and to prove that she is emi
nently the source of all that is "lovely and of good re
port," of all that is beautiful and sublime. Among all
the works of Chateaubriand, none, perhaps, is so re
markable as this for that combination of impressive
eloquence, descriptive power, and pathetic sentiment,
which imparts such a fascination to his style, and
which caused Napoleon I. to observe, that it was " not
the style of Racine, but of a prophet ; that nature had
given him the sacred flame, and it breathed in all his
works."

The publication of such a work at such a time could
riot but enlist against it a powerful opposition among

PREFACE.

the advocates of infidelity ; but its superior excellence
and brilliant character obtained an easy triumph over
the critics who had attempted to crush its influence.
In two years it had passed through seven editions;
and such was the popularity it acquired, that it was
translated into the Italian, German, and Russian lan
guages. In France, the friends of religion hailed it as
the olive branch of peace and hope a messenger of
heaven, sent forth to solace the general affliction, to
heal the wounds of so many desolate hearts, after the
frightful deluge of impiety which had laid waste that
unfortunate country. On the other hand, the waver
ing in faith, and even they who had been perverted by
the sophistry of the times, were drawn to a profitable
investigation of religion, by the new and irresistible
charms that had been thrown around it. It cannot be
denied that the Genius of Christianity exerted a most
powerful and beneficial influence in Europe for the
good of religion and the improvement of literature.
The eloquent Balmes has well said : " The mysterious
hand which governs the universe seems to hold in re
serve, for every great crisis of society, an extraordinary

man Atheism was bathing France in a sea of

tears and blood. An unknown man silently traverses
the ocean, .... returns to his native soil." ....
He finds there " the ruins and ashes of ancient temples
devoured by the flames or destroyed by violence ; the
remains of a multitude of innocent victims, buried in
the graves which formerly afforded an asylum to per-
secuted Christians. He observes, however, that some
thing is in agitation : he sees that religion is about to
redescend upon France, like consolation upon the un-

10 PREFACE.

fortunate, or the breath of life upon a corpse. From
that moment he hears on all sides a concert of celestial
harmony ; the inspirations of meditation and solitude
revive and ferment in his great soul ; transported out
of himself, and ravished into ecstasy, he sings with a
tongue of fire the glories of religion, he reveals the
delicacy and beauty of the relations between religion
and nature, and in surpassing language he points out
to astonished men the mysterious golden chain which
connects the heavens and the earth. That man was
Chateaubriand. *

The eloquent work here referred to must, we may
easily conceive, be productive of good in any age and
in any country. Although the peculiar circumstances
that prompted its execution and proved so favorable
to its first success have passed away, the vast amount
of useful information which it embodies will always
be consulted with pleasure and advantage by the
scholar and the general reader; while the "vesture of
beauty and holiness" which it has thrown round the
Church cannot fail to be extensively instrumental in
awakening a respectful attention to her indisputable
claims. One of the saddest evils of our age and
country is the spirit of indifferentism which infects all
classes of society; and the question, among a vast
number, is not what system of Christianity is true, but
whether it is worth their while to make any system
the subject of their serious inquiry. Such minds,
wholly absorbed by the considerations of this world,
would recoil from a doctrinal or theological essay with

* Protestantism and Catholicity Compared, $*c., p. 71.

PREFACE. 11

almost the same aversion as would be excited by the
most nauseous medicine. But deck religious truth in
the garb of fancy, attended by the muses, and dis
pensing blessings on every side, and {he most apa
thetic soul will be arrested by the beauteous spectacle,
as the child is attracted and won by the maternal
smile. Among unbelievers and sectarians of different
complexions, who discard all mysteries, who consult
only their reason and feelings as the source and rule
of religious belief, who look upon Catholicism as
something effete, and unsuited to the enlightenment of
the age, this work will be read with the most bene
ficial results. It will warm into something living,
consistent, and intelligible, the cold and dreamy specu
lations of the rationalist; it will indicate the grand
fountain-head whence flow in all their fervor and effi
ciency those noble sentiments which for the modern
philosopher and philanthropist have but a theoretical
existence. It will hold up to view the inexhaustible
resources of Catholicism, in meeting all the exigencies
of society, all the wants of man, and triumphantly
vindicate her undoubted claims to superiority over all
other systems in advancing the work of true civili
zation.

It was to establish this truth that Balmes composed
his splendid work on the Comparative Influence of Pro
testantism and Catholicity, and Digby described the Ages
of Faith, and the Compitum, or Meeting of the Ways.
These productions are of a kindred class with the
Genius of Christianity, and the former embraces to a
certain extent the same range of subject, having in
view to display the internal evidences of Catholicity,

12 PREFACE.

as derived from its beneficial influence upon European
civilization. But Chateaubriand was the first to enter
the field against the enemies of religion, clad in that
effective armor which is peculiarly adapted to the cir
cumstances of modern times. "Without pretending in
the least to question the necessity or detract from the
advantages of theological discussion, we are firmly
convinced that the mode of argument adopted by our
author is, in general, and independently of the prac
tical character of the age in which we live, the tnost
effectual means of obtaining for the Church that favor
able consideration which will result in the recognition
of her divine institution. "The foolish man hath said
in his heart, there is no God."* The disorder of the
heart, arising partly from passion, partly from preju
dice, shuts out from the mind the light of truth.
Hence, whoever wins the heart to an admiration of the
salutary influences which that truth has exerted in
every age for the happiness of man, will have gained
an essential point, and will find little difficulty in con
vincing the understanding, or securing a profitable
attention to the grave expositions of the theologian
and the controversialist.

Such were the considerations that led to the present
translation of the Genius of Christianity. The work
was presented in an English dress for the first time in
England; and the same edition, reprinted in this
country in 1815, would have been republished now, if
it had not been discovered that the translator had
taken unwarrantable liberties with the original, omit-

Psalm xiv. 1.

P R E I A C B. 13

ting innumerable passages and sometimes whole chap
ters, excluding sentences and paragraphs of the highest
importance, those particularly which gave to the au
thor s argument its peculiar force in favor of Catholi
cism. Such, in fact, was the number and nature of
these omissions, that, with the introduction of occa
sional notes, they detracted, in a great measure, from
the author s purpose, and gave to a latitudinarian
Christianity an undue eminence, which he never con
templated. With these important exceptions, and
various inaccuracies in rendering the text, the transla
tion of Mr. Shoberl has considerable merit. In pre
paring the present edition of the work, we have fur
nished the entire matter of the original production,
with the exception of two or three notes in the Ap
pendix, which have been condensed, as being equally
acceptable to the reader in that form. Nearly one
hundred pages have been supplied which were never
before presented to the public in English. In render
ing the text, we have examined and compared different
French editions ; but there is little variation between
that of 1854 and its predecessors. Where the sense
of the author appeared obscure or erroneous, we have
introduced critical and explanatory notes. Those
marked S and K have been retained from Mr.
Shoberl s translation ; those marked T were prepared
for this edition. In offering this translation to the
public, we take pleasure in stating that we have made
a free use of that to which we have alluded, especially
in the latter portion of the work. We have also con
sulted the translation by the Rev. E. O Donnel, which
was issued in Paris in 1854. In that edition, however,
2

14 PREFACE.

nearly one-half of the original production has been
omitted, and the order of the contents has been en
tirely changed.

In conclusion, we present this work to the public
with the hope that it may render the name of its illus
trious author more extensively known among us, and
may awaken a more general interest in the study of
that religion which, as Montesquieu observes, "while
it seems only to have in view the felicity of the other
life, constitutes the happiness of this."

THE TRANSLATOR.

Pikesvillt, Md. April, 1856.

CONTENTS.

NOTICE or THE VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND 23

PART I.

DOGMAS AND TENETS.
BOOK I.

MYSTERIES AND SACRAMENTS.

?AQK

CHAP. I. Introduction *3

1L Of the Nature of Mysteries 51

III. Of the Christian Mysteries The Trinity 53

IV. Of the Redemption 59

V. Of the Incarnation 66

VI. Of the Sacraments Baptism and Peuance 67

VII. Of the Holy Communion 71

VIII. Confirmation, Holy Orders, and Matrimony. 75

IX. The same subject continued Holy Orders 82

X. Matrimony 85

XL Extreme Unction 81

BOOK II.

VIRTUES AND MORAL LAWS.

CHAP. 1. Vices and Virtues according to Eeligion 93

II. Of Faith 95

III. Of Hope and Charity 97

IV. Of the Moral Laws, or the Ten Commandments 99

BOOK III.

THE TRUTHS OF THE SCRIPTURES THE PALL OF MAN.

CHAP. I. The Superiority of the History of Moses to all other Cosmogonies 107

II. The Fall of Man The Serpent Remarks on a Hebrew "Word... 110

III Primitive Constitution of Man New proof of Original Sin 114

CONTENTS.

BOOK IV.

CONTINUATION OF THE TRUTHS OF SCRIPTURE OBJECTIONS

AGAINST THE SYSTEM OF MOSES.

PAOI

CHAP. I. Chronology 1

II. Logography and Historical Facts 1

III. Astronomy

IV. Continuation of the preceding subject Natural History The

Deluge 133

V. Youth and Old Age of the Earth 136

BOOK V.

THE EXISTENCE OF GOD DEMONSTRATED BY THE WONDERS OP
NATURE.

CHAP. I. Object of this Book 133

II. A General Survey of the Universe 139

III. Organization of Animals and Plants 141

IV. Instincts of Animals 145

V. Song of Birds Made for Man Laws relative to the cries of

Animals 147

VL Nests of Birds 150

VII. Migrations of Birds Aquatic Birds Their Habits Goodness

of Providence 152

VIII. Sea-Fowl In what manner serviceable to Man In ancient times

Migrations of Birds served as a Calendar to the husbandman 156

IX. The subject of Migrations concluded Quadrupeds 160

X. Amphibious Animals and Reptiles 163

XL Of Plants and their Migrations 188

XII. Two Views of Nature 170

XIII. Physical Man 174

XIV. Love of our Native Country 177

BOOK VI.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL PROVED BY THE MORAL
LAW AND THE FEELINGS.

CHAP. I. Desire of Happlc ess in Man JS4

II. Remorse and Conscience 187

IIL There can be no Morality if there is no Future State Presump
tion in favor of the Immortality of the Soul deduced from

the Respect of Man for Tombs 190

IV. Of certain Objections 191

V. Danger and Inutility of Atheism 196

CONTENTS. 17

PAQH

VI. The conclusion of the Doctrines of Christianity State of Pu
nishments and Rewards in a Future Life Elysium of the

Ancients 2(

VII. The Last Judgment 2I

VIII. Happiness of the Righteous 2 7

PART II.

THE POETIC OF CHRISTIANITY.

BOOK I.
GENERAL SURVEY OF CHRISTIAN EPIC POEMS.

CHAP. I. The Poetic of Christianity is divided into Three Branches:
Poetry, the Fine Arts, and Literature The Six Books of

this Second Part treat in an especial manner of Poetry 210

II. General Survey of the Poems in which the Marvellous of Chris
tianity supplies the place of Mythology The Inferno of

Dante The Jerusalem Delivered of Tasso 2

ILL Paradise Lost 215

IV. Of some French and Foreign Poems 2:

V. TheHenriad 226

BOOK II.

OF POETRY CONSIDERED IN ITS RELATIONS TO MAN.

Characters.

CHA.P. I. Natural Characters 2!

II. The Husband and Wife Ulysses and Penelope 2;

III. The Husband and Wife continued Adam and Eve 236

IV. The Father Priam 242

V. Continuation of the Father Lusigmin 245

VI. The Mother Andromache 247

VII. The Son Gusman 250

VIII. The Daughter Iphigenia and Zara 253

IX. Social Characters The Priest 256

X. Continuation of the Priest The Sibyl Jehoiada. Parallel be
tween Virgil and Racine 257

XI. The Warrior Definition of the Beautiful Ideal 262

XII. The Warrior continued 266

2* B

18 CONTENTS.

BOOK III.

OF POETRY CONSIDERED IN ITS RELATIONS TO MAN THE

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

The Passions.

PAOI

CHAP. I. Christianity has changed the Relations of the Passions by chang
ing the Basis of Vice and Virtue 269

II. Impassioned Love Dido 272

III. Continuation of the preceding subject The Phaedra of Racine.. 275

IV. Continuation of the preceding subject Julia d Etange Clemen

tina 277

V. Continuation of the preceding subject Eloisa 280

VI. Rural Love The Cyclop and Galatea of Theocritus 285

VII. Continuation of the preceding subject Paul and Virginia 287

VIII. The Christian Religion itself considered as a Passion 291

IX. Of the Unsettled State of the Passions ,.. 2U6

BOOK IV.

OF THE MARVELLOUS; OR, OF POETRY IN ITS RELATIONS TO
SUPERNATURAL BEINGS.

CHAP. I. Mythology diminished the Grandeur of Nature The Ancients

had no Descriptive Poetry properly so called 299

II. Of Allegory 303

III. Historical part of Descriptive Poetry among the Moderns 305

IV. Have the Divinities of Paganism, in a poetical point of view, the

superiority over the Christian Divinities? : 309

V. Character of the True God 312

VI. Of the Spirits of Darkness 314

VII. Of the Saints " m 316

VIII. Of the Angels . . 319

IX. Application of the Principles established in the preceding chap
tersCharacter of Satan 3 2]

X. Poetical Machinery Venus in the woods of Carthage Raphael

in the bowers of Eden 3 24

XL Dream of ^Eneas Dream of Athalie 326

XII. Poetical Machinery continued Journeys of Homer s gods

Satan s expedition in quest of the New Creation 330

XIII. The Christian Hell 335

XIV. Parallel between Hell and Tartarus Entrance of Avernus

Dante s gate of Hell Dido Francisca d Arimino Tor
ments of the damned 334

XV. Purgatory 3 -&gt;o

XVI. Paradise

CONTENTS. 19

BOOK V.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER.
CHAP. I. Of the Scriptures and their Excellence

II. Of the three principal styles of Scripture .............................. 345

III. Parallel between the Bible and Homer Terms of Comparison... 352

IV. Continuation of the Parallel betweea the Bible and Homer-

Examples ................................................................. 358

PART III.

THE FINE ARTS AND LITERATURE.

BOOK I.
THE FINE ARTS.

CHAP. L Music Of the Influence of Christianity upon Music 370

II. TUe Gregorian fhant 3 ^2

Til. Historical Painting among the Moderns . 375

IV. Of the Subjects of Pictures 378

V. Sculpture 3

VI. Architecture Hotel des Invalides 3!

VII. Versailles 3!

VIII. Gothic Churches 384

BOOK II.

PHILOSOPHY.

CHAP. I. Astronomy and Mathematics 2

II. Chemistry and Natural History 39fl

III. Christian Philosophers Metaphysicians 404

IV. Christian Philosophers continued Political Writers 407

V. Moralists La Bruyere 408

VI. Moralists continued Pascal 411

20 CONTENTS.

BOOK III.

HISTORY.

PAO

CHAP. I. Of Christianity as it relates to the Manner of Writing History.. 417
II. Of the General Causes which have prevented Modern Writers
from succeeding in History First Cause, the Beauties of the
Ancient Subjects. 419

III. Continuation of the preceding Second Cause,the Ancients have

exhausted all the Historical styles, except the Christian style 422

IV. Of the reasons why the French have no Historical Works, but

only Memoirs 425

V. Excellence of Modern History ^

VI. Voltaire considered as an Historian 4

VII. Philip de Commines and Rollin 4:

VIII. Bossuet considered as an Historian 433

BOOK IV.

ELOQUENCE.

CHAP. I. Of Christianity as it relates to Eloquence 437

II. Christian Orators Fathers of the Church 439

III. Massiilon 445

IV. Bossuet as an Orator r. 448

V. Infidelity the Principal Cause of tho decline of Taste and tho

degeneracy of Genius 453

BOOK V.

THE HARMONIES OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION WITH THE SCENES
OF NATURE AND THE PASSIONS OF THE HUMAN HEART.

CHAP. I. Division of the Harmonies 459

II. Physical Harmonies 459

III. Of Ruins in General Ruins are of two kinds 466

IV. Picturesque Effect of Ruins Ruins of Palmyra, Egypt, Ac 469

V. Ruins of Christian Monuments 471

VI. Moral Harmonies Popular Devotions 473

CONTENTS. 2J

PART IV.

WORSHIP.
BOOK I.

CHURCHES, ORNAMENTS, SINGING, PRAYERS, ETC.

PAGE

CHAP. I. Of Bells 479

II. Costume of the Clergy and Ornaments of the Church 481

III. Of Singing and Prayer 483

IV. Solemnities of the Church Sunday 489

V. Explanation of the Mass 491

VI. Ceremonies and Prayers of the Mass 493

VII. Solemnity of Corpus Christi 496

VIII. The Rogation-Days 498

IX. Of certain Christian Festivals Epiphany Christmas 500

X. Funerals Funerals of the Great 503

XL Funeral of the Soldier, the Rich, &lt;fcc 505

XII. Of the Funeral-Service 507

BOOK II.

TOMBS.

CHAP. I. Ancient Tombs The Egyptians 511

II. The Greeks and Romans 512

III. Modern Tombs China and Turkey 513

IV. Caledonia or Ancient Scotland 514

V. Otaheite 514

VI. Christian Tombs 516

VII. Country Churchyards 518

VIII. Tombs in Churches 520

IX. St. Dennis 522

BOOK III.

GENERAL VIEW OP THE CLERGY.

CHAP. I. Of Jesus Christ and his Life 526

II. Secular Clergy Hierarchy 531

III. Regular Clergy Origin of the Monastic Life 540

IV. The Monastic Constitutions 544

V. Manners and Life of the Religious Coptic Monks, Maronites,&lt;fcc. 548

VI. The subject continued Trappists Carthusians Sisters of St.
Clare Fathers of Redemption Missionaries Ladies of
Charity, &c 55]

2 CONTENTS.

BOOK IV.

MISSIONS.

CHAP. I. General Survey of the Missions ................................................ 557

II. Missions of the Levmt .................................... 553

III. Missions of China.. ............................................... 5 gg

IV. Missions of Paraguay Conversion of the Savages ................. .. 571

V. Missions of Paraguay, continued Christian Republic Happi

ness of the Indians .......................................... 57*,

VI. Missions of Guiana .......................................

VII. Missions of the Antilles .................................... .... 3 g 5

VIII. Missions of New France ........................................

IX. Conclusion of the Missions ...............................

BOOK V.

MILITARY ORDERS OR CHIVALRY.

CHAP.

I. Knights of Malta 600

II. The Teutonic Order .-..1"1ZZ3IZ1 .. 604

III. The Knights of Calatrava and St. Jago-of-the- Sword in Spain.. 605
IV. Life and Manners of the Knights gyg

BOOK VI.

SERVICES RENDERED TO MANKIND BY THE CLERGY AND BY
THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION IN GENERAL.

CHAP. I. Immensity of the Benefits conferred by Christianity 619

II. Hospitals ..."...".! 6*0

III. Hotel-Dieu Gray Sisters .. .......... 626

IV. Foundling Hospitals Ladies of Charity Acts of Beneficence.. 630
V. Education Schools Colleges Universities Benedictines and

Jesuits g^2

VI. Popes and Court of Rome Modern Discoveries r&gt;

VII. Agriculture " g^

VIII. Towns and Villages Bridges High-Roads ..rZ..... ............ 647

IX. Arts, Manufactures, Commerce g=i

X. Civil and Criminal Laws ... 55^

XL Politics and Government

XII. General Recapitulation

XIII. What the Present State of Society would be had not Chris
tianity appeared in the World Conjectures Conclusion 668

NOTES

087

NOTICE

OF THE

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND.*

RENE FRANCIS AUGUSTUS, Viscount de Chateau
briand, was born at Saint-Malo, in France, on the
4th of September, 1768. His family, on the paternal
side, one of the most ancient in Brittany, descended
in a direct line, by the barons of Chateaubriand, from
Thierri, grandson of Alain III., who was the sovereign
of the Armorican peninsula. Having commenced his
classical studies at the college of Dol, he continued
them at Rennes, where he had Moreau for a rival,
and completed them at Dinan in the company of
Broussais. Of a proud disposition, and sensitive to a
reprimand, young Chateaubriand distinguished him
self by a very precocious intellect and an extraor
dinary memory. His father, having destined him for
the naval profession, sent him to Brest for the purpose
of passing an examination ; but having remained
some time without receiving his commission, he re
turned to Combourg, and manifested some inclination
for the ecclesiastical state. Diverted, however, from
this project by the reading of pernicious books, he

* Compiled chiefly from an article in Feller s Dictionnaire Historique.

24 NOTICE OF THE

exchanged his sentiments of piety for those of infi
delity, and in his solitary situation, with the passions
for his guides, he became the sport of the most ex
travagant fancies. Weary of life, he had even to
struggle against the temptation of committing suicide ;
but he was relieved from these sombre thoughts by
the influence of his eldest brother, the Count of Oom-
bourg, who obtained for him a lieutenancy in the regi
ment of Navarre. After the death of his father, in
1786, he left his military post at Cambrai, to look after
his inheritance, and settled with his family at Paris.
Through the means of his brother, who had married
Mademoiselle de Rosambo, grand-daughter of Males-
herbes, he was introduced into society and presented
at court, which obtained for him at once the rank of a
captain of cavalry. It was designed to place him in
the order of Malta ; but Chateaubriand now began to
evince his literary predilections. He cultivated the
society of Ginguene, Lebrun, Champfort, Delisle de
Salles, and was much gratified in having been per
mitted, through them, to publish in the Almanack des
Muses a poem which he had composed in the forest
of Combourg. In 1789 he attended the session of the
States of Brittany, and took the sword in order to
repulse the mob that besieged the hall of assembly.
On his return to Paris, after the opening of the States-
general, he witnessed the first scenes of the revolu
tion, and in 1790 he quit the service on the occasion
of a revolt that had taken place in the regiment of
Navarre. Alarmed by the popular excesses, and hav
ing a great desire to travel, he embarked in January,
1791, for the United States of America. He hoped,

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 2 r &gt;

with the advice and support of Malesherbes, to dis
cover a north-west passage to the Polar Sea, which
Hearn had already descried in 1772. A few days after
his arrival at Baltimore, he proceeded to Philadelphia,
and having a letter of introduction to General Wash
ington from Colonel Armand, (Marquis de la Rouerie,)
who had served in the war of American Independence,
he lost no time in calling on the President. Washing
ton received him with great kindness and with his
usual simplicity of manners. On the following day,
Chateaubriand had the honor of dining with the Pre
sident, whom he never saw afterward, hut whose cha
racter left an indelible impression upon his mind.
"There is a virtue," he says, "in the look of a great
man."* On leaving Philadelphia, he visited ISTew
York, Boston, and the other principal cities of the
Union, where he was surprised to find in the manners
of the people the cast of modern times, instead of that
ancient character which he had pictured to himself.
From the haunts of civilized life he turned to those
wild regions which were then chiefly inhabited by the
untutored savage, and as he travelled from forest to
forest, from tribe to tribe, his poetical mind feasted
upon the grandeur and beauty of that virginal nature
which presented itself to his contemplation. At the
falls of Niagara he was twice in the most imminent
danger of losing his life, by his enthusiastic desire to
enjoy the most impressive view of the wonderful
cataract.

While thus setting to profit his opportunities of ob-

* Mfinioirex d* Oiifre-Tomlie.

26 NOTICE OF THE

servation in the new world, Chateaubriand learned
from the public prints the flight and capture jf Louis
XVI., and the progress of the French emigration.
He at once resolved upon returning to his native
country. After a narrow escape from shipwreck, he
arrived at Havre in the beginning of 1792, whence he
proceeded to St. Malo, where he had the happiness of
again embracing his mother. Here also he formed a
matrimonial alliance with Mademoiselle de Lavigne, a
lady of distinction. A few months after, in company
with his brother, he set out for Germany with a view
to join the army of French nobles who had rallied in
defence of their country. At the siege of Thionville,
his life was saved by the manuscript of Atala, a literary
production which he carried about him, and which
turned a shot from the enemy. He was, however,
severely wounded in the thigh on the same occasion,
and, to add to his misfortunes, he was attacked with
the small-pox. In this suffering condition he under
took a journey of six hundred miles on foot, and was
more than once reduced to the very verge of the grave
by the pressure of disease and the extraordinary priva
tions he was compelled to undergo. One evening he
stretched himself to rest in a ditch, from which he
never expected to rise. In this situation he was dis
covered by a party attached to the Prince of Ligno,
who threw him into a wagon and carried him to the
walls of Namur. As he made his way through that
city, crawling on his knees and hands, he excited the
compassion of some good women of the place, who
afforded him what assistance they could. Having at
length reached Brussels, he was there recognised by

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 27

his brother, who happened to meet him, and irom
whom he received every aid and attention. Though
far from having recovered his strength, he left this
place for Ostend, where he embarked in a fisherman s
boat for the Isle of Jersey. Here he met with a por
tion of his family who had emigrated from France,
and among whom he received the attentions which his
suffering condition demanded. He soon after repaired
to London, where he lived forborne time in a state of
poverty. Too haughty to apply for assistance to the
British government, he relied altogether upon his own
efforts for the means of subsistence. He spent the
day in translating, and the night in composing his
Essay 011 Eevolutions. But this incessant labor soon
undermined his health, and there being moreover
little to do in the way of translating, the unfortunate
exile experienced for some days the cravings of hun
ger. Happily, at this juncture, his services were re
quested by a body of learned men who, under the direc
tion of the pastor of Beccles, were preparing a history
of the county of Suffolk. His part of the labor con
sisted in explaining some French manuscripts of the
twelfth century, the knowledge of which was neces
sary to the authors of the enterprise.

On his return to London, Chateaubriand completed
his Essai sur les Revolutions, which was published in
1797. This work produced quite a sensation, won for
him the commendations and sympathy of the French
nobility then in England, and placed him in relation
with Montlosier, Delille and Fontanes. He was sorely
tried, however, by the afflictions of his family. He
had received the distressing intelligence that his bro-

28 NOTICE OF THE

t;her and sister-in-law, with his friend Malesherbes,
bad been guillotined by the revolutionary harpies,
and that his wife and sister had been imprsoned at
Rennes, and his aged mother at Paris. This pious
lady, after having suffered a long confinement, died in
1798, with a prayer on her lips for the conversion of
her son. Young Chateaubriand was not insensible to
this prayer of his venerated parent. "She charged
one of my sisters," he writes, u to recall me to a sense
of that religion in which I had been educated, and my
sister made known to me her wish. When the letter
reached me beyond the water, my sister also had de
parted this life, having succumbed under the effects of
her imprisonment. Those two voices coming up from
the grave, and that death which had now become the
interpreter of death, struck me with peculiar force. I
became a Christian. I did not yield to any great su
pernatural light : my conviction came from the heart.
I wept, and I believed." His ideas having thus under
gone a serious change, he resolved to consecrate to
religion the pen which had given expression to the
skepticism of the times, and he planned at once the
immortal work, Lc Genie du Christianisme.

As soon as Buonaparte had been appointed First
Consul, Chateaubriand returned to France under an
assumed name, associated himself with Fontanes in
the editorship of the Mercure, and in 1801 published
his Atala. This romance, attacked by some, but en
thusiastically received by the greater number, was
eminently successful, and added to the circle of the
author s friends many illustrious names. Madame
Bacciochi and Lucien Buonaparte became his protec-

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIANJ). 29

tors, while he was brought into intercourse with Jou-
bert, de Bonald, La Harpe, Chenedolle, Mesdames
Recamier and de Beaumont. His design, in the pub
lication of Atala, was to introduce himself to the
public, and to prepare the way for the Genie du Chris-
tianisme, which appeared in 1802. ~No sooner was it
issued from the press, than the disciples of Voltaire
stamped it as the offspring of superstition, and pamph
leteers and journalists united in visiting the author
and his work with proud contempt ; but the friends of
religion and of poetry applauded the intentions and
admired the talents of the writer.

Buonaparte, who was at this time busy with the con
cordat, was desirous of seeing the man who so ably
seconded his views ; and, with the hope of attaching
him to his fortune, appointed him first secretary of
Cardinal Fesch, then ambassador to the Court of
Rome. When the new diplomatist was presented to
Pius VII., this .venerable pontiff was reading the Genie
du Christianisme. The honors of the French embassy
had no great attractions for our author. Averse to
being an instrument of the tortuous policy which it
began to display, he resigned his post and returned to
Paris. Napoleon, sensible of his eminent abilities,
sought rather to conquer than to crush his independ
ent spirit, and appointed him minister plenipotentiary
to the Yalais. He received this commission the day
before the Duke d Enghien, who had been seized on
foreign territory, in contempt of the law of nations,
was shot in the ditch of Vincennes. That very even
ing, while fear or astonishment still pervaded the
minds of all, Chateaubriand sent in his resignation.

30 NOTICE OF THE

Napoleon could not but feel the censure implied in
this bold protestation, which was the more meritorious
as it was the only expression of fearless opposition to
his prescriptive measure. He did not, however, betray
his displeasure, nor did he disturb the courageous
writer in whom he began to detect an enemy ; on the
contrary, in order to draw him into his service, he
made him every offer that could flatter his interest or
ambition. The refusal of Chateaubriand to accept any
post under the consular regime made him obnoxious
to Napoleon, who gratified his resentment by crippling
the literary resources of his political adversary.

Under these circumstances, he paid a visit to Ma
dame de Stael, who had become his friend by a com
munity of sentiment and misfortune, and who was
living in exile at Coppet. The following year
1806 he executed his design of a pilgrimage to
the Holy Land. Revisiting Italy, he embarked for
Greece, spent some time among the ruins of Sparta
and the monuments of Athens, passed over to Smyrna,
thence to the island of Cyprus, and at length
reached Jerusalem. Here, having venerated the relics
of the noble crusaders, and especially that tomb
"which alone will have nothing to send forth at the
end of time," he sailed for Egypt, explored the fields
of Carthage, passed over to Spain, and amid the ruins
of the Alhambra wrote Le dernier des Abeneerages. On
his return to France, in May, 1807, he published in the
Mercure, which partly belonged to him, an article
which greatly incensed the government against him.
The emperor -spoke of having him executed on the
steps of the Tuileries, but, after having issued the

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 31

order to arrest him, he was satisfied with depriving
him of his interest in the Mercury. Chateaubriand
now retired to his possessions near Aulnay, where he
wrote his Itimraire, Molse, and Les Martyrs. When
the first-mentioned work was about to appear, in 1811,
the author was notified by the government that the
publication would not be permitted, unless he would
introduce into its pages a eulogy of the emperor.
Chateaubriand refused to submit to such a condition ;
but having been informed that his publisher would
suffer materially by the suppression of the work, he
was induced by this consideration, to do, in some
measure, what neither fear nor personal interest could
extort from him. In complying with the requisition
of the authorities, he alluded in truthful language to
the exploits of the French armies, and to the fame of
their general who had so often led them on to victory;
but he carefully abstained from signalizing the acts of
a government whose policy was so much at variance
with the principles which he professed.

Buonaparte had still some hope of gaining over the
independent and fearless writer. When a vacancy
had occurred in the French Academy by the death of
Chenier, the situation was offered to Chateaubriand,
who was also selected by the emperor for the general
superintendence of the imperial libraries, with a salary
equal to that of a first-class embassy. Custom, how
ever, required that the member-elect should pronounce
the eulogy of his predecessor ; but in this instance the
independence of Chateaubriand gave sufficient reason
to think that, instead of heralding the merit of Che
nier, who had participated in the judicial murder of

32 NOTICE OF THE

Louih XVI., he would denounce in unmeasured terms
the crimes of the French Revolution. His inaugural
address having been submitted, according to custom,
to a committee of inspection, they decided that it
could not be delivered by the author. The emperor,
moreover-, having obtained some knowledge of its con
tents, which formed an eloquent protest against the
revolutionary doctrines and the despotic tendencies
of the existing government, he was exasperated against
the writer, and in his excitement he paced his room
to and fro, striking his forehead, and exclaiming
"Am I, then, nothing more than a usurper ? Ah, poor
France! how much do you still need an instructor!"
The admission of Chateaubriand to the Academy was
indefinitely postponed.

But the star of Buonaparte had now begun to wane.
The allied armies having entered France, Chateau
briand openly declared himself in favor of the ancient
dynasty. His sentiments were unequivocally expressed
in a pamphlet, which he published in 1814, under the
title of Buonaparte et les Bourbons, and which Louis
XVIII. acknowledged t&gt; have been worth to him an
army. Upon the restoration of this monarch to the
throne, Chateaubriand was appointed ambassador to
Sweden ; but he had not yet taken his departure, when
it was announced that Buonaparte had again appeared
on the soil of France. Our author advised the king to
await his rival in Paris ; but this suggestion was not
followed. Louis XVHI. proceeded to Gand, where
Chateaubriand was a member of his council, in the
capacity of Minister of the Interior, and drew up an
able report on the condition of France, which was

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 33

considered as a political manifesto. After the second
restoration of the Bourbons, he declined a portfolio in
connection with Fouch.6 and Talleyrand. Called to a
seat in the House of Peers, he attracted considerable
attention by some of his speeches. Not less a friend
of the Bourbons than of the liberties guaranteed by
the charter, he endeavored to conciliate the rights of
the throne with those of the nation ; and he beheld
with indignation men who had been too prominent
during the revolutionary period, admitted to the royal
councils and to various offices of the administration.
Under the influence of these sentiments he published,
in 1816, a pamphlet entitled La Monarchic selon la
Charte, which was an able and popular defence of con
stitutional government ; but by the order of de Gazes,
president of the council, the work was suppressed, and
its author, although acquitted before the tribunals,
was no longer numbered among the ministers of state.
Deprived of his station and of his income, Chateau
briand was compelled to dispose of his library as a
means .of subsistence. At the same time, he esta
blished the Qmservatew, a periodical opposed to the
Minerve, the ministerial organ, and, in conjunction
with the Duo de Montmorency and others, he carried
on a vigorous war against the favorite of the crown.
The cabinet of de Cazes could not withstand such an
antagonist ; the daily assaults of the Conservateur made
it waver, and the assassination of the Duke of Berry
completed its downfall. On the accession of M. de
Villele to power, Chateaubriand accepted the mission
to Berlin. While he occupied this post, he won the
attachment of the royal family, the confidence of the

34 NOTICE OF THE

Prussian ministers, and the intimate friendship of the
Duchess of Cumberland. In 1822, he succeeded M.
de Gazes as the representative of France at the court
of St. James, and soon afterward crossed the Alps as a
delegate to the Congress of Verona. Having distin
guished himself in this assembly by eloquently plead
ing the cause of Greece, and defending the interests
of his own country in relation to the Spanish war, he
returned to France and became Minister of Foreign
Affairs. While he held this station, he succeeded in
effecting the intervention of his government in behalf
of Ferdinand VII., notwithstanding the opposition of
M. de Villele. He could not, however, maintain his
position long, with the antipathies of the king and the
jealousy of his prime minister against him. He ac
cordingly retired from the cabinet in 1824, and re-
entered the ranks of the liberal opposition, of which
he soon became the leader. The contributions of his
pen to the columns of the Journal des Debate allowed
not a moment s truce to the ministry. He assailed all
the measures of the cabinet; the reduction of rents,
the rights of primogeniture, the law of sacrilege, the
dissolution of the national guard, all were denounced
by him with a vigor and constancy which accom
plished the fall of M. de Villele.

Such was the state of things when Louis XVHL
was summoned from life; and Chateaubriand, care
fully distinguishing the cause of the dynasty from that
of its micisters, who, according to him, were unworthy
of their position, published a pamphlet entitled Le roi
est mort, vive le roi! which was a new proof of his de-
votedness to the Bourbons. After the inauguration

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 35

of Charles X. and the formation of the Martignac cabi
net, he accepted a mission to Rome, after having de
clined the offer of a ministerial position. Upon the
accession, however, of Prince Polignac to the office of
Foreign Affairs, he immediately sent in his resigna
tion, and used his influence against the administration.
The events which soon followed justified his political
views. The fatal ordinances of the government, in
July, 1830, against the liberty of the press and the
right of suffrage, precipitated a revolution, which re
sulted in the exile of the elder branch of the Bourbons.
In this crisis, Chateaubriand made an eloquent protest,
in the House of Peers, against the change of dynasty,
and advocated with all his ability the recognition of
the Duke of Bordeaux and the appointment of a re
gent during his minority ; but his efforts were fruit
less, and the Duke of Orleans rose to power, under the
name of Louis Philippe.

Unwilling to pledge himself to this new state of
things, he relinquished his dignity of peer of the realm,
with his public honors and pensions, and retired poor
into private life. The following year, however, he was
roused from his political slumbers, and he published a
pamphlet on the Nouvelle Restauration, and, in 1832, a
Memoire sur la Captivite de Madame la Dachesse de Berry,
whom he had visited in her prison ; and in 1833 appeared
another work, entitled Conclusions. This last produc
tion was seized by the government, and the author
was arraigned before the tribunals, but was acquitted
by the ji ry. After a visit to Italy and the south of
France, Chateaubriand paid his respects to the family
of Charles X., at Prague. On his return to Paris, he

36 NOTICE OF THE

took no part ii public affairs, and left liis domestic
privacy only to visit the Abbaye-aux-Bois, where Ma
dame Recamier assembled in her mansion the flower
of the old French society. During the remainder of
his life, he was occupied in the study of English litera
ture, in writing the Life of the Abbe de Ranee, and pre
paring his Memoires d Outre- Tombe. The political revo
lution of February, 1848, which hurled Louis Philippe
from the throne, did not surprise him, because he had
predicted it in 1830. Drawing near to his end when
the insurrection of June broke forth at Paris, he spoke
with admiration of the heroic death of the archbishop,
and, having received the last rites of religion with
great sentiments of piety, he expired on the 4th of
July, 1848. His remains were conveyed to St. Malo,
his native city, and, in compliance with his own re
quest, were deposited in a tomb which the civil autho
rity had prepared for him under a rock projecting into
the sea. M. Ampere, in the name of the French
Academy, delivered an address on the spot, and the
Duke de Koailles, who succeeded him in that illus
trious society, pronounced his eulogy at a public
session held on the 6th of December, 1849.

Chateaubriand had rather a haughty bearing, and
spoke little. He was fond of praise, and bestowed it
liberally upon others. With republican tastes, he de
fended and served the monarchical system as the esta
blished order, and was devoted to the Bourbon dy
nasty as a matter of honor. His political sentiments
never changed, and he never ceased to be the advo
cate of enlightened liberty. His religious views once
formed, he vindicated them by his writings, and

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAN-D. 37

honored them in the practice of his life. His disin
terestedness was equal to his genius, and his benefi
cence was continually seconded by that of his wife.
They were the founders of the asylum Marie Therhe
at Paris, a home for clergymen who are disatlei by
infirmity.

The works of Chateaubriand are : Essai Historiquz,
Politique, et Moral, sur les Revolutions Andennes et Moderms,
consider ees dans leur rapport avec la Revolution Frangaist.
Londres, 1797, in 8vo, tome i. In this work, the au
thor, in his attempts to assimilate the events and per
sonages of the French Revolution to those of antiqu J y,
displays more imagination than reflection. The etyle
as well as the substance of the volume betrays the
youth and inexperience of the writer. lie completed
this Essai in 1814, observing that his political views
had suffered no change. This was in fact true, as he
espoused in his work the principles of constitutional
monarchy, to which he had always adhered. To tha
honor of the author, he did not assert the same irre
ligious sentiments that had appeared in the Essai.
These he nobly retracted in a series of notes which he
added to the work, without deeming it necessary to
expunge the objectionable passages from the context,

Atala, ou les Amours de deux Sauvages dam le Defer i.
Paris, 1801, in 18mo. This little romance has bsen
translated into several languages, and derives a sin
gular charm from the vivid descriptions and impas
sioned sentiments vhich it contains. Religion, how
ever, has justly censured the too voluptuous character
:&gt;f certain passages, which are unfit for the youth
ful eye.

38 NOTICE OF THE

Le Genie du Christianisme; or, Tlw Genius of Chris
tianity. Paris, 1802, 3 vols. 8vo. Of all the works of
Chateaubriand, this had the happiest influence upon
Ids age and country. Voltaire and his school had
loo well succeeded in representing the dogmas ot
Christianity as absurd, its ceremonial ridiculous, and
its influence hostile to the progress of knowledge.
But Chateaubriand, by the magic power of his pen,
produced a revolution in public sentiment. Address
ing himself chiefly to the imagination and the heart,
L.e compares the poets, philosophers, historians, orators,
a Ad artists of modern times with those of pagan anti
quity, and shows how religion dignities and improves
all that breathes its hallowed inspiration. The inaccu
racies of thought and expression which appeared in the
first edition, were corrected in the subsequent issues of
the work.

Rent, an episode of the Genie du, Christianisme. Paris,
1807, in 12mo. In this fiction the writer depicts the
advantages of religious seclusion, by showing the
wretchedness of solitude where God is not the sustain
ing thought in the soul of man.

Les Martyrs; ou, Le Triomphe de la Religion Chretienne.
Paris, 1810, 3 vols. in 8vo. The subject and characters
of this work are borrowed from antiquity, sacred and
profane. The author proves what he advances in his
Genius of Christianity that religion, far more than
mythology, ministers to poetic inspiration. The ex
piring civilization of paganism, Christianity emerging
from the catacombs, the manners of the first Chris
tians and those of the barbarous tribes of Germany,
furnish the author with a varied and interesting theme,

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 39

which he presents with all the attractions of the most
cultivated style.

Itineraire^de Paris a Jerusalem, et de Jerusalem a Paris,
fc. Paris, 1811, 3 vols. in 8vo. This work one of
the most interesting from the pen of the illustrious
author is characterized by beauty and fidelity of de
scription, grand and poetic allusions, a happy choice
of anecdote, sound erudition, and a perfect acquaint
ance with antiquity. With the publication of his
travels in the East, Chateaubriand considered his lite
rary life brought to a close, as he soon after entered
the career of politics, which continued until the down
fall of Charles X. in 1830.

During that period he published a large number of
works, relating chiefly to the political questions of the
day. The more important are those entitled De Buona
parte, des Bourbons, c., 1814 ; Reflexions Politiques, 1814 ;
Melanges de Politique, 1816; De la Monarchic selon la
Charte, 1816. This treatise may be considered as the
political programme of the author, and is divided into
two parts. In the first he exposes the principles of re
presentative government, the liberty of thought and
of the press, &c. ; and in the second he urges the ne
cessity of guarding against revolutionary license, and
points out the rights of the clergy and the popular
system of public instruction. In his Etudes Historiques,
2 vols. 8vo, 1826, he lays down three kinds of truth as
forming the basis of all social order : religious truth,
which is found only in the Christian faith ; philoso
phical truth, or the freedom of the human mind in its
efforts to discover and perfect intellectual, moral, and
physical science; political truth, or the union of order

40 NOTICE OF THE

with liberty. From the alliance, separation, or colli
sion of these three principles, all the facts of history
have emanated. The world s inhabitants .he divides
into three classes : pagans, Christians, and barbarians ;
and shows how, in the first centuries of our era, they
existed together in a confused way, afterward com
mingled in the medieval age, and finally constituted
the society which now covers a vast portion of the
globe. During the same year (1826) the author pub
lished his Natchez, 2 vols. 8vo, containing his recollec
tions of America, and Aventures du dernier des Aben-
cerages, in 8vo, a romance not less charming than his
Atala, and free from the objectionable character of that
publication. The works that came from the author s
pen after his retirement into private life, are, besides
those mentioned above, Essai sur Ja Literature Anglaise,
c., 2 vols. 8vo ; Le Paradis Perdu de Milton: traduction
nouvelle, 2 vols. 8vo, 1836 ; Le Congres de Verone, 2 vols.
8vo, 1838 ; Vie de I Abbe de Ranee, in 8vo, 1844, rather
a picture of the manners of the French court in the
seventeenth century than a life of the distinguished
Trappist. But the pen of the immortal writer still
displays the vigorous and glowing style of his earlier
productions, though certain passages criticized by the
religious press show that it is not unexceptionable.

The Memoires d Outre- Tombe, a posthumous work of
the author, was published at Paris in ten, and has
been reprinted in this country in five volumes. Cha
teaubriand here sketches with a bold hand the picture
of his whole life ; a mixture of reverie and action, of
misfortune and contest, of glory and humiliation. We
see grouping around him all the prominent events of

VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 41

contemporaneous history, which he explains and clears
up. A remarkable variety exists in the subject-matter
and in the tone of this work. The gayest and most
magnificent descriptions of nature often appear side
by side with the keenest satire upon society, and the
loftiest considerations of philosophy and morals are
blended with the most simple narrative. The vanity
of human things appears here with striking effect, and
the sadness which they inspire becomes still more im
pressive under the touches of that impassioned elo
quence which describes them. At times we discover
in the writer the ingenious wit, and the clear, ex
pressive, and eminently French prose, of Voltaire.
These Memoires, however, are not faultless. The first
part, in which he portrays the dreamy aspirations of
his youth, may prove dangerous to the incautious
reader. Critics charge the author with an affectation
of false simplicity, with the abuse of neology, and with
a puerile vanity in speaking either in his own praise
or otherwise. They pretend, also, that the work is
overwrought, contains contradictions, and betrays
sometimes in the same page the changing impressions
of the author.

But, whatever the defects of Chateaubriand s style,
he is universally allowed by the French of all parties to
be their first writer. " He is also," says Alison, " a pro
found scholar and an enlightened thinker. His know
ledge of history and classical literature is equalled only
by his intimate acquaintance with the early annals of
the Church and the fathers of the Catholic faith ;
while in his speeches delivered in the Chamber of
Peers since the Restoration, will be found not only the

42 NOTICE OF VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND.

most eloquent, but the most complete and satisfactory,
dissertations on the political state of France during

that period which are anywhere to be met with

Few are aware that he is, without one single excep
tion, the most eloquent writer of the present age;
that, independent of politics, he has produced many
works on morals, religion, and history, destined for
lasting endurance; that his writings combine the
strongest love of rational freedom with the warmest
inspiration of Christian devotion ; that he is, as it
were, the link between the feudal and the revolu
tionary ages, retaining from the former its generous
and elevated feeling, and inhaling from the latter its
acute and fearless investigation. The last pilgrim,
with devout feelings, to the holy sepulchre, he was the
first supporter of constitutional freedom in France,
discarding thus from former times their bigoted fury,
and from modern their infidel spirit, blending all that
was noble in the ardor of the Crusades with all that is
generous in the enthusiasm of freedom." 31

* Essays, Art. Chateaubriand.

THE

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

fart % first

DOGMAS AND TENETS.

BOOK I.

MYSTERIES AND SACRAMENTS.
CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

EVER since Christianity was first published to the world, it
has been continually assailed by three kinds of enemies heretics,
sophists, and those apparently frivolous characters who destroy
every thing with the shafts of ridicule. Numerous apologists
have given victorious answers to subtleties and falsehoods, but
they have not been so successful against derision. St. Ignatius
of Antioch, 1 St. Irenaeus, Bishop of Lyons, 3 Tertullian, in his
Prescriptions? which Bossuet calls divine, combated the inno-

1 Ignat. Epist. ad Smyrn. He was a disciple of St. John, and Bishop of
Antioch about A. B. 70.

2 /n Hcereses, Lib. vi. He was a disciple of St. Polycarp, who was taught
Christianity by St. John.

3 Tertullian gave the name of Prescriptions to the excellent work he wrote
against heretics, and the great argument of which is founded on the antiquity

44 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

vators of their time, whose extravagant expositions corrupted
the simplicity of the faith.

Calumny was first repulsed by Quadratus and Aristides, philo
sophers of Athens. We know, however, nothing of their apo
logies for Christianity, except a fragment of the former, which
Eusebius has preserved. 1 Both he and St. Jerome speak of the
work of Aristides as a master-piece of eloquence.

The Pagans accused the first Christians of atheism, incest,
and certain abominable feasts, at which they were said to partake
of the flesh of a new-born infant. After Quadratus and Aris
tides, St. Justin pleaded the cause of the Christians. His style
is unadorned, and the circumstances attending his martyrdom
prove that he shed his blood for religion with the same sincerity
with which he had written in its defence. 3 Athenagoras has
shown more address in his apology, but he has neither the origi
nality of Justin nor the impetuosity of the author of the Apo
logetic. 3 Tertullian is the unrefined Bossuet of Africa. St. The-
ophilus, in his three books addressed to his friend Autolychus,
displays imagination and learning ; 4 and the Octavius of Minu-
cius Felix exhibits the pleasing picture of a Christian and two
idolaters conversing on religion and the nature of God, during a
walk along the sea-shore. 5

ajid authority of the Church. It will always be an unanswerable refutation of
all innovators that they came too late ; that the Church was already in posses
sion ; and, consequently, that her teaching constitutes the last appeal. Tertul
lian lived in the third century. T.

1 This curious fragment carries us up to the time of our Saviour himself; for
Quadratus says, "None can doubt the truth of our Lord s miracles, because the
persons healed and raised from the dead had been seen long after their cure;
so that many were yet living in our own time." Euseb. Eccles. Hist. lib. iv. K.

2 Justin, surnamed the Martyr, was a Platonic philosopher before his con
version. He wrote two Defences of the Christians in the Greek language,
during a violent persecution in the reign of Antoninus, the successor of
Adrian. He suffered martyrdom A. D. 167. K.

3 Athenagoras was a Greek philosopher of eminence, and flourished in the
second century. He wrote not only an apology, but a treatise on the resur
rection, both of which display talents and learning. K.

4 St. Theophilus was Bishop of Antioch, and one of the most learned fathers
of the Church at that period. T.

5 He flourished at the end of the first century, was Bishop of Antioch, and
wrote in Greek. See the elegant translation of the ancient apologists, by the
Abbe de Gourey.

INTRODUCTION. 45

Arnobius, the rhetorician, 1 Lactantius, 3 Eusebius, 3 and St. Cy
prian,* also defended Christianity; but their efforts were not so
much directed to the display of its beauty, as to the exposure of
the absurdities of idolatry.

Origen combated the sophists, and seems to have had the
advantage ever Celsus, his antagonist, in learning, argument and
style. The Greek of Origen is remarkably smooth; it is, how
ever, interspersed with Hebrew and other foreign idioms, which
is frequently the case with writers who are masters of various
languages. 5

During the reign of the emperor Julian 8 commenced a perse
cution, perhaps more dangerous than violence itself, which
consisted in loading the Christians with disgrace and contempt.
Julian began his hostility by plundering the churches; he then
forbade the faithful to teach or to study the liberal arts and
sciences. 7 Sensible, however, of the important advantages of the
institutions of Christianity, the emperor determined to establish
Hospitals and monasteries, and, after the example of the gospel
system, to combine morality with religion; he ordered a kind of
sermons to be delivered in the Pagan temples.

1 He was an Arian, and flourished in the third century. In an elaborate
work against the Gentiles, he defends the Christians with ability. K.

2 He was a scholar of Arnobius. He completely exposed the absurdity of
the Pagan superstitions. So eminent were his talents and learning, that Con
stantino the Great, the first Christian emperor, entrusted the education of his
son Crispus to his care. Such is the elegance of his Latin style, that he is
called the Christian Cicero. K.

3 He was Bishop of Csesarea, and flourished in the fourth century. He is
a Greek writer of profound and various learning. So copious and highly
valuable are his works, that he is styled the Father of Ecclesiastical History.
Constantino the Great honored him with his esteem and confidence: but he was
unfortunately tinctured with Arianism. T.

4 He was Bishop of Carthage in the third century, a Latin writer of great
eloquence, and a martyr for the faith.

5 Origen flourished in the third century. He was a priest of Alexandria.
His voluminous works, written in Greek, prove his piety, active zeal, great
abilities, and extensive learning. K.

6 Julian flourished at the close of the fourth century. He became an apos
tate from Christianity, partly on account of his aversion to the family of Con
stantino, who had put several of his relatives to death, and partly on account
of the seductive artifices of the Platonic philosophers, "who abused his credu
lity and flattered his ambition. K.

goer, iii. ch. 12.

46 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The sophists, by whom Julian was surrounded, assailed the
Christian religion with the utmost violence. The emperor him
self did not disdain to combat those whom he styled contemptible
Galileans. The work which he wrote has not reached us; but
St. Cyril, Patriarch of Alexandria, quotes several passages of it
in his refutation, which has been preserved. When Julian is
serious, St. Cyril proves too strong for him; but when the Em
peror has recourse to irony, the Patriarch loses his advantage.
Julian s style is witty and animated; Cyril is sometimes passion
ate, obscure, and confused. From the time of Julian to that of
Luther, the Church, nourishing in full vigor, had no occasion for
apologists ; but when the western schism took place, with new
enemies arose new defenders. It cannot be denied that at first
the Protestants had the superiority, at least in regard to forms,
as Montesquieu has remarked. Erasmus himself was weak when
opposed to Luther, and Theodore Beza had a captivating manner
of writing, in which his opponents were too often deficient.

When Bossuet at length entered the lists, the victory remained
not long undecided ; the hydra of heresy was once more over
thrown. His Exposition de la Doctrine Catholique and His-
toire des Variations, are two master-pieces, which will descend to
posterity.

It is natural for schism to lead to infidelity, and for heresy to
engender atheism. Bayle and Spinosa arose after Calvin, and
they found in Clarke and Leibnitz men of sufficient talents to
refute their sophistry. Abbadie wrote an apology for religion,
remarkable for method and sound argument. Unfortunately his
style is feeble, though his ideas are not destitute of brilliancy.
"If the ancient philosophers,"- observes Abbadie, "adored the
Virtues, their worship was only a beautiful species of idolatry."

While the Church was yet enjoying her triumph, Voltaire
renewed the persecution of Julian. He possessed the baneful
art of making infidelity fashionable among a capricious but
amiable people . Every species of self-love was pressed into this
insensate league. Religion was attacked with every kind of
weapon, from the pamphlet to the folio, from the epigram to the
sophism. No sooner did a religious book appear than the author
was overwhelmed with ridicule, while works which Voltaire was
the first to laugh at among his friends were extolled to the skies.

INTRODUCTION. 47

Such was his superiority over his disciples, that sometimes he
could not forbear diverting himself with their irreligious enthu
siasm. Meanwhile the destructive system continued to spread
throughout France. It was first adopted in those provincial aca
demies, each of which was a focus of bad taste and faction.
Women of fashion and grave philosophers alike read lectures on
infidelity. It was at length concluded that Christianity was no
better than a barbarous system, and that its fall could not happen
too soon for the liberty of mankind, the promotion of knowledge,
the improvement of the arts, and the general comfort of life.

To say nothing of the abyss into which we were plunged by
this aversion to the religion of the gospel, its immediate conse
quence was a return, more affected than sincere, to that mytho
logy of Greece and Home to which all the wonders of antiquity
were ascribed. 1 People were not ashamed to regret that worship
which had transformed mankind into a herd of madmen, mon
sters of indecency, or ferocious beasts. This could not fail to
inspire contempt for the writers of the age of Louis XIV., who,
however, had reached the high perfection which distinguished
them, only by being religious. If no one ventured to oppose
them face to face, on account of their firmly-established reputa
tion, they were, nevertheless, attacked in a thousand indirect ways.
It was asserted that they were unbelievers in their hearts; or, at
least, that they would have been much greater characters had
they lived in oar times. Every author blessed his good fortune
for having been born in the glorious age of the Diderots and
d Aleruberts, in that age when all the attainments of the human
mind were ranged in alphabetical order in the Encyclopedic)
that Babel of the sciences and of reason. 3

Men distinguished for their intelligence and learning endea
vored to check this torrent; but their resistance was vain. Their
voice was lost in the clamors of the crowd, and their victory was
unknown to the frivolous people who directed public opinion in
Prance, and upon whom, for that reason, it was highly necessary
to make an impression. 3

1 The age of Louis XIV., though it knew and admired antiquity more than
we, was a Christian age.

2 See nots A at the end of the volume.

The Lettrea de quelque* Jui.fx Portuyais had a momentary success, but it

48 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Thus, the fatality which had given a triumph to the sophists
iuring the reign of Julian, made them victorious in our times.
The defenders of the Christians fell into an error which had
before undone them : they did not perceive that the question
was no longer to discuss this or that particular tenet since the
very foundation on which these tenets were built was rejected by
their opponents. By starting from the mission of Jesus Christ,
and descending from one consequence to another, they established
the truths of faith on a solid basis ; but this mode of reasoning,
wliich might have suited the seventeenth century extremely well,
when the groundwork was not contested, proved of no use ic
our days. It was necessary to pursue a contrary method, and to
ascend from the effect to the cause ; not to prove that the Chris
tian rcliyion is excellent because it comes from God, but that it
comes from God because it is excellent.

They likewise committed another error in attaching import
ance to the serious refutation of the sophists ; a class of men whom
it is utterly impossible to convince, because they are always in
the wrong. They overlooked the fact that these people are never
in earnest in their pretended search after truth ; that they esteem
none but themselves ; that they are not even attached to their
own system, except for the sake of the noise which it makes,
and are ever ready to forsake it on the first change of public
opinion.

For not having made this remark, much time and trouble
were thrown away by those who undertook the vindication of
Christianity. Their object should have been to reconcile to
religion, not the sophists, but those whom they were leading
astray. They had been seduced by being told that Christianity
was the offspring of barbarism, an enemy of the arts and sciences,
of reason and refinement ; a religion whose only tendency was
to encourage bloodshed, to enslave mankind, to diminish their
happiness, and to retard the progress of the human under
standing.

It was, therefore, necessary to prove that, on the contrary, the
Christian religion, of all the religions that ever existed, is the
most humane, the most favorable to liberty and to the arts and

was soon lost sight of in the irreligious storm that was gathering over
France.

INTRODUCTION. 49

scieuocs; that the modern world is irdebted to it for every im
provement, from agriculture to the abstract sciences from the
hospitals for the reception of the unfortunate to the temples
reared by the Michael Angelos and embellished by the Ra
phaels. It was necessary to prove that nothing is more divine
than its morality nothing more lovely and more sublime than
its tenets, its doctrine, and its worship; that it encourages genius,
corrects the taste, develops the virtuous passions, imparts energy
to the ideas, presents noble images to the writer, and perfect
models to the artist ; that there is no disgrace in being believers
with Newton and Bossuet, with Pascal and Racine. In a word,
it was necessary to summon all the charms of the imagination,
and all the interests of the heart, to the assistance of that reli
gion against which they had been set in array.

The reader may now have a clear view of the object of our
work. All other kinds of apologies are exhausted, and perhaps
they would be useless at the present day. Who would now sit
down to read a work professedly theological ? Possibly a few
sincere Christians who are already convinced. But, it may be
asked, may there not be some danger in considering religion in a
merely human point of view? Why so? Does our religion
shrink from the light? Surely one great proof of its divine
origin is, that it will bear the test of the fullest and severest
scrutiny of reason. Would you have us always open to the re
proach of enveloping our tenets in sacred obscurity, lest their
falsehood should be detected ? Will Christianity be the less
true for appearing the more beautiful ? Let us banish our weak
apprehensions ; let us not, by an excess of religion, leave religion
to perish. We no longer live in those times when you might
say, " Believe without inquiring/ People will inquire in spite
of us; and our timid silence, in heightening the triumph of the
infidel, will diminish the number of believers.

It is time that the world should know to what all those charges
of absurdity, vulgarity, and meanness, that are daily alleged
against Christianity, may be reduced. It is time to demonstrate,
that, instead of debasing the ideas, it encourages the soul to take
the most daring flights, and is capable of enchanting the imagi
nation as divinely as the deities of Homer and Virgil. Our
arguments will at least have this advantage, that they will be
5 D

50 (JKN1US OF CHRISTIANITY.

intelligible to the world at large, and will require nothing but
common sense to determine their weight and strength. In
works of this kind authors neglect, perhaps rather too much, to
speak the language of their readers. It is necessary to be a
scholar with a scholar, and a poet with a poet. The Almighty
does not forbid us to tread the flowery path, if it serves to lead
the wanderer once more to him ; nor is it always by the steep
and rugged mountain that the lost sheep finds its way back to
the fold.

We think that this mode of considering Christianity displays
associations of ideas which are but imperfectly known. Sublime
in the antiquity of its recollections, which go back to the crea
tion of the world, ineffable in its mysteries, adorable in its
sacraments, interesting in its history, celestial in its morality,
rich and attractive in its ceremonial, it is fraught with every
species of beauty. Would you follow it in poetry? Tasso, Mil
ton, Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, will depict to you its miraculous
effects. In the belles-lettres, in eloquence, history, and philoso
phy, what have not Bossuet, Fenelon, Massillon, Bourdaloue,
Bacon, Pascal, Kuler, Newton, Leibnitz, produced by its divine
inspiration ! In the arts, what master-pieces ! If you examine
it in its worship, what ideas are suggested by its antique Gothic
churches, its admirable prayers, its impressive ceremonies !
Among its clergy, behold all those scholars who have handed
down to you the languages and the works of Greece and Rome ;
all those anchorets of Thebais ; all those asylums for the unfor
tunate; all those missionaries to China, to Canada, to Paraguay;
not forgetting the military orders whence chivalry derived its
origin. Every thing has been engaged in our cause the man
ners of our ancestors, the pictures of days of yore, poetry, even
romances themselves. We have called smiles from the cradle,
and tears from the tomb. Sometimes, with the Maronite monk,
we dwell on the summits of Carmel and Lebanon ; at others we
watch with the Daughter of Charity at the bedside of the sick.
Here two American lovers summon us into the recesses of their
deserts; 1 there we listen to the sighs of the virgin in the solitude

1 The author alludes to the very beautiful and pathetic tale of Atnla, or The
Love and Constancy of Two Savages in the Desert, which was at first ntroduced
into the present work, but was afterward detached from it. T.

NATURE OF MYSTERIES. 51

of the cloister. . Homer takes his place by Milt on, at d Virgil
beside Tasso ; the ruins of Athens and of Memphis form con
trasts with the ruins of Christian monuments, and the tombs of
Ossian with our rural churchyards. At St. Dennis we visit the
ashes of kings ; and when our subject requires us to treat of the
existence of Grod, we seek our proofs in the wonders of Nature
alone. In short, we endeavor to strike the heart of the infidel
in every possible way; but we dare not natter ourselves that we
possess the miraculous rod of religion which caused living
streams to burst from the flinty rock.

Four parts, each divided into six books, compose the whole of
our work. The first treats of dogma and doctrine. The second
and third comprehend the poetic of Christianity, or its con
nection with poetry, literature, and the arts. The fourth em
braces its worship, that is to say, whatever relates to the ceremo
nies of the Church, and to the clergy, both secular and regular.

We have frequently compared the precepts, doctrines, and
worship of other religions with those of Christianity; and, to gra
tify all classes of readers, we have also occasionally touched upon
the historical and mystical part of the subject. Having thus
stated the general plan of the work, we shall now enter upon
that portion of it which treats of Dogma and Doctrine, and, as a
preliminary step to the consideration of the Christian mysteries,
we shall institute an inquiry into the nature of mysterious things
in general

CHAPTER II.

OP THE NATURE OF MYSTERIES.

THERE is nothing beautiful, pleasing, or grand in life, but
that which is more or less mysterious. The most wonderful sen
timents are those which produce impressions difficult to be
explained. Modesty, chaste love, virtuous friendship, are full of
secrets. It would seem that half a word is sufficient for the
mutual understanding of hearts that love, and that they are, aa
it were, disclosed to each other s view. Is not innocence, also,

52 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

which is nothing but a holy ignorance, the most ineffable of mys
teries? If infancy is so happy, it is owing to the absence of
knowledge ; and if old age is so wretched, it is because it knows
every thing; but, fortunately for the latter, when the mysteries
of life are at an end, those of death commence.

What we say here of the sentiments may be said also of the
virtues : the most angelic are those which, emanating immedi
ately from God, such as charity, studiously conceal themselves,
like their source, from mortal view.

If we pass to the qualities of the mind, we shall find that the
pleasures of the understanding are in like manner secrets. Mys
tery is of a nature so divine, that the early inhabitants of Asia
conversed only by symbols. What science do we continually
apply, if not that which always leaves something to be conjec
tured, and which sets before our eyes an unbounded prospect?
If we wander in the desert, a kind of instinct impels us to avoid
the plains, where we can embrace every object at a single glance;
we repair to those forests, the cradle of religion, those forests
whose shades, whose sounds, and whose silence, are full of won
der^ those solitudes, where the first fathers of the Church were
fed by the raven and the bee, and where those holy men tasted
such inexpressible delights, as to exclaim, " Enough, Lord! I
will be overpowered if thou dost not moderate thy divine com
munications." We do not pause at the foot of a modern monu
ment; but if, in a desert island, in the midst of the wide ocean,
we come all at once to a statue of bronze, whose extended arm
points to the regions of the setting sun, and whose base, covered
with hieroglyphics, attests the united ravages of the billows and
of time, what a fertile source of meditation is here opened to the
traveller ! There is nothing in the universe but what is hidden,
but what is unknown. Is not man himself an inexplicable mys
tery? Whence proceeds that flash of lightning which we call
existence, and in what night is it about to be extinguished?
The Almighty has stationed Birth and Death, under the form of
veiled phantoms, at the two extremities of our career; the one
produces the incomprehensible moment of life, which the other
uses every exertion to destroy.

Considering, then, the natural propensity of man to the mys
terious, it cannot appear surprising that the religions of all na-

CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. 53

tions should have had their impenetrable secrets. The Selli
studied the miraculous words of the doves of Dodona ; 4 India,
Persia, Ethiopia, Scythia, the Gauls, the Scandinavians, had their
caverns, their holy mountains, their sacred oaks, where the
Brahmins, the Magi, the Gymnosophists, or the Druids, pro
claimed the inexplicable oracle of the gods.

Heaven forbid that we should have any intention to compare
these mysteries with those of the true religion, or the inscrutable
decrees of the Sovereign of the Universe with the changing
ambiguities of gods, "the work of human hands." 3 We merely
wished to remark that there is no religion without mysteries;
these, with sacrifices, constitute the essential part of worship.
God himself is the great secret cf Nature. The Divinity was
represented veiled in Egypt, and the sphinx was seated upon the
threshold of the temples. 3

CHAPTER III.

OP THE CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES.

The Trinity.

WE perceive at the first glance, that, in regard to mysteries,
the Christian religion has a great advantage over the religions of
antiquity. The mysteries of the latter bore no relation to man,
and afforded, at the utmost, but a subject of reflection to the
philosopher or of song to the poet. Our mysteries, on the con-

1 They were an ancient people of Epirus, and lived near Dodona. At that
place there was a celebrated temple of Jupiter. The oracles were said tc be
delivered from it by doves endowed with a human voice. Herodotus relates
that a priestess was brought hither from Egypt by the Phoenicians; so the
Btorv of the doves might arise from the ambiguity of the Greek term lltXcia,
nhrch signifies a dove, in the general language, but in the dialect of Epirus it
Means an aged woman. K.

2 Wisdom, ch. xiii. v. 10.

3 The Sphinx, a monstrous creature of Egyptian invention, was the just em
blem of mystery, as, according to the Grecian mythology, she not only infested
Bceotia with her depredations, but perplexed its inhabitants, not famed for
their acuteness, with her enigmas. K.

54 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

trary, speak directly to the heart; they comprehend the secrets
of our existence. The question here is not about a futile ar
rangement of numbers, but concerning the salvation and felicity
of the human race. Is it possible for man, whom daily expe
rience so fully convinces of his ignorance and frailty, to reject
the mysteries of Jesus Christ ? They are the mysteries of the un
fortunate !

The Trinity, which is the first mystery presented by the
Christian faith, opens an immense field for philosophic study,
whether we consider it in the attributes of God, or examine the
vestiges of this dogma, which was formerly diffused throughout
the East. It is a pitiful mode of reasoning to reject whatever
we cannot comprehend. It would be easy to prove, beginning
even with the most simple things in life, that we know absolutely
nothing; shall we, then, pretend to penetrate into the depths
of divine Wisdom?

The Trinity was probably known to the Egyptians. The
Greek inscription on the great obelisk in the Circus Major, at
Rome, was to this effect :

Mfyac; 0e&lt;k, The Mighty God; 8 soy tyros, the Begotten of
God; Haiupzyjr^, the All-Resplendent, (Apollo, the Spirit.)

Heraclides of Pontus, and Porphyry, record a celebrated oracle
of Serapis:

rjpwra 00j, fjtTnira Xdyoj KO.I itvcv^a ai&gt;i&gt; aiiroif.
^Vfifpvra &lt;3&gt;j rpia rrdfra, ical ci$ tv i6vra,

"In the beg inning was God, then the Word and the Spirit;
all three produced together, and uniting in one."

The Magi had a sort of Trinity, in their Metris, Oromasis, and
Araminis; or Mitra, Oramases, and Arimane.

Plato seems to allude to this incomprehensible dogma in seve
ral of his works. "Not only is it alleged," says Dacier, "that
he had a knowledge of the Word, the eternal Son of God, but it
is also asserted that he was acquainted with the Holy Ghost, and
thus had some idea of the Most Holy Trinity; for he writes as
follows to the younger Dionysius :

"I must give Archedemus an explanation respecting what is
infinitely more important and more divine, and what you are ex
tremely anxious to know, since you have sent him to me for the
express purpose; for, from what he has told me, you are of opi

CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. 55

nion that I have not sufficiently explained what I thii.k of the
nature of the first principle. I am obliged to write to you in
enigmas, that, if my letter should be intercepted either by land
or sea, those who read may not be able to understand it. All
things are around their king; they exist for him, and he alone
is the cause of good things second for such as are second, and
third for those that are third/ 1

"In the Epinomit, and elsewhere, he lays down as principles
the first good, the word or the understanding, and the soul.
The first good is God; the word, or the understanding, is the Son
of this first good, by whom he was begotten like to himself; and
the soul, which is the middle term between the Father and the
Son, is the Holy Ghost." 3

Plato had borrowed this doctrine of the Trinity from Timaeus,
the Locrian, who had received it from the Italian school. Mar-
silius Ficinus, in one of his remarks on Plato, shows, after Jam-
blichus, Porphyry, Plato, and Maximus of Tyre, that the Pytha
goreans were acquainted with the excellence of the number
Three. Pythagoras intimates it in these words: llporiaa TO
ff^fj-a, xai flr t [j.a xal TptwSokov ; "Honor chiefly the habit, the
judgment-seat, and the triobolus," (three oboli.)

The doctrine of the Trinity is known in the East Indies and
in Thibet. "On this subject," says Father Calamette, "the most
remarkable and surprising thing that I have met with is a pas
sage in one of their books entitled Lamaastambam. It begins
thus : t The Lord, the good, the great God, in his mouth is the
Word. The term which they employ personifies the Word. It
then treats of the Holy Ghost under the appellation of the Wind,
or Perfect Spirit, and concludes with the Creation, which it
attributes to one single God." 3

"What I have learned," observes the same missionary in an
other place, "respecting the religion of Thibet, is as follows : They
call God Konciosa, and seem to have some idea of the adorable
Trinity, for sometimes they term him Koncikocick, the one God,

1 This passage of Plato, which the author could not verify, from its having
been incorrectly quoted by Dacier, may be found in Plato Serrani, tome i. p.
312, letter the second to Dionysius. The letter is supposed to be genuine. K.

2 (Euvres de Platon, trad, par Dacier, tome i. p. 194
8 Lettres edif., tome xiv. p. 9.

56^ GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

and at others Konciolimm, which is equivalent to the Triune God.
They make use of a kind of chaplet, over which they pronounce
the words, om, ha, hum. When you ask what these mean, they
reply that the first signifies intelligence, or arm, that is to say,
power; that the second is the word; that the third is the heart,
or love; and that these three words together signify God/ 1

The English missionaries to Otaheite have found some notion
of the Trinity among the natives of that island. 2

Nature herself seems to furnish a kind of physical proof of the
Trinity, which is the archetype of the universe, or, if you wish,
its divine frame-work. May not the external and material world
bear some impress of that invisible and spiritual arch which sus
tains it, according to Plato s idea, who represented corporeal
things as the shadows of the thoughts of God? The number
Three is the term by excellence in nature. It is not a product
itself, but it produces all other fractions, which led Pythagoras to
call it the motherless number. 3

Some obscure tradition of the Trinity may be discovered even
in the fables of polytheism. The Graces took it for their num
ber ; it existed in Tartarus both for the life and death of man
and for the infliction of celestial vengeance ; finally, three bro
ther gods 4 possessed among them the complete dominion of the
universe.

The philosophers divided the moral man into three parts; and
the Fathers imagi-ied that they discovered the image of the
spiritual Trinity in the human soul.

1 Lettres edif., torn. xii. p. 437.

2 " The three deities which they hold supreme arc

1. Tane, te Medooa, the Father.

2. Oromattow, God in the Son.

3. Taroa, the Bird, the Spirit."

Appendix to the Missionary Voyage, p. 333. K .

3 Hier., Comm. in Pyth. The 3, a simple number itself, is the only one com
posed of simples, and that gives a simple number when decomposed. We can
form no complex number, the 2 excepted, without the 3. The formations of
the 3 are beautiful, and embrace that powerful unity which is the first link in
the chain of numbers, and is everywhere exhibited in the universe. The an
cients very frequently applied numbers in a metaphysical sense, and we should
not be too hasty in condemning it as folly in Pythagoras, Plato, and the
Egyptian priests, from whom they derived this science.

4 That is, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto. K.

CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. 57

" If we impose silence on our senses," says the great Bossuet,
" and retire for a short time into the recesses of our soul, that is
to say, into that part where the voice of truth is heard, we shall
there perceive a sort of image of the Trinity whom we adore.
Thought, which we feel produced as the offspring of our mind,
as the son of our understanding, gives us some idea of the Son
of God, conceived from all eternity in the intelligence of the
celestial Father. For this reason this Son of God assumes the
name of the Word, to intimate that he is produced in the bosom
of the Father, not as bodies are generated, but as the inward
voice that is heard within our souls there arises when we contem
plate truth.

" But the fecundity of the mind does not stop at this inward
voice, this intellectual thought, this image of the truth that is
formed within us. We love both this inward voice and the
intelligence which gives it birth ; and while we love them, we
feel within us something which is not less precious to us than
intelligence and thought, which is the fruit of both, which unites
them and unites with them, and forms with them but one and
the same existence.

" Thus, as far as there can be any resemblance between God
and man, is produced in God the eternal Love which springs from
the Father who thinks, and from the Son who is his thought, to
constitute with him and his thought one and the same nature,
equally happy and equally perfect." 1

What a beautiful commentary is this on that passage of Gene
sis : "Let us make man!"

Tertullian, in his Apology, thus expresses himself on this
great mystery of our religion : fi God created the world by his
word, his reason, and his power. You philosophers admit that
the Logos, the word and reason, is the Creator of the universe.
The Christians merely add that the proper substance of the word
and reason that substance by which God produced all things
is spirit; that this word must have been pronounced by God;
that having been pronounced, it was generated by him ; that con
sequently it is the Son of God, and God by reason of the anity
of substance. If the sun shoots forth a ray, its substance .s not

1 Bossuet, Hist. Univ., sec. i. p. 248.

58 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

separated, but extended. Thus the Word is spirit of i. spirit,
and God of God, like a light kindled at another light. Thus,
whatever proceeds from God is God, and the two, with their
spirit, form but one, differing in properties, not in number; in
order, not in nature : the Son having sprung from his prin
ciple without being separated from it. Now this ray of the
Divinity descended into the womb of a virgin, invested itself
with flesh, and became man united with God. This flesh, sup
ported by the spirit, was nourished; it grew, spoke, taught,
acted; it was Christ."

This proof of the Trinity may be comprehended by persons
of the simplest capacity. It must be recollected that Tertullian
was addressing men who persecuted Christ, and whom nothing
would have more highly gratified than the means of attacking
the doctrine, and even the persons, of his defenders. We shall
pursue these proofs no farther, but leave them to those who have
studied the principles of the Italic sect of philosophers and the
higher department of Christian theology.

As to the images that bring under our feeble senses the most
sublime mystery of religion, it is difficult to conceive how the
awful triangular fire, resting on a cloud, is unbecoming the dig
nity of poetry. Is Christianity less impressive than the heathen
mythology, when it represents to us the Father under the form
of an old man, the majestic ancestor of ages, or as a brilliant
effusion of light ? Is there not something wonderful in the con
templation of the Holy Spirit, the sublime Spirit of Jehovah,
under the emblem of gentleness, love, and innocence? Doth
God decree the propagation of his word? The Spirit, then,
ceases to be that Dove which overshadowed mankind with the
wings of peace ; he becomes a visible word, a tongue of fire,
which speaks all the languages of the earth, and whose eloquence
creates or overthrows empires.

To delineate the divine Son, we need only borrow the words
of the apostle who beheld him in his glorified state. He was
seated on a throne, says St. John in the Apocalypse ; his face
shone like the fsun in his strength, and his feet like fine brass
melted in a furnace. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and out
of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword. In his right hand
he held seven stars, and in his left a book sealed with seven

REDEMPTION.

seals : his voice was as the sound of many waters. The seven
spirits of God burned before him, like seven lamps ; and he went
forth from his throne attended by lightnings, and voices, and
thunders.

CHAPTER IV.

OF THE REDEMPTION.

As the Trinity comprehends secrets of the metaphysical kind,
80 the redemption contains the wonders of man, and the inex
plicable history of his destination and his heart. Were we to
pause a little in our meditations, with what profound astonish
ment would we contemplate those two great mysteries, which
conceal in their shades the primary intentions of God and the
system of the universe ! The Trinity, too stupendous for our
feeble comprehension, confounds our thoughts, and we shrink
back overpowered by its glory. But the affecting mystery of the
redemption, in filling our eyes with tears, prevents them from
being too much dazzled, and allows us to fix them at least for a
moment upon the cross.

We behold, in the first place, springing from this mystery, the
doctrine of original sin, which explains the whole nature of man.
Unless we admit this truth, known by tradition to all nations, we
become involved in impenetrable darkness. Without original
sin, how shall we account for the vicious propensity of our nature
continually combated by a secret voice which whispers that we
were formed for virtue ? Without a primitive fall, how shall we
explain the aptitude of man for affliction that sweat which
fertilizes the rugged soil ; the tears, the sorrows, the misfortunes
of the righteous ] the triumphs, the unpunished success, of the
wicked ? It was because they were unacquainted with this de
generacy, that the philosophers of antiquity fell into such strange
errors, and invented the notion of reminiscence. To be con
vinced of the fatal truth whence springs the mystery of redemp
tion, we need no other proof than the malediction pronounced
against Eve, a malediction which is daily accomplished before

6) GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

our eyes. How significant are the pangs, and at the same time
the joys, of a mother ! What mysterious intimations of man and
his twofold destiny, predicted at once by the pains and pleasures
of child-birth ! We cannot mistake the views of the Most High,
when we behold the two great ends of man in the labor of his
mother; and we are compelled to recognise a God even in a
malediction.

After all, we daily see the son punished for the father, and the
crime of a villain recoiling upon a virtuous descendant, which
proves but too clearly the doctrine of original sin. But a God
of clemency and indulgence, knowing that we should all have
perished in consequence of this fall, has interposed to save us.
Frail and guilty mortals as we all are, let us ask, not our under
standings, but our hearts, how a God could die for man. If this
perfect model of a dutiful son, if this pattern of faithful friends,
if that agony in Gethsemane, that bitter cup, that bloody sweat,
that tenderness of soul, that sublimity of mind, that cross, that
veil rent in twain, that rock cleft asunder, that darkness of na
ture in a word, if that God, expiring at length for sinners, can
neither enrapture our heart nor inflame our understanding, it is
greatly to be feared that our works will never exhibit, like those
of the poet, the " brilliant wonders" which attract a high and
just admiration.

" Images," it may perhaps be urged, " are not reasons ; and
we live in an enlightened age, which admits nothing without
proof."

That we live in an enlightened age has been doubted by some ;
but we would not be surprised if we were met with the foregoing
objection. When Christianity was attacked by serious argu
ments, they were answered by an Origen, a Clark, a Bossuet.
Closely pressed by these formidable champions, their adversaries
endeavored to extricate themselves by reproaching religion with
those very metaphysical disputes in which they would involve us.
They alleged, like Arius, Celsus, and Porphyry, that Christianity
is but a tissue of subtleties, offering nothing to the imagination
and the heart, and adopted only by madmen and simpletons. But
if any one comes forward, and in reply to these reproaches en
deavors to show that the religion of the gospel is the religion of
the soul, fraught with sensibility, its foes immediately exclaim,

REDEMPTION.

" Well, and what does that prove, except that you are more or
less skilful in drawing a picture V Thus, when you attempt to
work upon the feelings, they require axioms and corollaries. If,
on the other hand, you begin to reason, they then want nothing
but sentiments and images. It is difficult to close with such
versatile enemies, who are never to be found at the post where
they challenge you to fight them. We shall hazard a few words
on the subject of the redemption, to show that the theology of
the Christian religion is not so absurd as some have affected to
consider it.

A universal tradition teaches us that man was created in a
more perfect state than that in which he at present exists, and
that there has been a fall. This tradition is confirmed by the
opinion of philosophers in every age and country, who have never
been able to reconcile their ideas on the subject of moral man,
without supposing a primitive state of perfection, from which
human nature afterward fell by its own fault.

If man was created, he was created for some end : now, having
been created perfect, the end for which he was destined could not
be otherwise than "perfect.

But has the final cause of man been changed by his fall ?
No ; since man has not been created anew, nor the human race
exterminated to make room for another.

Man, therefore, though he has become mortal and imperfect
through his disobedience, is still destined to an immortal and
perfect end. But how shall he attain this end in his present
state of imperfection ? This he can no longer accomplish by his
own energy, for the same reason that a sick man is incapable of
raising himself to that elevation of ideas which is attainable by
a person in health. There is, therefore, a disproportion between
the power, and the weight to be raised by that power; here we
already perceive the necessity of succor, or of a redemption.

"This kind of reasoning," it may be said, "will apply to the
first man ; but as for us, we are capable of attaining the ends of
our existence. What injustice and absurdity, to imagine that we
should all be punished for the fault of our first parent !" With
out undertaking to decide in this place whether God is right or
wrong in making us sureties for one another, all that we know,
and all that it is necessary for us to know at present, is, that such

f52 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

a law exists. We know that the innocent son universally suffers
the punishment due to the guilty father ; that this law is so in-
terwoven in the principles of things as to hold good even in the
physical order of the universe. When an infant comes into the
world diseased from head to foot from its father s excesses, why
do you not complain of the injustice of nature ? What has this
little innocent done, that it should endure the punishment of
another s vices ? Well, the diseases of the soul are perpetuated
like those of the body, and man is punished in his remotest
posterity for the fault which introduced into his nature the first
leaven of sin.

The fall, then, being attested by general tradition, and by the
transmission or generation of evil, both moral and physical, and,
on the other hand, the ends for which man was designed being
now as perfect as before his disobedience, notwithstanding his
own degeneracy, it follows that a redemption, or any expedient
whatever to enable man to fulfil those ends, is a natural conse
quence of the state into which human nature has fallen.

The necessity of redemption being once admitted, let us seek
the order in which it may be found. This order may be con
sidered either in man, or above man.

1. In man. The supposition of a redemption implies that
the price must be at least equivalent to the thing to be redeemed.
Now, how is it to be imagined that imperfect and mortal man
could have offered himself, in order to regain a perfect and im
mortal end ? How could man, partaking himself of the primeval
sin, have made satisfaction as well for the portion of guilt which
belonged to himself, as for that which attached to the rest
of the human family? Would not such self-devotion have re
quired a love and virtue superior to his nature ? Heaven seems
purposely to have suffered four thousand years to elapse from
the fall to the redemption, to allow men time to judge, of them
selves, how very inadequate their degraded virtues were for such
a sacrifice.

We have no alternative, then, but the second supposition,
namely, that the redemption could have proceeded only from a
being superior to man. Let us examine if it could have been
accomplished by any of the intermediate beings between him
and God.

REDEMPTION. 63

It was a beautiful idea of Milton 1 to represent the Almighty
announcing the fall to the astonished heavens, and asking if any
of the celestial powers was willing to devote himself for the sal
vation of mankind. All the divine hierarchy was mute; and
among so many seraphim, thrones, dominations, angels, and arch
angels, none had the courage to make so great a sacrifice. No
thing can be more strictly true in theology than this idea of the
poet s. What, indeed, could have inspired the angels with that
unbounded love for man which the mystery of the cross supposes?
Moreover, how could the most exalted of created spirits have
possessed strength sufficient for the stupendous task ? No angelic
substance could, from the weakness of its nature, have taken up
on itself those sufferings which, in the language of Massillon,
accumulated upon the head of Christ all the physical torments
that might be supposed to attend the punishment of all the sins
committed since the beginning of time, and all the moral anguish,
all the remorse, which sinners must have experienced for crimes
committed. If the Son of Man himself found the cup bitter,
how could an angel have raised it to his lips? Oh, no; he never
could have drunk it to the dregs, and the sacrifice could not have
been consummated.

We could not, then, have any other redeemer than one of the
three persons existing from all eternity; and among these three
persons of the Godhead, it is obvious that the Son alone, from
his very nature, was to accomplish the great work of salvation.
Love which binds together all the parts of the universe, the

i Say, heavenly powers, where shall we find such love
Which of you will be mortal to redeem
Man s mortal crime? and just, th unjust to save?
Dwells in all heaven charity so dear?

He ask d, but all the heavenly choir stood mute,
And silence was in heaven : on man s behalf
Patron or intercessor none appear d;
Much less that durst upon his own head draw
The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set.
And now without redemption all mankind
Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell,
By doom severe, had not the Son of God,
In whom the fulness dwells of love divine,
His dearest mediation thus renew d.

PARADISE LOST, b. iii., 1. 213. K.

64 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Mean which unites the extremes, Vivifying Principle of nature,
he alone was capable of reconciling God with man. This second
Adam came; man according to the flesh, by his birth of Mary;
a man of sanctity by his gospel ; a man divine by his union with
the Godhead. He was born of a virgin, that he might be free
from original sin and a victim without spot and without blemish.
He received life in a stable, in the lowest of human conditions,
because we had fallen through pride. Here commences the depth
of the mystery; man feels an awful emotion, and the scene closes.
Thus, the end for which we were destined before the disobedi
ence of our first parents is still pointed out to us, but the way to
secure it is no longer the same. Adam, in a state of innocence,
would have reached it by flowery paths : Adam, in his fallen
condition, must cross precipices to attain it. Nature has under
gone a change since the fall of our first parents, and redemption
was designed, not to produce a new creation, but to purchase final
salvation for the old. Every thing, therefore, has remained de
generate with man; and this sovereign of the universe, who,
created immortal, was destined to be exalted, without any change
of existence, to the felicity of the celestial powers, cannot now
enjoy the presence of God till, in the language of St. Chrysostom,
he has passed through the deserts of the tomb. His soul has
been rescued from final destruction by the redemption; but hia
body, combining with the frailty natural to matter the weakness
consequent on sin, undergoes the primitive sentence in its utmost
extent : he falls, he sinks, he passes into dissolution. Thus God,
after the fall of our first parents, yielding to the entreaties of
his Son, and unwilling to destroy the whole of his work, invented
death, as a demi-annihilation, to fill the sinner with horror of that
complete dissolution to which, but for the wonders of celestial
love, he would have been inevitably doomed.

We venture to presume, that, if there be any thing clear in
metaphysics, it is this chain of reasoning. There is here no
wresting of words; there are no divisions and subdivisions, no
obscure or barbarous terms. Christianity is not made up of such
things as the sarcasms of infidelity would fain have us imagine.
To the poor in spirit the gospel has been preached, and by the
poor in spirit it has been heard: it is the plainest book that
exists. Its doctrine has not its seat in the head, but in the

REDEMPTION. (55

heart; it teaches not the art of disputation, but the way to lead a
virtuous life. Nevertheless, it is not without its secrets. What is
truly ineffable in the Scripture is the continual mixture of the
profoundest mysteries and the utmost simplicity characters
whence spring the pathetic and the sublime. We should no
longer be surprised, then, that the work of Jesus Christ
speaks so eloquently. Such, moreover, are the truths of our re
ligion, notwithstanding their freedom from scientific parade, that
the admission of one single point immediately compels you to
admit all the rest. Nay, more : if you hope to escape by deny
ing the principle, as, for instance, original sin, you will soon,
driven from consequence to consequence, be obliged to precipi
tate yourself into the abyss of atheism. The moment you acknow
ledge a God, the Christian religion presents itself, in spite of you,
with all its doctrines, as Clarke and Pascal have observed. This,
in our opinion, is one of the strongest evidences in favor of
Christianity.

In short, we must not be astonished if he who causes millions
of worlds to roll without confusion over our heads, has infused
euch harmony into the principles of a religion instituted by him
self; we need not be astonished at his making the charms and
the glories of its mysteries revolve in the circle of the most con
vincing logic, as he commands those planets to revolve in their
orbits to bring us flowers and storms in their respective seasons.
We can scarcely conceive the reason of the aversion shown by
the present age for Christianity. If it be true, as some philoso
phers have thought, that some religion or other is necessary for
mankind, what system would you adopt instead of the faith of
our forefathers? Long shall we remember the days when men
of blood pretended to erect altars to the Virtues, on the ruins of
Christianity. 1 With one hand they reared scaffolds; with the
other, on the fronts of our temples they inscribed Eternity to
God and Death to man; and those temples, where once was
found that God who is acknowledged by the whole universe, and
where devotion to Mary consoled so many afflicted hearts, those
temples were dedicated to Truth, which no man knows, and to
Reason, which never dried a tear.

1 The author alludes to the disastrous tyranny exercised by Robespierre over
the deluded French people. K.

6* E

66 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER V.

OF THE INCARNATION.

THE Incarnation exhibits to us the Sovereign of Heaven
among shepherds; him who hurls the thunderbolt, wrapped in
swaddling-clothes; him whom the heavens cannot contain, con
fined in the womb of a virgin. Oh, how antiquity would have
expatiated in praise of this wonder ! What pictures would a
Homer or a Virgil have left us of the Son of God in a manger,
of the songs of the shepherds, of the Magi conducted by a star,
of the angels descending in the desert, of a virgin mother ador
ing her new-born infant, and of all this mixture of innocence,
enchantment, and grandeur!

Setting aside what is direct and sacred in our mysteries, we
would still discover under their veils the most beautiful truths in
nature. These secrets of heaven, apart from their mystical
character, are perhaps the prototype of the moral and physical
laws of the world. The hypothesis is well worthy the glory of
God, and would enable us to discern why he has been pleased
to manifest himself in these mysteries rather than in any other
mode. Jesus Christ, for instance, (or the moral world,) in
taking our nature upon him, teaches us the prodigy of the phy
sical creation, and represents the universe framed in the bosom
of celestial love. The parables and the figures of this mystery
then become engraved upon every object around us. Strength,
in fact, universally proceeds from grace; the river issues from
the spring; the lion is first nourished with milk like that which is
sucked by the lamb; and lastly, among mankind, the Almighty has
promised ineffable glory to those who practise the humblest virtues.

They who see nothing in the chaste Queen of angels but an
obscure mystery are much to be pitied. What touching thoughts
are suggested by that mortal woman, become the immortal
mother of a Saviour-God ! What might not be said of Mary,
who is at once a virgin and a mother, the two most glorious cha
racters of woman ! of that youthful daughter of ancient Israel,

BAPTISM. 67

who presents herself for the relief of hum&.n suffering, and sacri
fices a son for the salvation of her paternal race ! This tender
mediatrix between us and the Eternal, with a heart full of com
passion for our miseries, forces us to confide in her maternal
aid, and disarms the vengeance of Heaven. What an enchant
ing dogma, that allays the terror of a God by causing beauty to
intervene between our nothingness and his Infinite Majesty !

The anthems of the Church represent the Blessed Mary seated
upon a pure-white throne, more dazzling than the snow. We
there behold her arrayed in splendor, as a mystical rose, or as the
morning-star, harbinger of the Sun of grace : the brightest an
gels wait upon her, while celestial harps and voices form a
ravishing concert around her. In that daughter of humanity we
behold the refuge of sinners, the comforter of the afflicted, who,
all good, all compassionate, all indulgent, averts from us the anger
of the Lord.

Mary is the refuge of innocence, of weakness, and of misfor
tune. The faithful clients that crowd our churches to lay their
homage at her feet are poor mariners who have escaped ship
wreck under her protection, aged soldiers whom she has saved
from death in the fierce hour of battle, young women whose
bitter griefs she has assuaged. The mother carries her babe be
fore her image, and this little one, though it knows not as yet
the God of Heaven, already knows that divine mother who holds
an infant in her arms.

CHAPTER VI.

OP THE SACRAMENTS.
Baptism.

IP the mysteries overwhelm the mind by their greatness, we
experience a different kind of astonishment, but perhaps not less
profound, when we contemplate the sacraments of the Church.
The whole knowledge of man, in his civil and moral relations, is
implied in these institutions.

(jg GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Baptism is the first of the sacraments which religion confers
upon man, and, in the language of the apostle, clothes him with
Jesus Christ. This sacred rite reminds us of the corruption in
which we were born, of the pangs that gave us birth, of the
tribulations which await us in this world. It teaches us that our
sins will recoil upon our children, and that we are all sureties for
eao&gt; other an awful lesson, which alone would suffice, if duly
pondered, to establish the empire of virtue among men.

Behold the new convert standing amid the waves of Jordan !
the hermit of the rock pours the lustral water upon his head ;
while the patriarchal river, the camels on its banks, the temple
of Jerusalem, and the cedars of Libanus, seem to be arrested by
the solemn rite. Or, rather, behold the infant child before the
sacred font! A joyous family surround him; in his behalf they
renounce sin, and give him the name of his grandfather, which
is thus renewed by love from generation to generation. Already
the father hastens to take the child in his arms, and to carry it
home to his impatient wife, who is counting under her curtains
each sound of the baptismal bell. The relatives assemble; tears
of tenderness and of religion bedew every eye; the new name
of the pretty infant, the ancient appellative of its ancestor, passes
from mouth to mouth; and every one, mingling the recollections
of the past with present joys, discovers the fancied resemblance
of the good old man in the child that revives his memory. Such
are the scenes exhibited by the sacrament of baptism; but Re
ligion, ever moral and ever serious, even when the most cheerful
smile irradiates her countenance, shows us also the son of a king,
in his purple mantle, renouncing the pomps of Satan at the same
font where the poor man s child appears in tatters, to abjure those
vanities of the world which it will never know. 1

We find in St. Ambrose a curious description of the manner
in which the sacrament of baptism was administered in the first
ages of the Church. 3 Holy Saturday was the day appointed
for the ceremony. It commenced with touching the nostrils and

1 That is, the outward pomp of this world; but the poor as well as the rich
must renounce all inordinate aspiration after the vain show of this world. T.

2 Ambr., de Myst. Tertullian, Origen, St. Jerome, and St. Augustin, speak
less in detail of this ceremony than St. Ambrose. The triple immersion and
the touching of the nostrils, to which we allude here, are mentioned in the six
books on the Sacraments which are falsely attributed to this father.

BAPTISM. 69

opening the ears of the catechumen, t -e person officiating at the
same time pronouncing the word epJiplieta, which signifies, be
opened. He was then conducted into the holy of holies. In
the presence of the deacon, the priest, and the bishop, he re
nounced the works of the devil. He turned toward the west,
the image of darkness, to ahjure the world; and toward the
east, the emblem of light, to denote his alliance with Jesus
Christ. The bishop then blessed the water, which, according to
St. Ambrose, indicated all the mysteries of the Scripture, the
Creation, the Deluge, the Passage of the Red Sea, the Cloud,
the Waters of Mara, Naaman, and the Pool of Bethsaida. The
water having been consecrated by the sign of the cross, the cate
chumen was immersed in it three times, in honor of the Trinity,
and to teach him that three things bear witness in baptism water,
blood, and the Holy Spirit. On leaving the holy of holies, the
bishop anointed the head of the regenerated man, to signify that
he was now consecrated as one of the chosen race and priestly
nation of the Lord. His feet were then washed, and he was
dressed in white garments, as a type of innocence, after which
he received, by the sacrament of confirmation, the spirit of di
vine fear, of wisdom and intelligence, of counsel and strength,
of knowledge and piety. The bishop then pronounced, with a
loud voice, the words of the apostle, "God the Father hath
marked thee with his seal. Jesus Christ our Lord hath confirmed
thee, and .given to thy heart the earnest of the Holy Ghost/
The new Christian then proceeded to the altar to receive the
bread of angels, saying, "I will go to the altar of the Lord, of
God who rejoices my youth." At the sight of the altar, covered
with vessels of gold and silver, with lights, flowers, and silks, the
new convert exclaimed, with the prophet, "Thou hast spread a
table for me ; it is the Lord who feeds me ; I shall know no want,
for he hath placed me in an abundant pasture." The ceremony
concluded with the celebration of the mass. How august must
have been the solemnity, at which an Ambrose gave to the inno
cent poor that place at the table of the Lord which he refused to
a guilty emperor I 1

1 Theodosius, by whose command great numbers of the inhabitants of Thes-
galonica were put to death for an insurrection. For this sanguinary deed, St.
Ambrose, then bishop of Mjlan, refused to admit him into the Church until ha

70 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

If there be not, in this first act of the life of a Christian, a di
vine combination of theology and morality, of mystery and sim
plicity, never will there be in religion any thing divine.

But, considered in a higher relation, and as a type of the mys
tery of our redemption, baptism is a bath which restores to the
soul its primeval vigor. We cannot recall to mind without deep
regret the beauty of those ancient times, when the forests were
not silent enough, nor the caverns sufficiently solitary, for the be
lievers who repaired thither to meditate on the mysteries of reli
gion. Those primitive Christians, witnesses of the renovation of
the world, were occupied with thoughts of a very different kind
from those which now bend us down to the earth, us Christians
who have grown old in years, but not in faith. In those times, wis
dom had her seat amid rocks and in the lion s den, and kings
went forth to consult the anchorite of the mountain. Days too
soon passed away ! There is no longer a St. John in the desert, nor
will there be poured out again upon the new convert those waters
of the Jordan which carried off all his stains to the bosom of
the ocean.

Baptism is followed by confession; and the Church, with a
prudence peculiar to her, has fixed the time for the reception of
this sacrament at the age when a person becomes capable of sin,
which is that of seven years.

All men, not excepting philosophers themselves, whatever may
have been their opinions on other subjects, have considered the
sacrament of penance as one of the strongest barriers against vice,
and as a master-piece of wisdom. " How many restitutions and
reparations/ says Rousseau, "does not confession produce among
Catholics!" 1 According to Voltaire, "confession is a most excel
lent expedient, a bridle to guilt, invented in the remotest anti
quity : it was practised at the celebration of all the ancient mys
teries. We have imitated and sanctified this wise custom, which
has a great influence in prevailing on hearts burning with resent
ment to forgive one another." 2

had performed a canonical penance. The emperor having remonstrated, and
cited the example of King David, who had committed murder and adultery,
the Saint answered, "As you have imitated him in his crime, imitate him in
his penance." Upon which Theodosius humbly submitted. T.

1 JEmil.y tome iii. p. 201, note.

* Quest. Encyclop., tome iii. p. 234, under the head Cure de Campagne, sect. ii.

THE HOLY COMMUNION. 71

Without this salutary institution, the sinner would sink into
despair. Into what bosom could he unburden his heart ? Into
that of a friend ? Ah ! who can rely upon the friendship of men ?
Will he make the desert his confidant? The desert would inces
santly reverberate in the guilty ear the sound of those trumpets
which Nero fancied he heard around the tomb of his mother. 1
When nature and our fellow-creatures show no mercy, how de
lightful is it to find the Almighty ready to forgive! To the
Christian religion alone belongs the merit of having made two
sisters of Innocence and Repentance.

CHAPTER VII.

OP THE HOLY COMMUNION.

AT the age of twelve years, and in the gay season of spring,
the youth is admitted for the first time to a union with his God.
After having wept with the mountains of Sion over the death of
the world s Redeemer, after having commemorated the darkness
which covered the earth on that tragic occasion, Christendom
throws aside her mourning; the bells commence their merry
peals, the images of the saints are unveiled, and the domes of
the churches re-echo with the song of joy with the ancient alle
luia of Abraham and of Jacob. Tender virgins clothed in white,
and boys bedecked with foliage, march along a path strewed with
the first flowers of the year, and advance toward the temple of
religion, chanting new canticles, and followed by their overjoyed
parents. Soon the heavenly victim descends upon the altar for
the refreshment of those youthful hearts. The bread of angels
is laid upon the tongue as yet unsullied by falsehood, while the
priest partakes, under the species of wine, of the blood of the im
maculate Lamb.

In this solemn ceremony, God perpetuates the memory of a,
bloody sacrifice by the most peaceful symbols. With the immea
surable heights of these mysteries are blended the recollection

1 Tacit., Hist.

72 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

of the most pleasing scenes. Nature seems to revive with her
Creator, and the angel of spring opens for her the doors of the
tomb, like the spirit of light who rolled away the stone from the
glorious sepulchre. The age of the tender communicants and
that of the infant year mingle their youth, their harmonies, and
their innocence. The bread and wine announce the approaching
maturity of the products of the fields, and bring before us a pic
ture of agricultural life. In fine, God descends into the souls of
these young believers to bring forth his chosen fruits, as he de
scends at this season into the bosom of the earth to make it pro
duce its flowers and its riches.

But, you will ask, what signifies that mystic communion, in
which reason submits to an absurdity, without any advantage to
the moral man ? To this objection I will first give a general an
swer, which will apply to all Christian rites : that they exert the
highest moral influence, because they were practised by our
fathers, because our mothers were Christians over our cradle, and
because the chants of religion were heard around the coffins of
our ancestors and breathed a prayer of peace over their ashes.

Supposing, however, that the Holy Communion were but a
puerile ceremony, those persons must be extremely blind who can
not perceive that a solemnity, which must be preceded by a con
fession of one s whole life, and can take place only after a long
series of virtuous actions, is, from its nature, highly favorable to
morality. It is so to such a degree, that, were a man to partake
worthily but once a month of the sacrament of the Eucharist, that
man must of necessity be the most virtuous person upon earth
Transfer this reasoning from the individual to society in general,
from one person to a whole nation, and you will find that the Holy
Communion constitutes a complete system of legislation.

"Here then are people," says Voltaire, an authority which will
not be suspected, "who partake of the communion amid an
august ceremony, by the light of a hundred tapers, after solemn
music which has enchanted their senses, at the foot of an altur
resplendent with gold. The imagination is subdued and the
soul powerfully affected. We scarcely breathe; we forget all
earthly considerations : we are united with God and he is incor
porated with us. Who durst, who could, after this, be guilty of
a single crime, or only conceive the idea of one? It would

THE HOLY COMMUNION. 73

indeed be impossible to devise & mystery capable of keeping men
more effectually within the bounds of virtue." 1

The Eucharist was instituted at the last supper of Christ with
his disciples; and we call to our aid the pencil of the artist, to
express the beauty of the picture in which he is represented pro
nouncing the words, This is my Itody. Four things here require
attention.

First, In the material bread and wine we behold the conse
cration of the food of man, which comes from God, and which
we receive from his bounty. Were there nothing more in the
Communion than this offering of the productions of the earth to
him who dispenses them, that alone would qualify it to be com
pared with the most excellent religious customs of Greece.

Secondly, The Eucharist reminds us of the Passover of the Is
raelites, which carries us back to the time of the Pharaohs; it
announces the abolition of bloody sacrifices; it represents also the
calling of Abraham, and the first covenant between God and man.
Every thing grand in antiquity, in history, in legislation, in the
sacred types, is therefore comprised in the communion of the
Christian.

Thirdly, The Eucharist announces the reunion of mankind
into one great family. It inculcates the cessation of enmities,
natural equality, and the commencement of a new law, which
will make no distinction of Jew or Gentile, but invites all the
children of Adam to sit down at the same table.

Fourthly, The great wonder of the Holy Eucharist is the real
presence of Christ under the consecrated species. Here the soul
must transport itself for a moment to that intellectual world
which was open to man before the fall.

When the Almighty had created him to his likeness, and ani
mated him with the breath of life, he made a covenant with him.
Adam and his Creator conversed together in the solitude of the
garden. The covenant was necessarily broken by the disobedi
ence of the father of men. The Almighty could no longer com
municate with death, or spirituality with matter. Now, be
tween two things of different properties there cannot be a point

1 Questions sur VEncy^.opedie^ tome iv. Were we to express ourselves as
&gt;rcibly as Voltaire here does, we would be looked upon as a fanatic.

74 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

of contact except by means of something intermediate. The firsl
effort which divine love made to draw us nearer to itself, was in
the calling of Abraham and the institution of sacrifices types
announcing to the world the coming of the Messiah. The Sa
viour, when he restored us to the ends of our creation, as we
have observed on the subject of the redemption, reinstated us in
our privileges, and the highest of those privileges undoubtedly
was to communicate with our Maker. But this communication
could no longer take place immediately, as in the terrestrial para
dise: in the first place, because our origin remained polluted;
and in the second, because the body, now an heir of death, is too
weak to survive a direct communication with God. A medium
was therefore required, and this medium the Son has furnished.
He hath given himself to man in the Eucharist; he hath become
the sublime way by which we are again united with Iliui from
whom our souls have emanated.

But if the Son had remained in his primitive essence, it is evi
dent that the same separation would have continued to exist here
below between God and man; since there can be no union be
tween purity and guilt, between an eternal reality and the dream
of human life. But the Word condescended to assume our na
ture and to become like us. On the one hand he is united to
his Father by his spirituality, and on the other, to our flesh by
his humanity. He is therefore the required medium of approxi
mation between the guilty child and the compassionate Father.
Represented by the symbol of bread, he is a sensible object to the
corporeal eye, while he continues an intellectual object to the eye
of the soul; and if he has chosen bread for this purpose, it is be
cause the material which composes it is a noble and pure emblem
of the divine nourishment.

If this sublime and mysterious theology, a few outlines only
of which we are attempting to trace, should displease any of our
readers, let them but remark how luminous are our metaphysics
when compared with the system of Pythagoras, Plato, Timoeus,
Aristotle, and Epicurus. Here they meet with none of those
abstract ideas for which it is necessary to create a language unin
telligible to the mass of mankind.

To sum up what we have said on this subject, we see, in the
first place, that the Holy Communion displays a beautiful ceieino-

CELIBACY UNDER ITS MORAL ASPECT. 75

trial ; that it inculcates morality, because purity of heart is essen
tial in those who partake of it ; that it is an offering of the pro
duce of the earth to the Creator, and that it commemorates the
sublime and affecting history of the Sou of man. Combined
with the recollection of the Passover and of the first covenant, it
is lost in the remoteness of time ; it reproduces the earliest ideas
of man, in his religious and political character, and denotes the
original equality of the human race. Finally, it comprises the
mystical history of the family of Adam, their fall, their restora
tion, and their reunion with God.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONFIRMATION, HOLY ORDERS, AND MATRIMONY.

Celibacy considered under its Moral Aspect.

IN considering the period of life which religion has fixed for
the nuptials of man and his Creator, we find a subject of per
petual wonder. At the time when the fire of the passions is
about to be kindled in the heart, and the mind is sufficiently
capable of knowing God, he becomes the ruling spirit of the
youth, pervading all the faculties of his soul in its now restless
and expanded state. But dangers multiply as he advances ; a
stranger cast without experience upon the perilous ways of the
world, he has need of additional helps. At this crisis religion does
not forget her child: she has her reinforcements in reserve.
Confirmation will support his trembling steps, like the staff in the
hands of the traveller, or like those sceptres which passed from
race to race among the royal families of antiquity, and on which
Evander and Nestor, pastors of men, reclined while judging their
people. Let it be observed that all the morality of life is implied
in the sacrament of Confirmation; because whoever has the
courage to confess God will necessarily practise virtue, as the
commission of crime is nothing but the denial of the Creator.

76 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The same wise spirit has been displayed in placing the sacra
ments of Holy Orders and Matrimony immediately after that of
Confirmation. The child has now become a man, and religion,
that watched over him with tender solicitude in the state of na
ture, will not abandon him in the social sphere. How profound
are the views of the Christian legislator! He has established
only two social sacraments, if we may be allowed this expression,
because, in reality, there are but two states in life celibacy and
marriage. Thus, without regard to the civil distinctions invented
by our short-sighted reason, Jesus Christ divided society into two
classes, and decreed for them, not political, but moral laws, acting
in this respect in accordance with all antiquity. The old sages
of the East, who have- acquired such a wide-spread fame, did not
call men together at random to hatch Utopian constitutions. They
were venerable solitaries, who had travelled much, and who cele
brated with the lyre the remembrance of the gods. Laden with
the rich treasure of information derived from their intercourse
with foreign nations, and still richer by the virtues which they
practised, those excellent men appeared before the multitude
with the lute in hand, their hoary locks encircled with a golden
crown, and, seating themselves under the shade of the plane-
tree, they delivered their lessons to an enchanted crowd. What
were the institutions of an Amphion, a Cadmus, an Orpheus ?
They consisted in delightful music called Idio, in the dance, the
hymn, the consecrated tree ; they were exhibited in youth under
the guidance of old age, in matrimonial faith plighted near a
grave. Religion and God were everywhere. Such are the scenes
which Christianity also exhibits, but with much stronger claims
to our admiration.

Principles, however, are always a subject of disagreement
among men, and the wisest institutions have met with opposition.
Thus, in modern times, the vow of celibacy which accompanies
the reception of Holy Orders has been denounced in *no mea
sured terms. Some, availing themselves of every means of as
sailing religion, have imagined that they placed her in opposition
to herself by contrasting her present discipline with the ancient
practice of the Church, which, according to them, permitted the
marriage of the clergy. Others have been content with making
the chastity of the priesthood the object of their raillery. Let

CELIBACY UNDER ITS MORAL ASPECT. 77

us examine, first, the views of those who have assailed it with
seriousness and on the ground of morality.

By the seventh canon of the second Council of Lateran, 1 held
in 1139, the celibacy of the clergy was definitely established, in
accordance with the regulations of previous synods, as those of
Lateran in 1123, Trosle in 909, Tribur in 895, Toledo in 633, and
Chalcedon in 451. 2 Baronius shows that clerical celibacy was in
force generally from the sixth century. 3 The first Council of
Tours excommunicated any priest, deacon, or sub-deacon, who
returned to his wife after the reception of Holy Orders. From
the time of St. Paul, virginity was considered the more perfect
state for a Christian.

But, were we to admit that marriage was allowed among the
clergy in the early ages of the Church, which cannot be shown
either from history or from ecclesiastical legislation, it would not
follow that it would be expedient at the present day. Such an
innovation would be at variance with the manners of our times,
and, moreover, would lead to the total subversion of ecclesiastical
discipline.

In the primitive days of religion, a period of combats and
triumphs, the followers of Christianity, comparatively few in
number and adorned with every virtue, lived fraternally together,
and shared the same joys and the same tribulations at the table
of the Lord. We may conceive, therefore, that a minister of
religion might, strictly speaking, have been permitted to have a
family amid this perfect society, which was already the domestic
circle for him. His own children, forming a part of his flock,
would not have diverted him from the attentions due to the re
mainder of his charge, nor would they have exposed him to betray
the confidence of the sinner, since in those days there were no
crimes to be concealed, the confession of them being made pub
licly in those basilics of the dead where the faithful assembled
to pray over the ashes of the martyrs. The Christians of that
age had received from heaven a spirit which we have lost. They

1 This was the tenth general council, at which one thousand bishops were
present. T.

2 The fourth general council, numbering between five and six hundred
bishops. T.

3 Baron., An. 88, No. 18.

78 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

formed not so much a popular assembly as a community of Levites
and religious women. Baptism had made them all priests and
confessors of Jesus Christ.

St. Justin the philosopher, in his first Apology, has given ua
an admirable description of the Christian life in those times.
We are accused," he says, " of disturbing the tranquillity of the
state, while we are taught by one of the principal articles of our
faith that nothing is hidden to the eye of God, and that he will
one day take a strict account of our good and evil deeds. But,
powerful Emperor, the very punishments which you have de
creed against us only tend to confirm us in our religion, because
all this persecution was predicted by our Master, the son of the
sovereign God, Father and Lord of the universe.

" On Sunday, those who reside in the town and country meet
together. The Scriptures are read, after which one of the an
cients 1 exhorts the people to imitate the beautiful examples that
have been placed before them. The assembly then rises; prayer
is again offered up, and water, bread, and wine being presented,
the officiating minister gives thanks, the others answering Amen.
A portion of the consecrated elements is now distributed, and the
rest is conveyed by the deacons to those who are absent. A col
lection is taken ; the rich giving according to their disposition.
These alms are placed in the hands of the minister, for the as
sistance of widows, orphans, sick persons, prisoners, poor people,
strangers ; in short, all who are in need, and the care of whom
devolves especially upon the minister. We assemble on Sunday,
because on that day God created the world, and the same day his
Son arose to life again, to confirm his disciples in the doctrine
which we have exposed to you.

" If you find this doctrine good, show your respect for it; if
not, reject it. But do not condemn to punishment those who
commit no crime ; for we declare to you that, if you continue to
act unjustly, you will not escape the judgment of God. For the
rest, whatever be our faith, we desire only that the will of God
be done. We might have claimed your favorable regard in con-

1 That is, a priest. In the first ages, the word npcffQvrepos or ancient was very
frequently used to signify a bishop or priest, set apart by ordination for the
ministry of the Church : it was afterwards employed solely to designate the
priestly order. T.

CELIBACY UNDER ITS MORAL ASPECT. 79

sequence of the letter of your father, Caesar Adrian, of illustrious
and glorious memory; but we have preferred to rely solely upon
the justice of our cause."

The Apology of Justin was well calculated to take the world
by surprise ; for it proclaimed a golden age in the midst of a cor
rupt generation, and pointed out a new people in the catacombs
of an ancient empire. The Christian life must have appeared
the more admirable in the public eye, as such perfection had
never before been known, harmonizing with nature and the laws,
and on the other band forming a remarkable contrast with the
rest of society. It is also invested with an interest which is not
to be found in the fabulous excellence of antiquity, because the
latter is always depicted in a state of happiness, while the former
presents itself through the charms of adversity. It is not amid
the foliage of the woods or at the side of the fountain that virtue
exerts her greatest power, but under the shade of the prison-wall
or amid rivers of blood and tears. How divine does religion
appear to us when, in the recess of the catacomb or in the silent
darkness of the tomb, we behold a pastor who is surrounded by
danger, celebrating, by the feeble glare of his lamp and in pre
sence of his little flock, the mysteries of a persecuted Grod !

We have deemed it necessary to establish incontestably this
high moral character of the first Christians, in order to show that,
if the marriage of the clergy was considered unbecoming in that
age of purity, it would be altogether impossible to introduce it at
the present day. When the number of Christians increased, and
morality was weakened with the diffusion of mankind, how could
the priest devote himself at the same time to his family and to
the Church ? How could he have continued chaste with a spouse
who had ceased to be so? If our opponents object the prac
tice of Protestant countries, we will observe that it has been ne
cessary in those countries to abolish a great portion of the external
worship of religion ; that a Protestant minister appears in the
church scarcely two or three times a week ; that almost all spi
ritual relations have ceased between him and his flock, and that
very often he is a mere man of the world. 3 As to certain Puri-

1 Justin, Apoloy., edit. Marc., fol. 1742. See note B.

8 "It was no trivial misfortune," says Dr. King, "for the cause of Christianity
in England, that at the period of our separation from popery the clergy were

80 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

tanical sects that affect an evangelical simplicity, and wish to have
a religion without a worship, we hope that they will be passed
over in silence. Finally, in those countries where the marriage
of the clergy is allowed, the confession of sin, which is the most
admirable of moral institutions, has been, and must necessarily
have been, discontinued. It cannot be supposed that the Chris
tian would confide the secrets of his heart to a man who has
already made a woman the depositary of his own ; and he would,
with reason, fear to make a confidant of him who has proved
faithless to God, and has repudiated the Creator to espouse the
creature.

We will now answer the objection drawn from the general law
of population. It seems to us that one of the first natural laws
that required abrogation at the commencement of the Christian
era, was that which encouraged population beyond a certain limit.
The age of Jesus Christ was not that of Abraham. The latter
appeared at a time when innocence prevailed and the earth was
but sparsely inhabited. Jesus Christ, on the contrary, came into
the midst of a world that was corrupt and thickly settled. Con
tinence, therefore, may be allowed to woman. The second Eve,
in curing the evils that had fallen upon the first, has brought
down virginity from heaven, to give us an idea of the purity and
joy which preceded the primeval pangs of maternity.

The Legislator of the Christian world was born of a virgin,
and died a virgin. Did he not wish thereby to teach us, in a
political and natural point of view, that the earth had received
its complement of inhabitants, and that the ratio of generation,

allowed to marry; for, as might have been foreseen, our ecclesiastics since that
time have occupied themselves solely with their wives and their children. The
dignitaries of the Church could easily provide for their families with the aid of
their large revenues ; but the inferior clergy, unable with their slender incomes
to establish their children in the world, soon spread over the kingdom swarms

of mendicants As a member of the republic of letters, I have often

desired the re-enactment of the canons that prohibited marriage among the
clergy. To episcopal celibacy we are indebted for all the magnificent grants
that distinguish our two universities : but since the period of the Reformation
those two seats of learning have had few benefactors among the members of the
hierarchy. If the rich donations of Laud and Sheldon have an eternal claim
to our gratitude, it must be remembered that these two prelates wore never
married," &lt;fcc. Political and Literary Anecdotes, Ac., Edinburgh Review, July,
1819. T.

CELIBACY UNDER ITS MORAL ASPECT. 81

far from being extended, should be restricted ? In support of
this opinion, we may remark that states never perish from a want,
but from an excess, of population, The barbarians of the North
spread devastation over the globe when their forests became
overcrowded ; and Switzerland has been compelled to transfer a
portion of her industrious inhabitants to other countries, as she
pours forth her abundant streams to render them productive.
Though the number of laborers has been greatly diminished in
France, the cultivation of the soil was never more flourishing
than at the present time. Alas ! we resemble a swarm of insects
buzzing around a cup of wormwood into which a few drops of
honey have accidentally fallen ; we devour each other as soon as
our numbers begin to crowd the spot that we occupy ! By a still
greater misfortune, the more we increase, the more land we re
quire to satisfy our wants ; and as this space is always diminish
ing, while the passions are extending their sway, the most fright
ful revolutions must, sooner or later, be the consequence. 1

Theories, however, have little weight in the presence of facts.
Europe is far from being a desert, though the Catholic clergy
within her borders have taken the vow of celibacy. Even mo
nasteries are favorable to society, by the good management of the
religious, who distribute their commodities at home, and thus
afford abundant relief to the poor. Where but in the neighbor
hood of some rich abbey, did we once behold in Fiance the com
fortably dressed husbandman, and laboring people whose joyful
countenances betokened their happy condition ? Large possessions
always produce this effect in the hands of wise and resident
proprietors; and such precisely was the character of our monastic
domains. But this subject would lead us too far. We shall return
to it in treating of the religious orders. We will remark, how
ever, that the clergy have been favorable to the increase of popu
lation, by preaching concord and union between man and wife,
checking the progress of libertinism, and visiting with the de
nunciations of the Church the crimes which the people of the
cities directed to the diminution of children.

There can be no doubt that every great nation has need of
men who, separated from the rest of mankind, invested with some

1 Note C.

82 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

august character, and free from the encumbrances of wife, children,
and other worldly affairs, may labor effectually for the advance
ment of knowledge, the improvement of morals, and the relief
of human suffering. What wonders have not our priests and
religious accomplished in these three respects for the good of
society ? But place them in charge of a family : would not the
learning and charity which they have consecrated to their country
be turned to the profit of their relatives ? Happy, indeed, if by
this change their virtue were not transformed into vice !

Having disposed of the objections which moralists urge against
clerical celibacy, we shall endeavor to answer those of the poets ;
but for this purpose it will be necessary to employ other argu
ments, to adduce other authorities, and to write in a different
style.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED HOLY ORDERS.

MOST of the sages of antiquity led a life of celibacy ; and the
Grymnosophists, the Brahmins, and the Druids, held chastity in
the highest ^onor. Even among savage tribes it is invested
with a heavenly character; because in all ages and countries there
has prevailed but one opinion respecting the excellence of vir
ginity. Among the ancients, priests and priestesses, who were
supposed to commune intimately with heaven, were obliged to
live as solitaries, and the least violation of their vows was visited
with a signal punishment. They offered in sacrifice only the
heifer that had never been a mother. The loftiest and most
attractive characters in mythology were virgins. Such were
Venus, Urania, and Minerva, goddesses of genius and wisdom,
and Friendship, who was represented as a young maiden. Vir
ginity herself was personified as the moon, and paraded her mys
terious modesty amid the refreshing atmosphere of night.

Virginity is not less amiable, considered in its various other
relations. In the three departments of nature, it is the source
of grace and the perfection of beauty. The poets whom we are

HOLY ORDERS. 83

now seeking to convince will readily admit what we say. Do they
not themselves introduce everywhere the idea of virginity, as
lending a charm to their descriptions and representations ? Do
they not find it in the forest-scene, in the vernal rose, in the
winter s snow ? and do they not thus station it at the two extre
mities of life on the lips of childhood and the gray locks of
aged man ? Do they not also blend it with the mysteries of the
tomb, telling us of antiquity that consecrated to the manes seed
less trees, because death is barren, or because in the next life
there is no distinction of sex, and the soul is an immortal virgin ?
Finally, do they not tell us that the irrational animals which ap
proach the nearest to human intelligence are those devoted to
chastity? Do we not seem, in fact, to recognise in the bee-hive
the model of those monasteries, where vestals are busily engaged
in extracting a celestial honey from the flowers of virtue ?

In the fine arts, virginity is again the charm, and the Muses
owe to it their perpetual youth. But it displays its excellence
chiefly in man. St. Ambrose has composed three treatises on
virginity, in which he has scattered with a profuse hand the
ornaments of style, his object, as he informs us, being to gain
the attention of virgins by the sweetness of his words. 1 He
terms virginity an exemption from every stain, and shows that
the tranquillity which attends it is far superior to the cares of
matrimonial life. He addresses the virgin in these words : "The
modesty which tinges your cheeks renders you exceedingly beau
tiful. Retired far from the sight of men, like the rose in some
solitary spot, your charms form not the subject of their false
surmises. Nevertheless, you are still a competitor for the prize
of beauty; not that indeed which falls under the eye, but the
beauty of virtue that beauty which no sickness can disfigure,
no age can diminish, and not death itself can take away. God
alone is the umpire in this rivalry of virgins, because he loves

the beautiful soul, even in a body that is deformed

A virgin is the gift of heaven and the joy of her family. She
exercises under the paternal roof the priesthood of chastity; she
is a victim daily immolated for her mother at the altar of filial
piety." 3

De Virgin., lib. ii. ch. 1. 2 ibid., lib. i. ch. 5.

84 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

In man, virginity assumes the character of sublimity. When,
in the fierce rebellion of the passions, it resists the invitation to
evil, it becomes a celestial virtue. "A chaste heart/ says St.
Bernard, " is by virtue what an angel is by nature. There is
more felicity in the purity of the angel, but there is more courage
in that of the man." In the religious, virginity transforms itself
into humanity : witness the fathers of the Redemption and the
orders of Hospitallers, consecrated to the relief of human misery
The learned man it inspires with the love of study; the hermit
with that of contemplation : in all it is a powerful principle,
whose beneficial influence is always felt in the labors of the mind,
and hence it is the most excellent quality of life, since it imparts
fresh vigor to the soul, which is the nobler part of our nature.

But if chastity is necessary in any state, it is chiefly so in the
service of the divinity. "God," as Plato observes, "is the true
standard of things, and we should make every effort to resemble
him." He who ministers at his altar is more strictly obliged to
this than others. "The question here," says St. Chrysostom, "is
not the government of an empire or the command of an army,
but the performance of functions that require an angelic virtue ,
The soul of the priest should be purer than the rays of the sun."
"The Christian minister," adds St. Jerome, "is the interpreter
between God and man." The priest, therefore, must be a divine
personage. An air of holiness and mystery should surround him.
Retired within the sacred gloom of the temple, let him be heard
without being perceived by those without. Let his voice, solemn,
grave, and religious, announce the prophetic word or chant the
hymn of peace in the holy recesses of the tabernacle. Let his
visits among men be transient ; and if he appear amid the bustle
of the world, let it be only to render a service to the unhappy."

It is on these conditions that the priest will enjoy the respect
and confidence of his people. But he will soon forfeit both if he
be seen in the halls of the rich, if he be encumbered with a wife,
if he be too familiar in society, if he betray faults which are
condemned in the world, or if he lead those around him to sus
pect for a moment that he is a man like other men.

Chastity in old age is something superhuman. Priam, ancient
as mount Ida and hoary as the oak of Gargarus, surrounded in
his palace by his fifty sens, presents a nolle type of paternity;

MATRIMONY. 85

but Plato without wife and children, seated on the steps of a
temple at the extremity of a cape lashed by the waves, and there
lecturing to his disciples on the existence of God, exhibits a far
more elevated character. He belongs not to the earth ; he seems
to be one of those spirits or higher intelligences of whom he
speaks in his writings.

Thus, virginity, ascending from the last link in the chain of
beings up to man, soon passes from man to the angels, and from
the angels to God, in whom it is absorbed. God reigns in a glory
unique, inimitable in the eternal firmament, as the sun, his
image, shines with unequalled splendor in the visible heavens.

We may conclude, that poets and men even of the most refined
taste can make no reasonable objection to the celibacy of the
priesthood, since virginity is among the cherished recollections of
the past, is one of the charms of friendship, is associated with
the solemn thought of the tomb, with the innocence of child
hood, with the enchantment of youth, with the charity of the
religious, with the sanctity of the priest and of old age, and with
the divinity in the angels and in God himself.

CHAPTER X.

SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED MATRIMONY.

EUROPE owes also to Christianity the few good laws which it
possesses. There is not, perhaps, a single contingency in civil
affairs for which provision has not been made by the canon law,
the fruit of the experience of fifteen centuries and of the genius
of the Innocents and the Gregories. The wisest emperors and
kings, as Charlemagne and Alfred the Great, were of opinion
that they could not do better than to introduce into the civil code
a part of this ecclesiastical code, which contains the essence of
the Levitical law, the gospel, and the Roman jurisprudence.
What an edifice is the Church of Christ ! How vast ! how
wonderful !

In elevating marriage to the dignity of a sacrament, JCSUP

8(5 GENIUS OF CHRISTIAN! TV.

Christ has shown us, in the first place, the great symbol of his
union with the Church. When we consider that matrimony is
the axis on which the whole social economy revolves, can we
suppose it to be ever sufficiently sacred, or too highly admire the
wisdom of him who has stamped it with the seal of religion ?

The Church has made every provision for so important a step
in life. She has determined the degrees of relationship within
which matrimony is allowable. The canon law, 1 which determines
the degree of consanguinity by the number of generations from
the parent stock, has forbidden marriage within the fourth gene
ration ; while the civil law, following a double mode of computa
tion, formerly prohibited it only within the second degree. Such
was the Arcadian law, as inserted in the Institutes of Justinian. 9
But the Church, with her accustomed wisdom, has been governed
in this by the gradual improvement of popular manners. 3 In the
first ages of Christianity, marriage was forbidden within the
seventh degree of consanguinity; and some Councils, as that of
Toledo in the sixth century, prohibited without exception all
alliances between members of the same family. 4

The spirit that dictated these laws is worthy of the pure reli
gion which we profess. The pagan world was far from imitating
this chastity of the Christian people. At Rome, marriage was
permitted between cousins-german ; and Claudius, in order to
marry Agrippina, enacted a law which allowed an uncle to form
an alliance with his niece. 5 By the laws of Solon, a brother could
marry his sister by the mother s side. 8

i Concil. Lat., an. 1205 2 De Nupt, tit. 10

3 Concil. Duziac., an. 814. The canon law was necessarily modified according
to the manners of the different nations Goths, Vandals, English, Franks, Bur-
gundians who entered successively into the Church.

4 Can. 5.

5 Suet., in Claud. It should be observed that this law did not become gene
ral, as we learn from the Fragments of Ulpian, tit. 5 and 6, and that it was re
pealed by the code of Theodosius, as well as that relating to cousins-german.
In the Christian Church the pope has the power to dispense from the canon
law, according to circumstances : a very wise provision, since no law can be so
universally applicable as to comprehend every case. As to the regulation under
the Old Testament regarding marriage between brothers and sisters, it belonged
to the general law of population, which, as we have observed, was abolished at
the coming of Christ, when the different races of men had received their com
plement 6 ^lut., in Sol.

MATRIMONY. 87

The Church, however, did not confine her precautions to the
above-mentioned legislation. For some time she followed the
Levitical law in regard to those who were related by affinity; but
subsequently she numbered among the nullifying impediments
of marriage, all the degrees of affinity corresponding to the degrees
of consanguinity within which marriage is prohibited. 1 She
also provided for a case which had escaped the notice of all pre
vious jurisprudence that of a man guilty of illicit intercourse
with a woman. According to the discipline of the Church, -this
man cannot marry any woman who is related within the second
degree to the object of his unlawful love. 2 This law, which had
existed to a certain extent in the early ages of Christianity, 3 be
came a settled point by a decree of the Council of Trent, and was
considered so wise an enactment that the French code, though it
rejected the Council as a whole, willingly adopted this particular
canon.

The numerous impediments to marriage between relatives which
the Church has established, besides being founded on moral and
spiritual considerations, have a beneficial tendency in a political
point of view, by encouraging the division of property, and pre
venting all the wealth of a state from accumulating, in a long
series of years, in the hands of a few individuals.

The Church has retained the ceremony of betrothing, which
may be traced to a remote antiquity. We are informed by Aulus
Gellius that it was known among the people of Latium :* it was
adopted by the Romans, 5 and was customary among the Greeks.
It was honored under the old covenant; and in the new, Joseph
was betrothed to Mary. The intention of this custom is to allow
the bride and bridegroom time to become acquainted with each
other previously to their union. 6

In our rural hamlets, the ceremony of betrothing was still wit
nessed with its ancient graces. 7 On a beautiful morning in the
month of August, a young peasant repaired to the farm-house of

1 Cone. Lat. 2 Ibid., ch. 4, sess. 24. 3 Cone. Anc., cap. ult, an. 304.
4 Noct. Att, lib. iv. cap. 4. 5 Lib. ii. ff. de Spons.

6 St. Augustine, speaking of this usage, says that the bride is not given to
her lord immediately after the betrothing, " lest he bo inclined to think less
of one who has not been the object of his prolonged aspirations."

7 The author uses the past tense, alluding to customs before the French Re
volution. T.

88 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

his future father-in-law, to join his intended bride. Two musi
cians, reminding you of the minstrels of old, led the way, playing
tunes of the days of chivalry, or the hymns of pilgrims. De
parted ages, issuing from their Gothic tombs, seemed to accom
pany the village youth with their ancient manners and their
ancient recollections. The priest pronounced the accustomed
benediction over the bride, who deposited upon the altar a distaff
adorned with ribbons. The company then returned to the farm
house; the lord and lady of the manor, the clergyman of the
parish, and the village justice, placed themselves, with the young
couple, the husbandmen and the matrons, round a table, upon
which were served up the Eumoean boar and the fatted calf of
the patriarchs. The festivities concluded with a dance in the
neighboring barn ; the daughter of the lord of the manor took
the bridegroom for her partner, while the spectators were seated
upon the newly-harvested sheaves, forcibly reminded of the
daughters of Jethro, the reapers of Boo*z, and the nuptials of
Jacob and Rachel.

The betrothing is followed by the publication of the bans. This
excellent custom, unknown to antiquity, is altogether of ecclesias
tical institution. It dates from a period anterior to the fourteenth
century, as it is mentioned in a decretal of Innocent III., who
enacted it as a general law at the Council of Lateran. It was re
newed by the Tridentine Synod, and has since been established
in France. The design of this practice is to prevent clandestine
unions, and to discover the impediments to marriage that may
exist between the contracting parties.

But at length the Christian marriage approaches. It comes
attended by a very different ceremonial from that which accom
panied the betrothing. Its pace is grave and solemn ; its rites
are silent and august. Man is apprised that he now enters upon
a new career. The words of the nuptial blessing words which
God himself pronounced over the first couple in the world fill
the husband with profound awe, while they announce to him that
he is performing the most important act of life ; that, like Adam,
he is about to become the head of a family, and to take upon him
self the whole burden of humanity. The wife receives a caution
equally impressive. The image of pleasure vanishes before that
of her duties. A voice seenis to issue from the altar, and to ad-

MATRIMONY. 89

dress her in these words : " Knowest thou, Eve, what thou art
doing ? Knowest thou that there is no longer any liberty for thee
but that of the tomb ? Knowest thou what it. is to bear in thy
mortal womb an immortal being, formed in the image of God?"

Among the ancients, the hymeneal rites were a ceremony replete
with licentiousness and clamorous mirth, which suggested none
of the serious reflections that marriage inspires. Christianity
alone has restored its dignity.

Religion also, discovering before philosophy the proportion in
which the two sexes are born, first decreed that a man should
have but one wife, and that their union should be indissoluble
till death. Divorce is unknown in the Catholic Church, except
among some minor nations of Illyria, who were formerly subject to
the Venetian government, and who follow the Greek rite. 1 If the
passions of men have revolted against this law, if they have not
perceived the confusion which divorce introduces into the family,
by disturbing the order of succession, by alienating the paternal
affections, by corrupting the heart and converting marriage into
a civil prostitution, we cannot hope that the few words which we
have to offer will produce any effect. Without entering deeply
into the subject, we shall merely observe, that if by divorce you
think to promote the happiness of the married couple, (and this
is now the main argument,) you lie under a strange mistake.
That man who has not been the comfort of a first wife, who could
not attach himself to the virginal heart and first maternity of his
lawful spouse, who has not been able to bend his passions to the
domestic yoke, or to confine his heart to the nuptial couch, that
man will never confer felicity on a second wife. Neither will he
himself be a gainer by the exchange. What he takes for differ
ences of temper between himself and the wife to whom he is

1 By a departure from the tradition and practice of the Church, and a pre
ference for the concessions of the civil code, it had become the custom in these
countries not only to allow divorce a mensa el thoro in cases of adultery, but
also to permit the parties to marry again. The Council of Trent was on the
point of condemning those who hold that marriage is dissolved quoad vin-
culum by the crime of adultery ; but, for reasons of expediency, the canon on
this subject was so framed as not to stigmatize them with the note of heresy.
See Tournely, De Matr., p. 394 ; Archbp. Kenrick, Theol. Dogm., vol. iv. p. 120 ;
Biblioth. Sacree,tome xvi. art. Mariage ; Waterworth s Canon* and Decrees of
Counc. of Trent, p. 228, &c. T.
8*

90 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

united, is but the impulse of an inconstant disposition and the
restlessness of desire. Habit and length of time are more neces
sary to happiness, and even to love, than may be imagined. A
man is not happy in the object of his attachment till he has
passed many days, and, above all, many days of adversity, in her
company. They ought to be acquainted with the most secret
recesses of each other s soul; the mysterious veil with which
husband and wife were covered in the primitive Church, must be
lifted up in all its folds for them, while to the eye of others it
remains impenetrable. What ! for the slightest pretence or ca
price must I be liable to lose my partner and my children, and
renounce the pleasing hope of passing my old age in the bosom
of my family ? Let me not be told that this apprehension will
oblige me to be a better husband. No ; we become attached to
that good only of which we are certain, and set but little value
on a possession of which we are likely to be deprived.

Let us not give to matrimony the wings of lawless love; let us
not transform a sacred reality into a fleeting phantom. There is
something which will again destroy your happiness in your tran-
cient connections : you will be pursued by remorse. You will be
continually comparing one wife with another, her whom you have
lost with her whom you have found ; and, believe me, the balance
will always be in favor of the former. Thus has God formed the
heart of man. This disturbance of one sentiment by another
will poison all your pleasures. When you fondly caress your
new child, you will think of that which you have forsaken. If
you* press your wife to your heart, your heart will tell you
that it is not the bosom of the first. Every thing tends to
unity in man. He is not happy if he divides his affections ;
and like God, in whose image he was created, his soul inces
santly seeks to concentrate in one point the past, the present, and
the future.

These are the remarks which we had to offer on the sacraments
of Holy Orders and Matrimony. As to the images which they
suggest to the mind, we deem it unnecessary to present them.
Where is the imagination that cannot picture to itself the priest
bidding adieu to the joys of life, that he may devote himself to
the cause of humanity; or the maiden consecrating herself to the
silence of retirement, that she may find the silent repose of her

EXTREME UNCTION. 91

heart ; or the betrothed couple appearing at the altar of religion,
to vow to each other an undying love ?

The wife of a Christian is not a mere mortal. She is an extra
ordinary, a mysterious, an angelic being ; she is flesh of her hus
band s flesh and bone of his bone. By his union with her he
only takes back a portion of his substance. His soul, as well as
his body, is imperfect without his wife. He possesses strength, she
has beauty. He opposes the enemy in arms, he cultivates the
soil of his country ; but he enters not into domestic details ; he
has need of a wife to prepare his repast and his bed. He encoun
ters afflictions, and the partner of his nights is there to soothe
them ; his days are clouded by adversity, but on his couch he
meets with a chaste embrace and forgets all his sorrows. With
out woman he would be rude, unpolished, solitary. Woman sus
pends around him the flowers of life, like those honeysuckles of
the forest which adorn the trunk of the oak with their perfumed
garlands. Finally, the Christian husband and his wife live and
die together ; together they rear the issue of their union ; toge
ther they return to dust, and together they again meet beyond
the confines of the tomb, to part no more.

CHAPTER XI.

EXTREME UNCTION.

BUT it is in sight of that tomb, silent vestibule of another
world, that Christianity displays all its sublimity. If most of
the ancient religions consecrated the ashes of the dead, none ever
thought of preparing the soul for that unknown country "from
whose bourn no traveller returns /"

Come and witness the most interesting spectacle that earth can
exhibit. Come and see the faithful Christian expire. He has
ceased to be a creature of this world : he no longer belongs to his
native country : all connection between him and society is at an
end. For him the calculations of time have closed, and he has
already begun to date from the great era of eternity. A priest,

92 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

seated at his pillow, administers consolation. This minister of
God cheers the dying man with the bright prospect of immortal
ity; and that sublime scene which all antiquity exhibited but
once, in the last moments of its most eminent philosopher, is daily
renewed on the humble pallet of the meanest Christian that
expires !

At length the decisive moment arrives. A sacrament opened
to this just man the gates of the world ; a sacrament is about to
close them. Religion rocked him in the cradle of life; and now
her sweet song and maternal hand will lull him to sleep in the
cradle of death. She prepares the baptism of this second birth :
but mark, she employs not water; she anoints him with oil, em
blem of celestial incorruptibility. The liberating sacrament gra
dually loosens the Christian s bonds. His soul, nearly set free from
the body, is almost visible in his countenance. Already he hears
the concerts of the seraphim: already he prepares to speed his
flight to those heavenly regions where Hope, the daughter of
Virtue and of Death, invites him. Meanwhile, the angel of peace,
descending toward this righteous man, touches with a golden
sceptre his weary eyes, and closes them deliciously to the light.
He dies ; yet his last tngh was inaudible. He expires ; yet, long
after he is no more, his friends keep silent watch around his
couch, under the imf ression that he only slumbers : so gently
did this Christian pass from earth.

BOOK II.

VIKTUES AND MORAL LAWS.

CHAPTER I.

VICES AND VIRTUES ACCORDING TO RELIGION.

MOST of the ancient philosophers have marked the distinction
between vices and virtues ; but how far superior in this respect
also is the wisdom of religion to the wisdom of men !

Let us first consider pride alone, which the Church ranks as
the principal among the vices. Pride was the sin of Satan, the
first sin that polluted this terrestrial globe. Pride is so com
pletely the root of evil, that it is intermingled with all the other
infirmities of our nature. It beams in the smile of envy, it bursts
forth in the debaucheries of the libertine, it counts the gold of
avarice, it sparkles in the eyes of anger, it is the companion of
graceful effeminacy.

Pride occasioned the fall of Adam ; pride armed Cain against
his innocent brother ; it was pride that erected Babel and over
threw Babylon. Through pride Athens became involved in the
common ruin of Greece ; pride destroyed the throne of Cyrus,
divided the empire of Alexander, and crushed Rome itself under
the weight of the universe.

In the particular circumstances of life, pride produces still
more baneful effects. It has the presumption to attack even the
Deity himself.

Upon inquiring into the causes of atheism, we are led to this
melancholy observation : that most of those who rebel against
Heaven imagine that they find something wrong in the constitu
tion of societj or the order of nature ; excepting, however, the
young who are seduced by the world, or writei^iWhose only
object is to attract notice. But how happens it that they who
are deprived of the inconsiderable advantages which a capricious

fortune gives or takes away, have not the sense to seek the re-

94 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

mcdy of this trifling evil in drawing near to God? He is the
great fountainhead of blessing. So truly is he the quintessence
itself of beauty, that his name alone, pronounced with love, is
sufficient to impart something divine to the man who is the least
favored by nature, as has been remarked in the case of Socrates.
Let atheism be for those who, not having courage enough to rise
superior to the trials of their lot, display in their blasphemies
naught but the first vice of man.

If the Church has assigne^ to pride the first place in the scale
of human depravity, she has shown no less wisdom in the classi
fication of the six other capital vices. It must not be supposed
that the order of their arrangement is arbitrary : we need only
examine it to perceive that religion, with an admirable discrimi
nation, passes from those vices which attack society in general to
such as recoil upon the head of the guilty individual alone. Thus,
for instance, envy, luxury, avarice and anger, immediately follow
pride, because they are vices which suppose a foreign object and
exist only in the midst of society; whereas gluttony and idle
ness, which come last, are solitary and base inclinations, that
find in themselves their principal gratification.

In the estimate and classification of the virtues, we behold the
same profound knowledge of human nature. Before the coming
of Jesus Christ the human soul was a chaos; the Word spoke,
and order instantly pervaded the intellectual world, as the same
fiat had once produced the beautiful arrangement of the physical
world : this was the moral creation of the universe. The virtues,
like pure fires, ascended into the heavens : some, like brilliant
suns, attracted every eye by their glorious radiance ; others, more
modest luminaries, appeared only under the veil of night, which,
however, could not conceal their lustre. From that moment an
admirable balance between strength and weakness was esta
blished ; religion hurled all her thunderbolts at Pride, that vice
which feeds upon the virtues : she detected it in the inmost re
cesses of the heart, she pursued it in all its changes ; the sacra
ments, in holy array, were marshalled against it ; *and Humility,
clothed in j^kcloth, her waist begirt with a cord, her feet bare,
her head covered with ashes, her downcast eyes swimming in
tears, became one of the primary virtues of the believer.

FAITH. 95

CHAPTER II.

OP FAITH.

AND what were the virtues so highly recommended oy the
sages of Greece ? Fortitude, temperance, and prudence. None
but Jesus Christ could teach the world that faith, hope and
charity, are virtues alike adapted to the ignorance and the wretch
edness of man.

It was undoubtedly a stupendous wisdom that pointed out faith
to us as the source of all the virtues. There is no power but in
conviction. If a train of reasoning is strong, a poem divine, a
picture beautiful, it is because the understanding or the eye, to
whose judgment they are submitted, is convinced of a certain
truth hidden in this reasoning, this poem, this picture. What
wonders a small band of troops persuaded of the abilities of their
leader is capable of achieving ! Thirty-five thousand Greeks fol
low Alexander to the conquest of the world ; Lacedsemon com
mits her destiny to the hands of Lycurgus, and Laeedsemon
becomes the wisest of cities ; Babylon believes that she is formed
for greatness, and greatness crowns her confidence; an oracle
gives the empire of the universe to the Romans, and the Romans
obtain the empire of the universe; Columbus alone, among all
his contemporaries, persists in believing the existence of a new
world, and a new world rises from the bosom of the deep.
Friendship, patriotism, love, every noble sentiment, is likewise a
species of faith. Because they had faith, a Codrus, a Pylades,
a Regulus, an Arria, performed prodigies. For the same reason,
they who believe nothing, who treat all the convictions of the
soul as illusions, who consider every noble action as insanity, and
look with pity upon the warm imagination and tender sensibility
of genius for the same reason such hearts will never achieve
any thing great or generous : they have faith only in matter and
in death, and they are already insensible as the one, and cold and
icy as the other.

0(5 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

In the language of ancient chivalry, to pledge one s faith was
synonymous with all the prodigies of honor. Roland, Duguesclin,
Bayard, were faithful knights; and the fields of Roncevaux, of
Auray, of Bresse, the descendants of the Moors, of the English,
and of the Lombards, still tell what men they were who plighted
their faith and homage to their God, their lady, and their coun
try. Shall we mention the martyrs, "who," to use the words of
St. Ambrose, "without armies, without legions, vanquished ty
rants, assuaged the fury of lions, took from the fire its vehemence
and from the sword its edge" ?* Considered in this point of view,
faith is so formidable a power, that if it were applied to evil pur
poses it would convulse the world. There is nothing that a man
who is under the influence of a profound conviction, and who
submits his reason implicitly to the direction of another, is not
capable of performing. This proves that the most eminent vir
tues, when separated from God and taken in their merely moral
relations, border on the greatest vices. Had philosophers made
this observation, they would not have taken so much pains to fix
the limits between good and evil. There was no necessity for the
Christian lawgiver, like Aristotle, to contrive a scale for the pur
pose of ingeniously placing a virtue between two vices ; he has
completely removed the difficulty, by inculcating that virtues are
not virtues unless they flow back toward their source that is to
say, toward the Deity.

Of this truth we shall be thoroughly convinced, if we consider
faith in reference to human affairs, but a faith which is the off
spring of religion. From faith proceed all the virtues of society,
since it is true, according to the unanimous acknowledgment of
wise men, that the doctrine which commands the belief in a God
who will reward and punish is the main pillar both of morals and
of civil government.

Finally, if we employ faith for its higher and specific objects,
if we direct it entirely toward the Creator, if we make it the
intellectual eye, by which to discover the wonders of the holy
city and the empire of real existence, if it serve for wings to
our soul, to raise us above the calamities of life, we will admit
that the Scriptures have not too highly extolled this virtue, when

1 Ambros., de Off., c. 35.

HOPE AND CHARITY. 97

they speak of the prodigies which may be performed by its
means. Faith, celestial comforter, thoti dost more than remove
mountains : thou takest away the heavy burdens by which the
heart of man is gvievously oppressed I 1

CHAPTER III.

OF HOPE AND CHARITY.

^ HOPE, the second theological virtue, is almost as powerful as
faith. Desire is the parent of power; whoever strongly desires
is sure to obtain. " Seek," says Jesus Christ, " and ye shall find ;
knock, and it shall be opened unto you." In the same sense Py
thagoras observed that "Power dwelleth with necessity;" for
necessity implies privation, and privation is accompanied with
desire. Desire or hope is genius. It possesses that energy which
produces, and that thirst which is never appeased. Is a man
disappointed in his plans ? it is because he did not desire with
ardor; because he was not animated with that love which
sooner or later grasps the object to which it aspires; that love
which in the Deity embraces all things and enjoys all, by means
of a boundless hope, ever gratified and ever reviving.

There is, however, an essential difference between faith and
hope considered as a power. Faith has its focus out of ourselves;
it arises from an external object. Hope, on the contrary, springs
up within us, and operates externally. The former is instilled
into us, the latter is produced by our own desire; the former is
obedience, the latter is love. But as faith more readily produces
the other virtues, as it flows immediately from God, and is there
fore superior to hope, which is only a part of man, the Church
necessarily assigned to it the highest rank.

The peculiar characteristic of hope is that which places it in
relation with our sorrows. That religion which made a virtue of
hope was most assuredly revealed by heaven. This nurse of the
unfortunate, taking her station by man like a mother beside her

1 See note D
G

98 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

suffering child, rocks him in her arms, presses him to her bosom,
and refreshes him with a beverage which soothes all his woes.
She watches by his solitary pillow; she lulls him to sleep with
her magic strains. Is it not surprising to see hope, which is so
delightful a companion and seems to be a natural emotion of the
soul, transformed for the Christian into a virtue which is an es
sential part of his duty? Let him do what he will, he is obliged
to drink copiously from this enchanted cup, at which thousands
of poor creatures would esteem themselves happy to moisten their
lips for a single moment. Nay, more, (and this is the most mar
vellous circumstance of all,) he will be rewarded for having
hoped, or, in other words, for having made himself happy. The
Christian, whose life is a continual warfare, is treated by religion
in his defeat like those vanquished generals whom the Roman
senate received in triumph, for this reason alone, that they had
not despaired of the final safety of the commonwealth. But if
the ancients ascribed something marvellous to the man who never
despaired, what would they have thought of the Christian, who,
in his astonishing language, talks not of entertaining hope, but
of practising it ?

What shall we now say of that charity which is the daughter
of Jesus Christ ? The proper signification of charity is grace
and joy. Religion, aiming at the reformation of the human
heart, and wishing to make its affections and feelings subservient
to virtue, has invented a new passion. In order to express it,
she has not employed the word love, which is too common ; or
the word friendship, which ceases at the tomb ; or the word pity,
which is too much akin to pride : but she has found the term
caritasj CHARITY, which embraces all the three, and which at the
same time is allied to something celestial. By means of this, she
purifies our inclinations and directs them toward the Creator;
by this she inculcates that admirable truth, that men ought to
love each other in God, who will thus spiritualize their love, di
vesting it of all earthly alloy and leaving it in its immortal
purity. By this she inculcates the stupendous truth that mortals
ought to love each other, if I may so express myself, through
God, who spiritualizes their love, and separates from it whatever
belongs not to its immortal essence.

But if charity is a Christian virtue, an immediate emanation

THE MORAL LAWS, OR THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. 99

from the Almighty and his Word, it is also in close alliance with
nature. It is in this continual harmony between heaven and
earth, between God and man, that we discover the character of
true religion. The moral and political institutions of antiquity
are often in contradiction to the sentiments of the human soul.
Christianity, on the contrary, ever in unison with the heart, en
joins not solitary and abstract virtues, but such as are derived
from our wants and are useful to mankind. It has placed charity
as an abundant fountain in the desert of life. " Charity," says
the apostle, " is patient, is kind ; charity envieth not, dealeth not
perversely, is not puffed up, is not ambitious, seeketh not her
own, is not. provoked to anger, thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in
iniquity, but rejoiceth with the truth; beareth all things, be-
lieveth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things/ 1

CHAPTER IV.

OF THE MORAL LAWS, OR THE TEN COMMANDMENTS.

IT is a reflection not a little mortifying to our pride, that all
the maxims of human wisdom may be comprehended in a few
pages : and even in those pages how many errors may be found !
The laws of Minos and Lycurgus have remained standing after
the fall of the nations for which they were designed, only as the
pyramids of the desert, the immortal palaces of death.

Laws of the Second Zoroaster.

Time, boundless and uncreated, is the creator of all things.
The word was his daughter, who gave birth to Orsmus, the good
deity, and Arimhan, the god of evil.

Invoke the celestial bull, the father of grass and of man.

The most meritorious work that a man can perform is to cul
tivate his land with care.

Pray with purity of thought, word, and action. 3

1 1 Cor. xiii. 2 Zend-avesta.

BIB. MAJ,

100 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Teach thy child at the age of five years the distinction between
good and evil. 1 Let the ungrateful be punished. 3

The child who has thrice disobeyed his father shall die.

The law declares the woman who contracts a second marriage
to be impure.

The impostor shall be scourged with rods.

Despise the liar.

At the end and the beginning of the year keep a festival of
ten days.

Indian Laws.

The universe is Vishnu.

Whatever has been, is he; whatever is, is he; whatever will
be, is he.

Let men be equal.

Love virtue for its own sake ; renounce the fruit of thy works.

Mortal, be wise, and thou shalt be strong as ten thousand
elephants.

The soul is God.

Confess the faults of thy children to the sun and to men, and
purify thyself in the waters of the Ganges. 5

Egyptian Laws.

Cnef, the universal God, is unknown darkness, impenetrable
obscurity.

Osiris is the good, and Typhon the evil deity.

Honor thy parents.

Follow the profession of thy father.

Be virtuous; the judges of the lake will, after thy death, pass
sentence on thy actions.

Wash thy body twice each day and twice each night.

Live upon little.

Reveal no secrets. 4

Laws of Minos
Swear not by the Gods.
Young man, examine not the law.

1 Xenoph., Cyrop. ; Plat, de Leg., lib. ii. 2 Xenoph , Cyrop.

3 Free, of the Bram. ; Hist, of Ind. ; Diod. Sic., dec.

4 Herod., lib. ii. ; Plat., de Leg. ; Plut., de Is. et Ot.

*-* *

THE MORAL LAWS, OR THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. 101

The law declares him infamous who has no friend.

The adultress shall be crowned with wool, and sold.

Let your repasts be public, your life frugal, and your dances
martial. 1

[We shall not quote here the laws of Lycurgus, because they
are partly but a repetition of those of Minos.]

Laws of Solon.

The son who neglects to bury his father, and he who defends
him not, shall die.

The adulterer shall not enter the temples.

The magistrate who is intoxicated shall drink hemlock.

The cowardly soldier shall be punished with death.

It shall be lawful to kill the citizen who remains neutral in
eivil dissensions.

Let him who wishes to die acquaint the Archon, and die.

He who is guilty of sacrilege shall suffer death.

Wife, be the guide of thy blind husband.

The immoral man shall be disqualified for governing. 3

Primitive Laws of Rome.

Honor small fortune.

Let men be both husbandmen and soldiers.

Keep wine for the aged.

The husbandman who eats his ox shall be sentenced to die. 8

Laws of the Gauls, or Druids.

The universe is eternal, the soul immortal.

Honor nature.

Defend thy mother, thy country, the earth

Admit woman into thy councils.

Honor the stranger, and set apart his portion out of thy har
vest.

The man who has lost his honor shall be buried in mud.

Erect no temples, and commit the history of the past to thy
memory alone.

Man, thou art free ; own no property.

i Arist., Pol.; Plat, de leg. 2 Plut., in Vit. Sol. ; Tit. Liv.

Plut., in Num. j Tit. Liv.
9*

102 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Honor the aged, and let not the young bear witness against
them.

The brave man shall be rewarded after death, and the coward
punished. 1

Laws of Pythagoras.

Honor the immortal Gods as established by the law.

Honor thy parents.

Do that which will not wound thy memory.

Close not thine eyes to sleep, till thou hast thrice examined in
thy soul the actions of the day.

Ask thyself: Where have I been? What have I done? What
ought I to have done ?

Then, after a holy life, when thy body shall return to the ele
ments, thou shalt become immortal and incorruptible ; thou shalt
no longer be liable to death. 2

Such is nearly all that has been preserved of the so highly
vaunted wisdom of antiquity ! Here, God is represented as pro
found darkness ; doubtless from excess of light, like the dimness
that obstructs the sight when you endeavor to look at the sun :
there, the man who has no friend is declared infamous, a denun
ciation which includes all the unfortunate : again, suicide is
authorized by law : and lastly, some of these sages seem totally
to forget the existence of a Supreme Being. Moreover, how
many vague, incoherent, commonplace ideas are found in most
of these sentences ! The sages of the Portico and of the Academy
altermitely proclaim such contradictory maxims, that we may
prove from the same book that its author believed and did not
believe in God ; that he acknowledged and did not acknowledge
a positive virtue; that liberty is the greatest of blessings and
despotism the best of governments.

1 Tacit., de mor. Germ. ; Strab. ; Caesar, Com. ; Edda, Ac.

2 To these Tables might be added an extract from Plato s Republic, or rather
from the twelve books of his laws, which we consider his best work, on account
of the exquisite picture of the three old men who converse together on their
way to the fountain, and the good sense which pervades this dialogue. But
these precepts were not reduced t) practice; we shall therefore refrain from
any notice of them. As to the Koran, all that it contains, either holy or just,
is borrowed almost verbatim from our sacred Scriptures j the rest is a KaKbin-
ical compilation.

THE MORAL LAWS, OR THE TEN COMMANDMENTS 103

If, amid these conflicting sentiments, we were to discover a
code of moral laws, without contradictions, without errors, which
would remove all our doubts, and teach us what we ought to think
of God and in what relation we really stand with men, if this
code were delivered with a tone of authority and a simplicity of
language never before known, should we not conclude that these
laws have emanated from heaven alone ? These divine precepts
we possess; and what a subject do they present for the medita
tion of the sage and for the fancy of the poet ! Behold Moses
as he descends from the burning mountain. In his hands he 3ar-
ries two tables of stone; brilliant rays encircle his brow; his face
beams with divine glory; the terrors of Jehovah go before him;
in the horizon are seen the mountains of Libanus, crowned with
their eternal snows, and their stately cedars disappearing in the
clouds. Prostrate at the foot of Sinai, the posterity of Jacob
cover their faces, lest they behold God and die. At length the
thunders cease, and a voice proclaims :

Hearken, Israel, unto me, Jehovah, thy Gods, 1 who have
brought thee out of the land of Mizraim, out of the house of
bondage.

1. Thou shalt have no other Gods before my face.

2. Thou shalt not make any idol with thy hands, nor any
image of that which is in the astonishing waters above, nor on
the earth beneath, nor in the waters under the earth. Thou shalt
not bow before the images, and thou shalt not serve them ; for I,
I am Jehovah, thy Gods, the strong God, the jealous God, visit
ing the iniquity of the fathers, the iniquity of those who hate me,

1 We translate the Decalogue verbatim from the Hebrew, on account of the
expression thy Gods, which is not rendered in any version. (Elohe is the plu
ral masculine of Elohim, God, Judge; we frequently meet wifh it thus in the
plural in the Bible, while the verb, the pronoun, and the adjective remain in
the singular. In Gen. i. we read Elohe bara, the Gods created, (sing.) and it ia
impossible to understand any other than three persons ; for if two had been
meant, Elohim would have been in the dual. We shall make another remark,
not less important, respecting the word Adamah, which likewise occurs in the
Decalogue. Adam signifies red earth, and ah, the expletive, expresses some
thing farther, beyond. God makes use of it in promising long days on the
earth AND BEYOND to such children as honor their father and mother. Thug
the Trinity and the immortality of the soul are implied in the Decalogue by
Elohe, thy Gods, or several divine existents in unity, Jehovah ; and Adam-ah,
earth and beyond.) See note E.

104 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

upon the children to the third and fourth generation, ana show
ing mercy a thousand times to those who love me and who keep
my commandments.

3. Thou shalt not take the name of Jehovah, thy Gods, in
vain ; for he will not hold him guiltless who taketh his name in
vain.

4. Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy. Six days shalt
thou labor and do thy work ; but the seventh day of Jehovah,
thy Gods, thou shalt not do any work, neither thou, nor thy son,
nor thy daughter, nor thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor
thy camel, nor thy guest before thy doors; for in six days Jeho
vah made the marvellous waters above, 1 the earth and the sea,
and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day : wherefore
Jehovah blessed and hallowed it.

5. Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be
long on the earth and beyond the earth which Jehovah r &lt;% Gods,
hath given thee.

6. Thou shalt not kill.

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery.

8. Thou shalt not steal.

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor s house, nor thy neigh-
bor s wife, nor his man-servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox,
nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor s.

Such are the laws which the great Creator has engraved, not
only upon the marble of Sinai, but also upon the heart of man.
What strikes us, in the first place, is that character of univer
sality which distinguishes this divine code from all human codes
that precede it. Here we have the law of all nations, of all cli
mates, of all times. Pythagoras and Zoroaster addressed the
Greeks and the Medes ; Jehovah speaks to all mankind. In him
we recognise that Almighty Father who watches over the uni
verse, and who dispenses alike from his bounteous hand the grain
of corn that feeds the insect and the sun that enlightens it.

i This translation is far from giving any idea of the magnificence of the ori
ginal. Shamajim is a kind of exclamation of wonder, like the voice of a whole
nation, which, on viewing the firmament, would cry out with one accord "Be
hold those miraculous waters suspended in the expanse above us. those orbs of
crystal and of diamond!" How is it possible to render in our language, in the
translation of a law, this poetical idea conveyed in a word of three syllables ?

THE MOKAL LAWS, OR THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. 105

In the next place, nothing can be more admirable than these
moral laws of the Hebrews, for their simplicity and justice. The
pagans enjoined upon men to honor the authors of their days : So
lon decrees death as the punishment of the wicked son. What
does the divine law say on this subject? It promises life to filial
piety. This commandment is founded on the very constitution
of our nature. God makes a precept of filial love, but he has not
enjoined paternal affection. He knew that the son, in whom are
centred all the thoughts and hopes of the father, would often be
but too fondly cherished by his parent : but he imposed the duty
of love upon the son, because he knew the fickleness and the pride
of youth.

In the Decalogue, as in the other works of the Almighty, we
behold majesty and grace of expression combined with the in
trinsic power of divine wisdom. The Brahmin expresses but
very imperfectly the three persons of the Deity ; the name of
Jehovah embraces them in a single word, composed of three
tenses of the verb to be united by a sublime combination : havah,
he was ; hovah, being, or he is ; and je, which, when placed be
fore the three radical letters of a verb in Hebrew, indicates the
future, he will be.

Finally, the legislators of antiquity have marked in their codes
the epochs of the festivals of nations ; but Israel s sabbath or day
of rest is the sabbath of God himself. The Hebrew, as well as
the Gentile, his heir, in the hours of his humble occupation, has
nothing less before his eyes than the successive creation of the
universe. Did Greece, though so highly poetical, ever refer the
labors of the husbandman or the artisan to those splendid moments
in which God created the light, marked out the course of the sun,
and animated the heart of man ?

Laws of God, how little do you resemble those of human insti
tution ! Eternal as the principle whence you emanated, in vain
do ages roll away ; ye are proof against the lapse of time, against
persecution, and against the corruption of nations. This reli
gious legislation, organized in the bosom of political legislations,
and nevertheless independent of their fate, is an astonishing pro
digy. While forms of government pass away or are newly-
modelled, while power is transferred from hand to hand, a few
Christians continue, amid the changes of life, to adore the same

106 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

God, to submit to the same laws, without thinking themselves
released from their ties by revolution, adversity, and example.
What religion of antiquity did not lose its moral influence with
the loss of its priests and its sacrifices ? Where are now the
mysteries of Trophonius s cave and the secrets of the Eleusinian
Ceres? Did not Apollo fall with Delphi, Baal with Babylon,
Serapis with Thebes, Jupiter with the Capitol ? It can be said
of Christianity alone, that it has often witnessed the destruction
of its temples, without being affected by their fall. There were
not always edifices erected in honor of Jesus Christ; but every
place is a temple for the living God : the receptacle of the dead,
the cavern of the mountain, and above all, the heart of the right
eous. Jesus Christ had not always altars of porphyry, pulpits of
cedar and ivory, and happy ones of this world for his servants :
a stone in the desert is sufficient for the celebration of his mys
teries, a tree for the proclamation of his laws, and a bed of t; orne
f w the practice of his virtues.

BOOK III.

THE TRUTHS OF THE SCRIPTURES, THE FALL OF MAN.
CHAPTER I.

THE SUPERIORITY OF THE HISTORY OF MOSES OVER ALL
OTHER COSMOGONIES.

THERE are truths which no one calls in question, though it is
.mpossible to furnish any direct proofs of them. The rebellion
and fall of Lucifer, the creation of the world, the primeval hap
piness and transgression of man, belong to the number of these
truths. It is not to be supposed that an absurd falsehood could
have become a universal tradition. Open the books of the
second Zoroaster, the dialogues of Plato, and those of Lucian,
the moral treatises of Plutarch, the annals of the Chinese, the
Bible of the Hebrews, the Edda of the Scandinavians ; go among
the negroes of Africa, or the learned priests of India; 1 they will
all recapitulate the crimes of the evil deity ; they will all tell you
of the too short period of man s felicity, and the long calamities
which followed the loss of his innocence.

Voltaire somewhere asserts that we possess a most wretched
copy of the different popular traditions respecting the origin of
the world, and the physical and moral elements which compose
it. Did he prefer, then, the cosmogony of the Egyptians, the
great winged egg of the Theban priests ? 3 Hear what is related
by the most ancient historian after Moses :

"The principle of the universe was a gloomy and tempestuous
atmosphere, a wind produced by this gloomy atmosphere and
a turbulent chaos. This principle was unbounded, and for a long
time had neither limit nor form. But when this wind became
enamored of its own principles, a mixture was the result, and
this mixture was called desire or love.

1 See note F. 2 Herod., lib. ii. ; Diod. Sic.

107

108 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

"This mixture being complete was the beginning of all things;
but the wind knew not his own offspring, the mixture. With the
wind, her father, this mixture produced mud, and hence sprang
all the generations of the universe." 1

If we pass to the Greek philosophers, we find Thales, the foun
der of the Ionic sect, asserting water to be the universal prin
ciple. 8 Plato contended that the Deity had arranged the world,
but had not had the power to create it. 3 God, said he, formed
the universe, after the model existing from all eternity in him
self. 4 Visible objects are but shadows of the ideas of God, which
are the only real substances. 6 God, moreover, infused into all
beings a breath of his life, and formed of them a third principle,
which is both spirit and matter, and which we call the soul of
the world. 6

Aristotle reasoned like Plato respecting the origin of the uni
verse ; but he conceived the beautiful system of the chain of
beings, and, ascending from action to action, he proved that there
must exist somewhere a primary principle of motion. 7

Zeno maintained that the world was arranged by its own
energy ; that nature is the system which embraces all things, and
consists of two principles, the one active, the other passive, not
existing separately, but in combination ; that these two principles
are subject to a third, which is fatality; that God, matter, and
fatality, form but one being; that they compose at once the
wheels, the springs, the laws, of the machine, and obey as parts
the laws which they dictate as the whole*

According to the philosophy of Epicurus, the universe has ex
isted from all eternity. There are but two things in nature,
matter and space. 9 Bodies are formed by the aggregation of in
finitely minute particles of matter or atoms, which have an inter
nal principle of motion, that is, gravity. Their revolution would

1 Sanch., ap, Eneeb., Prcepar. Evany., lib. i. C. 10.

2 Cic., de Nat. Deor., lib. i. n. 25.

3 Tim., p. 28 ; Diog. Laert., lib. iii. ; Plut, de Gen. Anim., p. 78.

* Plat., Tim., p. 29. 5 Id., Rep., lib. vii. 6 Id., in Tim., p. 34.

7 Arist., de Gen. An., lib. ii. c. 3 ; Met, lib. xi. c. 5 ; De Ccel., lib. xi. c. 3.
* Laert., lib. v. ; Stob., Eccl. Phys., c. xiv. j Senec., Coruol., c. xxix. ; Cie.
Nat. Deor. Anton., lib. vii.
9 Lucret., ib. ii. ; Laert., lib. x.

SUPERIORITY OF THE HISTORY OF MOSES. 109

be made in a vertical plane, if they did not, in consequence of a
particular law, describe an ellipsis in the regions of space. 1

Epicurus invented this oblique movement for the purpose of
avoiding the system of the fatalists, which would be reproduced
by the perpendicular motion of the atom. But the hypothesis is
absurd ; for if the declination of the atom is a law, it is so from
necessity ; and how can a necessitated cause produce a free effect ?
But to proceed.

From the fortuitous concourse of these atoms originated the
heavens and the earth, the planets and the stars, vegetables,
minerals, and animals, including man ; and when the productive
virtue of the globe was exhausted, the living races were* per
petuated by means of generation. 3 The members of the different
animals, formed by accident, had no particular destination. The
concave ear was not scooped out for the purpose of hearing, nor
was the convex eye rounded in order to see ; but, as these organs
chanced to be adapted to those different uses, the animals em
ployed them mechanically, and in preference to the other senses. 3

After this statement of the cosmogonies of the philosophers,
it would be superfluous to notice those of the poets. Who hag
not heard of Deucalion and Pyrrha, of the golden and of the iron
ages ? As to the traditions current among other nations of the
earth, we will simply remark that in the East Indies an elephant
supports the globe ; in Peru, the sun made all things ; in Canada,
the great hare is the father of the world ; in Greenland, man
sprang from a shell-fish; 4 lastly, Scandinavia records the birth
of Askus and Emla : Odin gives them a soul, Haener reason, and
Lsedur blood and beauty. 5

Loc. cit.

* Luc:et., lib. v. et x. ; Cic., de Nat. Dear., lib. i. c. 8, 9.

3 Lucret., lib. iv., v.

4 See Hesiod ; Ovid ; Hist, of Hindustan ; Herrera, Histor. de las Ind. ,
Charlevoix, Hist, de la Nouv. Fr. ; P. Lafitau, Moeurs des Ind. ; Travels ic
Greenland, by a Missionary.

5 Askum et Emlaui, omni conatu destitutes,
Aniinam nee possidebant, rationem nee habebant,
Nee sanguinem nee sermonem, nee faciem venustam :
Animam dedit Odinus, rationem dedit Hsenerus;
Laedur sanguinernaddiditetfaciein venustam.

BARTHOLIN, Ant. Dan.

110 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

In these various cosmogonies we find childish tales on the one
hand and philosophical abstractions on the other; and were wa
obliged to choose between them, it would be better to adopt the
former.

In order to distinguish, among a number of paintings, the ori
ginal from the copy, we must look for that which, in its ensemble
or in the perfection of its parts, exhibits the genius of the master.
Now, this is precisely what we find in the book of Genesis, which
is the original of the representations met with in popular tradi
tions. What can be more natural, and at the same time more
magnificent, what more easy of conception, or more consonant
with human reason, than the Creator descending into the realms
of ancient night and producing light by the operation of a word ?
The sun, in an instant, takes his station in the heavens, in the
centre of an immense dome of azure ; he throws his invisible net
work over the planets, and detains them about him as his cap
tives ; the seas and forests commence their undulations on the
globe, and their voices are heard for the first time proclaiming to
the universe that marriage in which God himself is the priest,
the earth is the nuptial couch, and mankind is the progeny. 1

CHAPTER II.

THE FALL OP MAN THE SERPENT A HEBREW WORD.

WE are again struck with astonishment in contemplating that
other truth announced in the Scriptures: man dying in conse
quence of having poisoned himself from the tree of life ! man
lost for having tasted the fruit of knowledge, for having learned

1 The Asiatic Researches cor.firm the truth of the book of Genesis. They
divide mythology into three branches, one of which extended throughout In
dia, the second over Greece, and the third among the savages of North Ame
rica. They also show that this same mythology was derived from a still more
ancient tradition, which is that of Moses. Modern travellers in India every
where find traces of the facts recorded in Scripture. The authenticity of these
traditions, after having been long contested, has now ceased to be a matter of
doubt

THE FALL OF MAN. HI

too much of good and evil, for having ceased to resemble the
child of the gospel ! If we suppose any other prohibition of the
Deity, relative to any propensity of the soul whatever, where is
the profound wisdom in the command of the Most High? It
would seem to be unworthy of the Divinity, and no moral would
result from the disobedience of Adam. But observe how the
whole history of the world springs from the law imposed on our
first parents. God placed knowledge within his reach; he could
not refuse it him, since man was created intelligent and free;
but he cautioned him that if he was resolved on knowing too
much, this knowledge would result in the death of himself and
of hu posterity. The secret of the political and moral existence
of nations, and the profoundest mysteries of the human heart, are
comprised in the tradition of this wonderful and fatal tree.

Now let us contemplate the marvellous consequence of this
prohibition of infinite wisdom. Man falls, and the demon of
pride occasions his fall. But pride borrows the voice of love to
seduce him, and it is for the sake of a woman that Adam aspires
to an equality with God a profound illustration of the two prin
cipal passions of the heart, vanity and love. Bossuet, in his Ele
vations to God, in which we often perceive the author of the
Funeral Orations, observes, in treating of the mystery of the
serpent, that "the angels conversed with man in such forms as
God permitted, and under the figure of animals. Eve therefore
was not surprised to hear the serpent speak, any more than she
was to see God himself appear under a sensible form." " Why,"
adds the same writer, "did God cause the proud spirit to appear
in that form in preference to any other? Though it is not abso
lutely necessary for us to know this, yet Scripture intimates the
reason, when it observes that the serpent was the most subtle of
all animals; that is to say, the one which most aptly represented
Satan in his malice, his artifices, and afterward in his punish
ment."

The present age rejects with disdain whatever savors of the
marvellous; but the serpent has frequently been the subject
of our observations, and, if we may venture to say it, we seem
to recognise in that animal the pernicious spirit and artful malice
which are ascribed to it in the Scriptures. Every thing is mys
terious, secret, astonishing, in this incomprehensible reptile. His

112 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

movements differ from those of all other animals. It is impossi
ble to say where his locomotive principle lies, for he has neither
fins, nor feet, nor wings; and yet he flits like a shadow, he van
ishes as by magic, he reappears and is gone again, like a light
azure vapor, or the gleams of a sabre in the dark. Now he curls
himself into a circle and projects a tongue of fire; now, standing
erect upon the extremity of his tail, he moves along in a perpen
dicular attitude, as by enchantment. He rolls himself into a ball,
rises and falls in a spiral line, gives to his rings the undulations
of a wave, twines round the branches of trees, glides under the
grass of the meadow, or skims along the surface of water. His
colors are not more determinate than his movements. They
change with each new point of view, and like his motions, they
possess the false splendor and deceitful variety of the seducer.

Still more astonishing in other respects, he knows, like the
murderer, how to throw aside his garment stained with blood, lest
it should lead to his detection. By a singular faculty, the female
can introduce into her body the little monsters to which she has
given birth. 1 The serpent passes whole months in sleep. He
frequents tombs, inhabits secret retreats, produces poisons which
chill, burn, or checquer the body of his victim with the colors
with which he is himself marked. In one place, he lifts two
menacing heads; in another, he sounds a rattle. He hisses like
the mountain eagle, or bellows like a bull. He naturally enters
into the moral or religious ideas of men, as if in consequence
of the influence which he exercised over their destiny. An
object of horror or adoration, they either view him with an im
placable hatred, or bow down before his genius. Falsehood ap
peals to him, prudence calls him to her aid, envy bears him in
her bosom, and eloquence on her wand. In hell he arms the
scourges of the furies; in heaven eternity is typified by his image.

1 As this part of the description is so very extraordinary, it nny appear to
want confirmation. "Mr. de Beauvois, as related in the Americar. Philosophi
cal Transactions, declared himself an eye-witness of such a fact as is above
stated. He saw a large rattlesnake, which he had disturbed in his walks, open
her jaws, and instantly five small ones, which were lying by her, rushed into her
mouth. He retired and watched her, and in a quarter of an hour saw her again
discharge them. The common viper does the same." See Shaw s General Zo
ology, vol. iii. pp. 324, 374. K.

THE FALL OF MAN. 113

He possesses, moreover, the art of seducing innocence. His eyes
fascinate the birds of the air, and beneath the fern of the crib
the ewe gives up to him her milk. But he may himself be
charmed by the harmony of sweet sounds, and to subdue him the
shepherd needs no other weapon than his pipe.

In the month of July, 1791, we were travelling in Upper
Canada with several families of savages belonging to the nation
of the Onondagos. One day, while we were encamped in a spa
cious plain on the bank of the Genesee River, we saw a rattlesnake.
There was a Canadian in our party who could play on the flute,
and to divert us he advanced toward the serpent with his new
species of weapon. On the approach of his enemy, the haughty
reptile curls himself into a spiral line, flattens his head, inflates
his cheeks, contracts his lips, displays his envenomed fangs and
his bloody throat. His double tongue glows like two flames of
fire; his eyes are burning coals; his body, swollen with rage,
rises and falls like the bellows of a forge; his dilated skin as
sumes a dull and scaly appearance; and his tail, which sends forth
an ominous sound, vibrates with such rapidity as to resemble a
light vapor.

The Canadian now begins to play on his flute. The serpent
starts with surprise and draws back his head. In proportion as
he is struck with the magic sound, his eyes lose their fierceness,
the oscillations of his tail diminish, and the noise which it emits
grows weaker, and gradually dies away. The spiral folds of the
charmed serpent, diverging from the perpendicular, expand, and
one after the other sink to the ground in concentric circles. The
tints of azure, green, white, and gold, recover their brilliancy on
his quivering skin, and, slightly turning his head, he remains mo
tionless in the attitude of attention and pleasure.

At this moment the Canadian advanced a few steps, producing
with his flute sweet and simple notes. The reptile immediately
lowers his variegated neck, opens a passage with his head through
the slender grass, and begins to creep after the musician, halting
when he halts, and again following him when he resumes his
march. In this way he was led beyond the limits of our camp,
attended by a great number of spectators, both savages and
Europeans, who could scarcely believe their eyes. After wit
nessing this wonderful effect of melody, the assembly unani-
10* H

114 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

mously decided that the marvellous serpent should be permitted
to escape. 1

To this kind of inference, drawn from the habits of the serpent
in favor of the truths of Scripture, we shall add another, deduced
from a Hebrew word. Is it not very remarkable, and at the
same time extremely philosophical, that, in Hebrew, the generic
term for man should signify fever or pain? The root of Enosh,
man, is the verb anash, to be dangerously ill. This appellation
was not given to our first parent by the Almighty : he called him
gimply Adam, red earth or slime. It was not till after the fall
that Adam s posterity assumed the name of Enosh, or man, which
was so perfectly adapted to his afflictions, and most eloquently
reminded him both of his guilt and its punishment. Perhaps
Adam, when he witnessed the pangs of his wife, and took into his
arms Cain, his first-born son, lifting him toward heaven, exclaimed,
in the acuteness of his feelings, Enosh, Oh, anguish ! a doleful
exclamation that may have led afterward to the designation of
the human race.

CHAPTER III.

PRIMITIVE CONSTITUTION OF MAN NEW PROOF OF
ORIGINAL SIN.

WE indicated certain moral evidences of original sin in treat
ing of baptism and the redemption ; but a matter of such import
ance deserves more than a passing notice. "The knot of our
condition," says Pascal, "has its twists and folds in this abyss,

1 In India the Cobra de Capello, or hooded snake, is carried about as a show
in a basket, and so managed as to exhibit when shown a kind of dancing mo
tion, raising itself up on its lower part, and alternately moving its head and
body from side to side to the sound of some musical instrument which is played
during the time. Shatv s Zooloyy, vol. iii. p. 411.

The serpentcs, the most formidable of reptiles, as they make a most distin
guishecl figure in natural history, so they are frequently the subject of descrip
tion with naturalists and poets. But it would be difficult to find, either iti
Buifon or Shaw, in Virgil, or even in Lucan, who is enamored of the subject,
any thing superior to this vivid picture of our author. K.

PRIMITIVE CONSTITUTION OF MAN. 115

so that man is more inconceivable without this mystery than this
mystery is inconceivable to man." 1

It appears to us that the order of the universe furnishes a new
proof of our primitive degeneracy. If we survey the world around
us we shall remark that, by a general, and at the same time a par
ticular law, all the integral parts, all the springs of action, whether
internal or external, all the qualities of beings, have a perfect con
formity with one another. Thus the heavenly bodies accomplish
their revolutions in an admirable unity, and each body, steadily
pursuing its course, describes the orbit peculiar to itself. One
single globe imparts light and heat. These two qualities are not
divided between two spheres; the sun combines them in his orb
as God, whose image he is, unites the fertilizing principle with
the principle which illumines.

The same law obtains among animals. Their ideas, if we may
be allowed the expression, invariably accord with their feelings,
their reason with their passions. Hence it is that they are not
susceptible of any increase or diminution of intelligence. The
reader may easily pursue this law of conformities in the vegeta
ble and mineral kingdoms.

By what incomprehensible destiny does man alone form an ex
ception to this law, so necessary for the order, the preservation,
the peace and the welfare, of beings ? As obvious as this har
mony of qualities and movements appears in the rest of nature,
so striking is their discordance in man. There is a perpetual
collision between his understanding and his will, between his
reason and his heart. When he attains the highest degree of
civilization, he is at the lowest point in the scale of morality;
when free, he is barbarous ; when refined, he is bound with fet
ters. Does he excel in the sciences ? his imagination expires.
Does he become a poet ? he loses the faculty of profound thought.
His heart gains at the expense of his head, and his head at the
expense of his heart. He is impoverished in ideas in proportion
as he abounds in feeling; his feelings become more confined in
proportion as his ideas are enlarged. Strength renders him cold
and harsh, while weakness makes him kind and gracious. A
virtue invariably brings him a vice along with it ; and a vice,

1 Pascal s Thoughts, chap. iii.

116 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

when it leaves him, as invariably deprives him of a virtue. Na
tions, collectively considered, exhibit the like vicissitudes ; they
alternately lose and recover the light of wisdom. It might be
said that the Genius of man, with a torch in his hand, is inces
santly flying around the globe, amid the night that envelops us,
appearing to the four quarters of the world like the nocturnal
luminary, which, continually on the increase and the wane, at
each step diminishes for one country the resplendence which she
augments for another.

It is, therefore, highly reasonable to suppose that man, in his
primitive constitution, resembled the rest of the creation, and
that this constitution consisted in the perfect harmony of the
feelings and the faculty of thought, of the imagination and the
understanding. Of this we shall perhaps be convinced, if we
observe that this union is still necessary in order to enjoy even
a shadow of that felicity which we have lost. Thus we are
furnished with a clue to original sin by the mere chain of reason
ing and the probabilities of analogy; since man, in the state in
which we behold him, is not, we may presume, the primitive
man. He stands in contradiction to nature ; disorderly when all
things else are regular; with a double character when every thing
around him is simple. Mysterious, variable, inexplicable, he is
manifestly in the state of a being which some accident has over
thrown : he is a palace that has crumbled to pieces, and been
rebuilt with its ruins, where you behold some parts of an imposing
appearance and others extremely offensive to the eye ; magnificent
colonnades which lead to nothing; lofty porticos and low ceil
ings ; strong lights and deep shades ; in a word, confusion and
disorder pervading every quarter, and especially the sanctuary.

Now, if the primitive constitution of man consisted in accord
ances such as we find established among other beings, nothing
more was necessary for the destruction of this order, or any such
harmony in general, than to alter the equilibrium of the forces or
qualities. In man this precious equilibrium was formed by the
faculties of love and thought. Adam was at the same time the
most enlightened and the best of men ; the most powerful in
thought and the most powerful in love. But whatever has been
created must necessarily have a progressive course. Instead of
waiting for new attainments in knowledge to be derived from the

PRIMITIVE CONSTITUTION OF MAN. 117

revolution of ages, and to be accompanied by an accession of new
feelings, Adam wanted to know every thing at once. Observe,
too, what is very important : man had it in his power to destroy
the harmony of his being in two ways, either by wanting to love
too much, or to know too much. He transgressed in the second
way; for we are, in fact, far more deeply tinctured with the pride
of science than with the pride of love; the latter would have
deserved pity rather than punishment, and if Adam had been
guilty of desiring to feel rather than to know too much, man
himself might, perhaps, have been able to expiate his transgres
sion, and the Son of God would not have been obliged to under
take so painful a sacrifice. But the case was different. Adam
sought to embrace the universe, not with the sentiments of his
heart, but with the power of thought, and, advancing to the tree
of knowledge, he admitted into his mind a ray of light that over
powered it. The equilibrium was instantaneously destroyed, and
confusion took possession of man. Instead of that illumination
which he had promised himself, a thick darkness overcast his
sight, and his guilt, like a veil, spread out between him and the
universe. His whole soul was agitated and in commotion ; the
passions rose up against the judgment, the judgment strove to
annihilate the passions, and in this terrible storm the rock of
death witnessed with joy the first of shipwrecks.

Such was the accident that changed the harmonious and im
mortal constitution of man. From that day all the elements of
his teing have been scattered, and unable to come together again.
The habit we might almost say the love of the tomb which
matter has contracted destroys every plan of restoration in this
world, because our lives are not long enough to confer success
upon any efforts we could make to reach primeval perfection. 1

1 It is in this point that the system of perfectibility is totally defective. Its
supporters do not perceive that, if the mind were continually making new ac
quisitions in knowledge, and the heart in sentiment or the moral virtues, man,
in a given time, regaining the point whence he set out, would be, of necessity,
immortal; for, every principle of division being done away in him, every prin
ciple of death would likewise cease. The longevity of the patriarchs, and the
gift of prophecy among the Hebrews,* must be ascribed to a restoration, more
or less complete, of the equilibrium of human nature. Materialists therefore

* That is, the natural faculty of predicting. T.

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

But how could the world have contained so many generations
if they had not been subject to death ? This is a mere affair of
imagination. Are not the means in the hands of God infinite ?
Who knows if men would have multiplied to that extent which
we witness at the present day? Who knows whether the greater
number of generations would not have remained in a virgin state, 1
or whether those millions of orbs which revolve over our heads
were not reserved for us as delicious retreats, to which we would
have been conveyed by attendant angels ? To go still farther : it
is impossible to calculate the height to which the arts and sciences
might have been carried by man in a state of perfection and
living forever upon the earth. If at an early period he made
himself master of the three elements, if, in spite of the greatest
difficulties, he now disputes with the birds the empire of the air,
what would he not have attempted in his immortal career ? The
nature of the atmosphere, which at present forms an invincible
obstacle to a change of planet, was, perhaps, different before the
deluge. Be this as it may, it is not unworthy the power of God
and the greatness of man to suppose, that the race of Adam was
destined to traverse the regions of space, and to people all those
suns which, deprived of their inhabitants by sin, have since been
nothing more than resplendent deserts.

who support the system of perfectibility are inconsistent with themselves, since,
in fact, this doctrine, so far from being that of materialism, leads to the most
mystical spirituality.

i Such was the opinion of St John Chrysostom. He supposes that God
would have furnished a means of generation which is unknown to us. There
stand, he says, before the throne of God, a multitude of angels who were born
not by human agency. De Virgin,, lib ii.

BOOK IV.

CONTINUATION OF THE TRUTHS OF SCRIPTURE OBJEC
TIONS AGAINST THE SYSTEM OF MOSES.

CHAPTER I.

CHRONOLOGY.

SOME learned men having inferred from the history of man or
that of the earth that the world is of higher antiquity than that
ascribed to it in the Mosaic account, we have frequent quotations
from Sanchoniatho, Porphyry, the Sanscrit books, and other
sources, in support of this opinion. But have they who lay so
much stress on these authorities always consulted them in their
originals ?

In the first place, it is rather presumptuous to intimate that
Origen, Eusebius, Bossuet, Pascal, Tension, Bacon, Newton,
Leibnitz, Huet, and many others, were either ignorant or weak
men, or wrote in opposition to their real sentiments. They be
lieved in the truth of the Mosaic history, and it cannot be denied
that these men possessed learning in comparison with which our
imperfect erudition makes a very insignificant figure.

But to begin with chronology : our modern scholars have made
a mere sport of removing the insurmountable difficulties which
confounded a Scaliger, a Petau, an Usher, a Grotius. They
would laugh at our ignorance were we to inquire when the Olym
piads commenced ? how they agree with the modes of compu
tation by archons, by ephori, by ediles, by consuls, by reigns, by
Pythian, Nemaean, and secular games ? how all the calendars of
nations harmonize together ? in what manner we must proceed to
make the ancient year of Romulus, consisting of ten months or
354 days, accord with Numa s year of 355, or the Julian year of
365 ? by what means we shall avoid errors in referring these same

119

120 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

years to the common Attic year of 354 days, and to the embolis-
mic year of 384 ?*

These, however, are not the only perplexities in respect to
years. The ancient Jewish yeai had but 354 days ; sometimes
twelve days were added at the ei d of the year, and sometimes a
month of thirty days was introduced after the month Adar, to
form a solar year. The modern Jewish year counts twelve
months, and takes seven years of thirteen months in the space of
nineteen years. The Syriac year also varies, and consists of 365
days. The Turkish or Arabic year has 354 days, and admits
eleven intercalary months in twenty-nine years. The Egyptian
year is divided into twelve months of thirty days, five days being
added to the last. The Persian year, called Yezdegerdic, has a
similar computation. 9

Besides these various methods of counting time, all these years
have neither the same beginning, nor the same hours, nor the
same days, nor the same divisions. The civil year of the Jews
(like all those of the Orientals) commences with the new moon
of September, and their ecclesiastical year with the new moon of
March. The Greeks reckon the first month of their year from
the new moon following the summer solstice. The first month
of the Persian year corresponds with our June ; and the Chinese
and Indians begin theirs from the first moon in March. We find,
moreover, astronomical and civil months, which are subdivided
into lunar and solar, into synodical and periodical; we have
months distributed into kalends, ides, decades, weeks; we find
days of two kinds, artificial and natural, and commencing, the
latter at sunrise, as among the ancient Babylonians, Syrians, and
Persians, the former at sunset, as in China, in modern Italy, and
of old among the Athenians, the Jews, and the barbarians of the
north. The Arabs begin their days at noon ; the French, the Eng
lish, the Germans, the Spaniards, and the Portuguese, at midnight.

1 Embolismic means intercalary, or inserted. As the Greeks reckoned time
by the lunar year of 354 days, in order to bring it to the solar year they added
a thirteenth lunar month every two or three years.

2 The other Persian year, called Gdalean, which commenced in the year of
the world 1089, is the most exact of civil years, as it makes the solstices and
the equinoxes fall precisely on the same days. It is formed by means of an
intercalation repeated six or seven times in four, and afterward once in five,
years.

CHRONOLOGY. 121

Lastly, the very hours are not without their perplexities in chro
nology, being divided into Babylonian, Italian, and astronomical;
and were we to be still more particular, we should no longer
reckon sixty minutes in a European hour, but one thousand and
eighty scruples in that of Chaldaea and Arabia.

Chronology has been termed the torch of history; 1 would to
God we had no other to throw a light upon the crimes of men !
But what would be our embarrassment if, in pursuing this sub
ject, we entered upon the different periods, eras, or epochs !
The Victorian period, which embraces 532 years, is formed by
the multiplication of the solar and lunar cycles. The same cycles,
multiplied by that of the indiction, produce the 7980 years of
the Julian period. The period of Constantinople comprehends
an equal number of years with the Julian period, but does not
begin at the sam epoch. As to eras, they reckon in some places
by the year of the crtation, 3 in others by olympiads, 3 by the
foundation of Rome, 4 by the birth of Christ, by the epoch of
Eusebius, by that of the Seleucidae, 5 of Nabonassar, 6 of the Mar
tyrs. 7 The Turks have their hegira, 8 the Persians their yezde-
gerdic. 9 The Julian, Gregorian, Iberian, 10 and Actian 11 eras, are
also employed in computation. We shall say nothing concerning
the Arundelian marbles, the medals and monuments of all sorts,
which create additional confusion in chronology. Is there any
candid person who will deny, after glancing at these pages, that
so many arbitrary modes of calculating time are sufficient to make
of history a frightful chaos ? The annals of the Jews, by the
confession of scientific men themselves, are the only ones whose

I See note G.

* This epoch is subdivided into the Greek, Jewish, Alexandrian, &lt;fec.

3 The Greek historians.

4 The Latin historians.

5 Followed by Josephus, the historian.

6 Followed by Ptolemy and some others.

7 Followed by the first Christians till 532, and in modern times by the
Christians of Abyssinia and Egypt.

8 The Orientals do not place it as we do.

9 Thus named after a king of Persia who fell in a battle with the Saracens.
in the year 632 of our era.

10 Followed in the councils and on the ancient monuments of Spain.

II Received its name from the battle of Actium, and was adopted by Ptolemy,
Josephus, Eusebius, and Censorius.

122 fiENIUS OF mil 1ST I A NIT Y.

chronology is simple, regular, and luminous. Why. then, im
pelled by an ardent y.eal for impiety, should we puzzle ourselves
with questions of computation as dry as they are inexplicable,
when we possess the surest clue to guide us in history? This is
a new evidence in favor of the holy Scriptures. 1

CHAPTER II.

LOGOGRAPHY AND HISTORICAL FACTS.

ATTER the chronological objections against the Bible, come those
which some writers have pretended to deduce from historical
facts themselves. They inform us of a tradition among the
priests of Thebes, which supposed the kingdom of Egypt to have
existed eighteen thousand years j and they cite the list of its
dynasties, which is still extant.

Plutarch, who cannot be suspected of Christianity, will furnish
us with part of the reply to this objection. " Though their year,"
Bays he, speaking of the Egyptians, "comprehended four months,
according to some authors, yet at first it consisted of only one,
and contained no more than the course of a single moon. In this
way, making a year of a single month, the period which has
elapsed from their origin appears extremely long, and they are
reputed to be the most ancient people, though they settled in
their country at a late period." 8 We learn, moreover, from Hero
dotus, 3 Diodorus Siculus, 4 Justin, 5 Strabo, 6 and Jablonsky, 7 that

1 Sir Isaac Newton applied the principles of astronomy to rectify the errors
of chronology. He ascertained that the computations of time in the Old Tes
tament coincided exactly with the revolutions of the heavenly bodies. By the
aid of astronomy he corrected the whole disordered state of computing time
in the profane writers, and confirmed the accuracy and truth of the Scripture
chronology. Neither Cardinal Baronius, in his annals, nor Petavius, nor S&lt; -:t-
liger, in his emendations of Eusehius, great as were their lab and diligence,
have found their way so well through the labyrinths of chronology, or si-ulcd
its disputable and intricate points more satisfactorily in their bulky folios, than
our author has done in the compass of this short chapter. K.

2 Plut, in Num. 3 Herodot, lib. ii. 4 Diod., lib. i.

6 Just., lib. i. 6 Strab., lib. xvii. 7 Jablonsk P tnth. Eyypt., lib. it.

LOGOGRAPHY AND HISTORICAL FACTS. 123

the Egyptians find a pretended glory in referring their origin to
the remotest antiquity, and, as it were, concealing their birth in
the obscurity of ages.

The number of their reigns can scarcely be a source of diffi
culty. It is well known that the Egyptian dynasties are com
posed of contemporary sovereigns j besides, the same word in the
Oriental languages may be read in five or six different ways, and
our ignorance has often made five or six persons out of one indi
vidual. 1 The same thing has happened in regard to the transla
tion rf a single name. The Athoth of the Egyptians is trans
lated in Eratosthenes by Eppoyevr^, which signifies, in Greek, the
learned, as Athoth expresses the same thing in Coptic : but his
torians have not failed to make two kings of Athoth arid Hermes
or Hermofjenes. But the Athoth of Manetho is again multiplied :
in Plato, he is transformed into Thoth, and the text of Sancho-
niatho proves in fact that this is the primitive name, the letter
A being one of those which are retrenched or added at pleasure
in the Oriental languages. Thus the name of the man whom
Africanus calls Pachnas, is rendered by Josephus Apachnas.
Here, then, we have Thoth, Athoth, Hermes, or Hermogenes, or
Mercury, five celebrated men, who occupy together nearly two
centuries ; and yet these Jive kings were but one single Egyptian,
who perhaps did not live sixty years. 2

For instance, the monogram of Fo-hi, a Chinese divinity, is precisely the
same as that of Mencs, a divinity of Egypt. Moreover, it is well ascertained,
that the Oriental characters are only general signs of ideas, which each one
renders in his peculiar language, as he would the Arabic figures. Thus, the
Italian calls duodecimo what the Englishman would express by the word twelve,
and the Frenchman by the word douze.

2 Some persons, perhaps in other respects enlightened, have accused the Jews
of having adulterated the names of history ; but they should have known that
it was the Greeks, and not the Jews, who were guilty of this alteration, espe
cially in regard to Oriental names. See Boch., Geog. Sacr., &c. Even at the
present day, in the East, Tyre is called Astir, from Tour or Sur. The Athe
nians themselves would have pronounced it Titr or Tour ; for the y in modern
language is epsiloii, or small u of the Greeks. In the same way, Darius may
be derived from Assuerus. Dropping the initial A, according to a preceding
remark, we have Suerus. But the delta, or capital D in Greek, is much like
the 8 imech, or capital S in Hebrew, and the latter was thus changed among the
Greeks into the former. By an error in pronunciation, the change was more
easily effected : for, as a Frenchman would pronounce the English th like 2 or
d, or t, so the Greek, having no letter like the Hebrew S, was inclined to pro-

124 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

What necessity is there, after all, to lay so -much stress on logo-
graphica. disputes, when we need but open the volumes of his
tory to convince ourselves of the modern origin of men ? In
vain shall we combine with imaginary ages, or conjure up ficti
tious shades of death ; all this will not prevent mankind from
being but a creature of yesterday. The names of those who in
vented the arts are as familiar to us as those of a brother or a
grandfather. It was Hypsuranius who built huts of reeds, the
habitations of primeval innocence; Usoiis first clothed himself
with the skins of beasts, and braved the billows on the trunk of
a tree; 1 Tubalcain taught men the uses of iron; 8 Noah or Bac
chus planted the vine ; Cain or Triptolemus fashioned the plough ;
Agrotes 3 or Ceres reaped the first harvest. History, medicine,
geometry, the fine arts, and laws, are not of higher antiquity; and
we are indebted for them to Herodotus, Hippocrates, Thales,
Homer, Daedalus, and Minos. As to the origin of kings and
cities, their history has been transmitted to us by Moses, Plato,
Justin, and some others, and we know when and why the various
forms of government were established among different nations. 4

If we are astonished to find such grandeur and magnificence
in the early cities of Asia, this difficulty is easily removed by an
observation founded on the genius of the Eastern nations. In
all ages, it has been the custom of these nations to build immense
cities, which, however, afford no evidence respecting their civil
ization, and consequently their antiquity. The Arabs, who tra
vel over burning sands, where they are quite satisfied to enjoy a
little shade under a tent of sheepskins, have erected almost under
our eyes gigantic cities, which these citizens of the desert seem
to have designed as the enclosures of solitude. The Chinese,
also, who have made so little progress in the arts, have the, most

nounce it as their D, as the Samech in Hebrew has in fact something of this
sound, according to the Masoretic points. Hence Dueru* for Suerus, and by a
slight change of vowels, which are not important in etymology, we have Do-
ius. They who wish to jest at the expense of religion, morals, the peace of
nations, or the general happiness of mankind, should first be well assured that
they .will not incur, in the attempt, the charge of pitiful ignorance.

1 Sanch., ap. Eus., Prceparat. Evang., lib. i. c. 10.

Gen., iv. 3 Sanch., loc, cit.

4 See Pentat. of Moses ; Plat., de Leg. et Tim. ; Just., lib. ii., Herod ; Plut,
in Thcs., Num., Lycurg., Sol., Ac.

LOGOGRAPHY AND HISTORICAL FACTS. 125

extensive cities on the face of the globe, with walls, gardens,
palaces, lakes, and artificial canals, like those of ancient Babylon. 1
Finally, are we not ourselves a striking instance of the rapidity
with which nations become civilized ? Scarcely twelve centuries
ago our ancestors were as barbarous as the Hottentots, and now
we surpass Greece in all the refinements of taste, luxury, and the
arts.

The general logic of languages cannot furnish any valid argu
ment in favor of the antiquity of mankind. The idioms of the
primitive East, far from indicating a very ancient state of society,
exhibit on the contrary a close proximity to that of nature. Their
mechanism is simple in the highest degree ; hyperbole, meta
phor, all the poetic figures, incessantly recur ; but you will find in
them scarcely any words for the expression of metaphysical ideas.
It would be impossible to convey with perspicuity in the Hebrew
language the theology of the Christian doctrine. 3 Among the
Greeks and the modern Arabs alone we meet with compound
terms capable of expressing the abstractions of thought. Every
body knows that Aristotle was the first philosopher who invented
categories, in which ideas are placed together by a forced ar
rangement, of whatever class or nature they may be. 3

Lastly, it is asserted that, before the Egyptians had erected
those temples of which such beautiful ruins yet remain, the peo
ple already tended their flocks amid ruins left by some unknown
nation : a circumstance which would presuppose a very high
antiquity.

To decide this question, it is necessary to ascertain precisely

i See Fath. du Hald., Hist, de la Ch. j Lettr. Edif. ; Macartney s Emb. to
China, Ac.

a This may be easily ascertained by reading the Fathers who have written in
Syriac, as St. Ephrem, deacon of Edessa.

3 If languages require so much time for their complete formation, why have
the savages of Canada such subtle and such complicated dialects ? The verbs
of the Huron language have all the inflexions of the Greek verbs. Like the
latter, they distinguish by the characteristic, the augment, Ac. They have
three modes, three genders, three numbers, and, moreover, a certain derange
ment of letters peculiar to the verbs of the Oriental languages. But, what is
still more unaccountable, they have a fourth personal pronoun, which is placed
between the second and third person both in the singular and in the plural.
There is nothing like this in any of the dead or living languages with which
we have the slightest acquaintance.
11*

126 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

who were the pastoral tribes, and whence they came. Bruce, the
British traveller, who finds every thing in Ethiopia, derives their
origin from that country. The Ethiopians, however, so far from
being able to send colonies abroad, were themselves at that period
a recently-established people. " The Ethiopians/ says Eusebius,
" rising from the banks of the river Indus, settled near Egypt."
Manetho, in his sixth dynasty, calls the shepherds Phoenician
strangers. Eusebius places their arrival in Egypt during the
reign of Amenophis, whence we must draw these two inferences :

1. That Egypt was not then barbarous, since Inachus the Egyp
tian, about this period, introduced the sciences into Greece;

2. That Egypt was not covered with ruins, since Thebes was then
built, and since Amenophis was the father of Sesostris, who raised
the glory of the Egyptians to its highest pitch. According to
Josephus the historian, it was Thetmosis who compelled the shep
herds to abandon altogether the banks of the Nile. 1

But what new arguments would have been urged against the
Scripture, had its adversaries been acquainted with another his
torical prodigy, which also belongs to the class of ruins, alas ! like
every thing connected with the history of mankind ! Within
these few years, extraordinary monuments have been discovered
in North America, on the banks of the Muskiugum, the Miami,
the Wabash, the Ohio, and particularly the Scioto, where they
occupy a space upward of twenty leagues in length. They con
sist of ramparts of earth, with ditches, slopes, moons, half-moons,
and prodigious cones, which serve for sepulchres. It has been
asked, what people could have left these remains ? But, so far,
the question has not been answered. 3 Man is suspended in the
present, between the past and the future, as on a rock between
two gulfs : behind, before, all around, is darkness ; and scarcely

1 Maneth., ad. Joseph, et Afric. ; Herod., lib. ii. c. 100; Diod., lib. i. ; Ps.
xlviii. ; Euseb., Chron., lib. i. The invasion of these people, recorded by profane
authors, explains a passage in Genesis relative to Jacob and his sons : " That
ye may dwell in the land of Gessen, for the Egyptians have all shepherds in
abomination." Gen. xlvi. 34. Hence, also, we obtain a clue to the Greek
name of the Pharaoh under whom Israel entered Egypt, and that of the second
Pharaoh, during whose reign his descendants quitted that country. The Scrip
ture, so far from contradicting profane histories, serves, on the contrary, to
prove their authenticity.

2 See note H.

LOGOGRAPHY AND HISTORICAL FACTS.

does he see the few phantoms which, rising up from the bottom
of either abyss, float for a moment upon the surface, and then
disappear.

Whatever conjectures may be formed respecting these Ame
rican ruins, though they were accompanied with the visions of a
primitive world, or the chimeras of an Atlantis, the civilized
nation, whose plough, perhaps, turned up the plains where the
Iroquois now pursues the bear, required no longer time for the
consummation of its destiny, than that which swallowed up the
empires of a Cyrus, an Alexander, and a Caesar. Fortunate at
least is that nation which has not left behind a name in history,
and whose possessions have fallen to no other heirs than the deer
of the forest and the birds of the air ! No one will come intc
these savage wilds to deny the Creator, and, with scales in his
hand, to weigh the dust of departed humanity, with a view to
prove the eternal duration of mankind.

For my part, a solitary lover of nature and a simple confessor
of the Deity, I once sat on those very ruins. A traveller without
renown, I held converse with those relics, like myself, unknown
The confused recollections of society, and the vague reveries of
the desert, were blended in the recesses of my soul. Night had
reached the middle of her course ; all was solemn and still the
moon, the woods, and the sepulchres, save that at long intervals
was heard the fall of some tree, which the axe of time laid low,
in the depths of the forest. Thus every thing falls, every thing
goes to ruin !

We do not conceive ourselves obliged to speak seriously of the
four jog ties, or Indian ages, the first of which lasted three mil
lion two hundred thousand years \ the second, one million ; the
third, one million six hundred thousand ; while the fourth, which
is the present age, will comprehend four hundred thousand years !

i f to all these difficulties of chronology, logography, and facts,
we add the errors arising from the passions of the historian, or
of men who are the partisans of his theories, if, moreover, we
take into account the errors of copyists, and a thousand accidents
of time and place, we shall be compelled to acknowledge that all
the reasons drawn from history in favor of the antiquity of the
globe, are as unsatisfactory in themselves as their research is use
less. Most assuredly, too, it is a poor way of establishing the

128 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

duration of the world, to make human life the basis of the calcu
lation. Will you pretend to demonstrate the permanence and the
reality of things by the rapid succession of momentary shadows ?
Will you exhibit a heap of rubbish as the evidence of a society
without beginning and without end ? Does it require many days
to produce a pile of ruins ? The world would be old indeed were
we to number its years by the wrecks which it presents to our
view.

CHAPTER III.

ASTRONOMY.

IN the history of the firmament are sought the second proofs
of the antiquity of the world and the errors of Scripture. Thus,
the heavens, which declare the glory of God unto all men, and
whose language is heard by all nations, 1 proclaim nothing to the
infidel. Happily it is not that the celestial orbs are mute, but
the athiest is deaf.

Astronomy owes its origin to shepherds. In the wilds of the
primitive creation, the first generations of men beheld their in
fant families and their numerous flocks sporting around them,
and, happy to the very inmost of their souls, no useless foresight
disturbed their repose. In the departure of the birds of autumn
they remarked not the flight of years, neither did the fall of the
leaves apprise them of any thing more than the return of winter.
When the neighboring hill was stripped of all its herbage by their
flocks, mounting their wagons covered with skins, with their
children and their wives, they traversed the forests in quest of
some distant river, where the coolness of the shade and the beauty
of the wilderness invited them to fix their new habitation.

But they wanted a compass to direct them through those track
less forests, and along those rivers which had never been explored ;
and they naturally trusted to the guidance of the stars, by whose
appearances they steered their course. At once legislators and
guides, they regulated the shearing of the sheep and the most

i Ps. xviii.

ASTRONOMY. 129

distant migrations ; each family followed the course of a constel
lation ; each star shone as the leader of a flock. In proportion
as these pastoral people applied to this study, they discovered new
laws. In those days God was pleased to unfold the course of the
sun to the tenants of the lowly cabin, and fable recorded that
Apollo had descended among the shepherds.

Small columns of brick were raised to perpetuate the remem
brance of observations. Never had the mightiest empire a more
simple history. With the same tool with which he pierced his
pipe, by the same altar on which he had sacrificed his firstling
kid, the herdsman engraved upon a rock his immortal disco
veries. In other places he left similar witnesses of this pastoral
astronomy ; he exchanged annals with the firmament ; and in the
same manner as he had inscribed the records of the stars among
his flocks, he wrote the records of his flocks among the constel
lations of the zodiac. The sun retired to rest only in the sheep-
folds ; the bull announced by his bellowing the passage of the
god of day, and the ram awaited his appearance to salute him in
the name of his master. In the skies were discovered ears of
corn, implements of agriculture, virgins, lambs, nay, even the
shepherd s dog : the whole sphere was transformed, as it were,
into a spacious rural mansion, inhabited by the Shepherd of men.

These happy days passed away, but mankind retained a con
fused tradition of them in those accounts of the golden age, in
which the reign of the stars was invariably blended with that of
the pastoral life. India has still an astronomical and pastoral cha
racter, like Egypt of old. With corruption, however, arose pro
perty; 1 with property mensuration, the second age of astronomy.
But, by a destiny not a little remarkable, the simplest nations
were still best acquainted with the system of the heavens ; the
herdsman of the Ganges fell into errors less gross than the philo
sopher of Athens : as if the muse of astronomy had retained a
secret partiality for the shepherds, the objects of her first attach
ment.

1 That is, the rights of property became objects of closer vigilance and more
jealous care, as men grew more selfish. The right of property, being a neces
sary appendage of the social state, cannot be an evil opposed to the divine law,
but rather a relation which that law sanctions and commands ; so that the vio
lation of the former implies the transgression of the latter. T.

130 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

During those protracted calamities which accompanied and
succeeded the fall of the Roman empire, the sciences had no
other asylum than the sanctuary of that Church which they now
so ungratefully profane. Cherished in the silence of the con
vents, they owed their preservation to those same recluses whom,
in our days, they affect to despise. A friar Bacon, a bishop
Albert, a cardinal Cusa, resuscitated in their laborious vigils the
genius of an Eudoxus, a Timocharis, an Hipparchus, and a
Ptolemy. Patronized by the popes, who set an example to kings,
the sciences at length spread abroad from those sacred retreats in
which religion had gathered them under her protecting wings.
Astronomy revived in every quarter. Gregory XIII. corrected
the calendar; Copernicus reformed the system of the world;
Tycho Brahe, from the top of his tower, renewed the memory of
the ancient Babylonian observers ; Kepler determined the figure
of the planetary orbits. But God humbled again the pride of
man by granting to the sports of innocence what he had refused
to the investigations of philosophy; the telescope was discovered
by children. Galileo improved the new instrument; when, be
hold ! the paths of immensity were at once shortened, the genius
of man brought down the heavens from their elevation, and the
stars came to be measured by his hands.

These numerous discoveries were but the forerunners of others
still more important; for man had approached too near the sanc
tuary of nature not to be soon admitted within its precincts.
Nothing was now wanted but the proper methods of relieving his
mind from the vast calculations which overwhelmed it. Descartes
soon ventured to refer to the great Creator the physical laws of
our globe ; and, by one of those strokes of genius of which only
four or five instances are recorded in history, he effected a union
between algebra and geometry in the same manner as speech is
combined with thought. Newton had only to apply the materials
which so many hands had prepared for him, but he did it like a
perfect artist; and from the various plans upon which he might
have reared the edifice of the spheres, he selected the noblest,
the most sublime design perhaps that of the Deity himself. The
understanding at length ascertained the order which the eye ad
mired ; the golden balance which Homer and the Scriptures give
to the Supreme Arbiter was again put into his hand ; the comet

ASTRONOMY.

submitted ; planet attracted planet across the regions of im
mensity; ocean felt the pressure of two vast bodies floating mil
lions of leagues from its surface ; from the sun to the minutest
atom all things continued in their places by an admirable equili
brium, and nothing in nature now wanted a counterpoise but the
heart of man.

Who could have thought it ? At the very time when so many
new proofs of the greatness and wisdom of Providence were dis
covered, there were men who shut their eyes more closely than
ever against the light. Not that those immortal geniuses, Co
pernicus, Tycho Brahe, Kepler, Leibnitz, and Newton, were athe
ists ; but their successors, by an unaccountable fatality, imagined
that they held the Deity within their crucibles and telescopes,
because they perceived in them some of the elements with which
the universal mind had founded the system of worlds. When we
recall the terrors of the French revolution, when we consider
that to the vanity of science we owe almost all our calamities, is
it not enough to make us think that man was on the point of
perishing once more, for having a second time raised his hand to
the fruit of the tree of knowledge ? Let this afford us matter
for reflection on the original crime : the ages of science have
always bordered on the ages of destruction.

Truly unfortunate, in our opinion, is the astronomer who can
pass his nights in contemplating the stars without beholding in
scribed upon them the name of God. What ! can he not see in
such a variety of figures and characters the letters which compose
that divine name ? Is not the problem of a Deity solved by the
mysterious calculations of so many suns ? Does not the brilliant
algebra of the heavens suffice to bring to light the great Un
known ?

The first astronomical objection alleged against the system of
Moses is founded on the celestial sphere. " How can the world
be so modern?" exclaims the philosopher; " the very composition
of the sphere implies millions of years/

It must also be admitted that astronomy was one of the first
sciences cultivated by men. Bailly proves that the patriarchs,
before the time of Noah, were acquainted with the period of six
hundred years, the year of 365 days, 5 hours, 51 minutes, 36
seconds, and likewise that they named the six days of the crea-

132 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

tion after the planetary order. 1 If the primitive generations
were already so conversant with the history of the heavens, is it
not highly probable that the ages which have elapsed since the
deluge have been more than sufficient to bring the science of as
tronomy to the state in which we find it at the present day? It
is impossible to pronounce with certainty respecting the time
necessary for the development of a science. From Copernicus to
Newton, astronomy made greater progress in one century than h
h;id previously done in the course of three thousand years. The
sciences may be compared to regions diversified with plains and
mountains. We proceed with rapid pace over the plain; but
when we reach the foot of the mountain a considerable time is
lost in exploring its paths and in climbing the summit from
which we descend into another plain. It must not then be con
cluded that astronomy was myriads of centuries in its infancy,
because its middle age was protracted during four thousand years:
such an idea would contradict all that we know of history and of
the progress of the human mind.

The second objection is deduced from the historical epochs,
combined with the astronomical observations of nations, and in
particular those of the Chaldeans and Indians.

In regard to the former, it is well known that the seven hun
dred and twenty thousand years of which they boasted are re
ducible to nineteen hundred and three."

As to the observations of the Indians, those which are founded
on incontestable facts date no farther back than the year 3102
before the Christian era. This we admit to be a very high de
gree of antiquity, but it comes at least within known limits. At
this epoch the fourth jogue or Indian age commences. Bailly,
combining the first three ages and adding them to the fourth,
shows that the whole chronology of the Brahmins is comprised in
the space of about seventy centuries, which exactly corresponds
with the chronology of the Septuagint. 3 He proves to demon
stration that the chronicles of the Egyptians, the Chaldeans, the
Chinese, the Persians, and the Indians, coincide in a remarkable

1 Bail., Hit. de V Ast. Anc.

2 The tables of these observations, drawn up at Babylon before the arrival
of Alexander, were sent by Callisi hones to Aristotle.

3 See note I.

NATURAL HISTORY THE DELUGE. 133

degree with the epochs of Scripture. 1 We quote Bailly the more
willingly, as that philosopher fell a victim to the principles which
we have undertaken to refute. When this unfortunate man, in
speaking of Hypatia, a young female astronomer, murdered by
the inhabitants of Alexandria, observed that the moderns at least
spare life, thouyh they show no mercy to reputation, little did he
suspect that he would himself afford a lamentable proof of the
fallacy of his assertion, and that in his own person the tragic
story of Hypatia would be repeated.

In short, all these endless series of generations and centuries,
which are to be met with among different nations, spring from a
weakness natural to the human heart. Man feels within himself
a principle of immortality, and shrinks as it were with shame
from the contemplation of his brief existence. He imagines that
by piling tombs upon tombs he will hide from view this capital
defect of his nature, and by adding nothing to nothing he will at
length produce eternity. But he only betrays himself, and re
veals what he is so anxious to conceal ; for, the higher the funeral,
pyramid is reared, the more diminutive seems the living statue
that surmounts it ; and life appears the more insignificant when
the monstrous phantom of death lifts it up in its arms.

CHAPTER TV.

NATURAL HISTORY THE DELUGE.

ASTRONOMY having been found insufficient to destroy the
chronology of Scripture, natural history was summoned to its
aid.* Some writers speak of certain epochs in which the whole

1 Bail., Ast. Ind., disc, prelim., part ii.

2 Philosophers have laughed at Joshua, who commanded the sun to stand
still. We would scarcely have thought it necessary to inform the present age
that the sun, though the centre of our system, is not motionless. Others havo
excused Joshua by observing that he adopted the popular mode of expression.
They might just as well have said that he spoke like Newton. If you wished
to stop a watch, you would not break a small wheel, but the main-spring,
the suspension of which would instantly arrest the movements of the whole
machine.

134 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

universe grew young again; others deny the great catastrophes
of the globe, such as the universal deluge. "Rain," say they,
" is nothing but the vapor of the ocean. Now, all the seas of the
globe would not be sufficient to cover the earth to the height
mentioned in Scripture." We might reply that this mode of
reasoning is at variance with that very knowledge of which men
boast so much nowadays, as modern chemistry teaches us that
air may be converted into water. Were this the case, what a
frightful deluge would be witnessed ! But, passing over, as we
willingly do, those scientific arguments which explain every thing
to the understanding without satisfying the heart, we shall con
fine ourselves to the remark, that, to submerge the terrestrial por
tion of the globe, it is sufficient for Ocean to overleap his bounds,
carrying wkh him the waters of the fathomless gulf. Besides,
ye presumptuous mortals, have ye penetrated into the treasures
of the hail? 1 are ye acquainted with all the reservoirs of that
abyss whence the Lord will call forth death on the dreadful day
of his vengeance ?

Whether God, raising the bed of the sea, poured its turbulent
waters over the land, or, changing the course of the sun, caused
it to rise at the pole, portentous of evil, the fact is certain, that
a destructive deluge has laid waste the earth.

On this occasion the human race was nearly annihilated. All
national quarrels were at an end, all revolutions ceased. Kings,
people, hostile armies, suspended their sanguinary quarrels, and,
seized with mortal fear, embraced one another. The temples
were crowded with suppliants, who had all their lives, perhaps,
denied the -Deity; but the Deity denied them in his turn, and it
was soon announced that all ocean was rushing in at the gates. In
vain mothers fled with their infants to the summits of -the moun
tains ; in vain the lover expected to find a refuge for his mistress
in the same grot which had witnessed his vows ; in vain friends
disputed with affrighted beasts the topmost branches of the oak;
the bird himself, driven from bough to bough by the rising flood,
tired his wings to no purpose over the shoreless plain of waters.
The sun, which through sombre clouds shed a lurid light on
naught but scenes of death, appeared dull and empurpled ; the

Job.

NATURAL HISTORY THE DELUGE. 135

volcanoes, disgorging vast masses of smoke, were extinguished,
and one of the four elements, fire, perished together with light.

The world was now covered with horrible shades which sent
forth the most terrific cries. Amid the humid darkness, the
remnant of living creatures, the tiger and the lamb, the eagle
and the dove, the reptile and the insect, man and woman, hastened
together to the most elevated rock on the surface of the globe;
but Ocean still pursued them, and, raising around them his stu
pendous and menacing waters, buried the last point of land be
neath his stormy wastes.

God, having accomplished his vengeance, commanded the seas
to retire within the abyss ; but he determined to impress on the
globe everlasting traces of his wrath. The relics of the elephant
of India were piled up in the regions of Siberia; the shell-fish of
the Magellanic shores were fixed in the quarries of France; whole
beds of marine substances settled upon the summits of the Alps,
of Taurus, and of the Cordilleras; and those mountains them
selves were the monuments which God left in the three worlds
to commemorate his triumph over the wicked, as a monarch
erects a trophy on the field where he has defeated his enemies.

He was not satisfied, however, with these general attestations
of his past indignation. Knowing how soon the remembrance of
calamity is effaced from the mind of man, he spread memorials
of it everywhere around him. The sun had now no other throne
in the morning, no other couch at night, than the watery element,
in which it seemed to be daily extinguished as at the time of the
deluge. Often the clouds of heaven resembled waves heaped
upon one another, sandy shores or whitened cliffs. On land, the
rocks discharged torrents of water. The light of the moon and
the white vapors of evening at times gave to the valleys the ap
pearance of being covered with a sheet of water. In the most arid
situations grew trees, whose bending branches hung heavily toward
the earth, as if they had just risen from the bosom of the waves.
Twice a day the sea was commanded to rise again in its bed, and
to invade its deep resounding shores. The caverns of the moun
tains retained a hollow and mournful sound. The summits of the
solitary woods presented an image of the rolling billows, and the
ocean seemed to have left the roar of its waters in the recesses of
the forest.

136 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER V.

YOUTH AND OLD AGE OF THE EARTH.

WE now come to the third objection relative to the modern
origin of the globe. "The earth/ it is said, "is an aged nurse,
who betrays her antiquity in every thing. Examine her fossils,
her marbles, her granites, her lavas, and you will discover in
them a series of innumerable years, marked by circles, strata, or
branches, as the age of a serpent is determined by his rattles, that
of a horse by his teeth, or that of a stag by his antlers." 1

This difficulty has been solved a hundred times by the follow
ing answer: God might have created, and doubtless aid create,
the world with all the marks of antiquity and completeness which
it now exhibits.

What, in fact, can be more probable than that the Author of
nature originally produced both venerable forests and young plan
tations, and that the animals were created, some full of days,
others adorned with the graces of infancy ? The oaks, on spring
ing from the fruitful soil, doubtless bore at once the aged crows
and the new progeny of doves. Worm, chrysalis, and butterfly
the insect crawled upon the grass, suspended its golden egg in the
forest, or fluttered aloft in the air. The bee, though she had
lived but a morning, already gathered her ambrosia from genera
tions of flowers. We may. imagine that the ewe was not without
her lamb, nor the linnet without her young; and that the flower
ing shrubs concealed among their buds nightingales, astonished at
the warbling notes in which they expressed the tenderness of
their first enjoyments.

If the world had not been at the same time young and old,
the grand, the serious, the moral, would have been banished from
the face of nature; for these are ideas essentially inherent in an-
tique^objects. Every scene would have lost its wonders. The
rock in ruins would no longer have overhung the abyss with its
The forestg? stripped of their accidents&gt;

1 See note K

YOUTH AND OLD AGE OF THE EARTH. 137

no longer have exhibited the pleasing irregularity of trees curved
in every direction, and of trunks bending over the currents of
rivers. The inspired thoughts, the venerable sounds, the magic
voices, the sacred awe of the forests, would have been wanting,
together with the darksome bowers which serve for their retreats;
and the solitudes of earth and heaven would have remained bare
and unattractive without those columns of oaks which join them
together. We may well suppose, that the very day the ocean
poured its first waves upon the shores, they dashed against rocks
already worn, over strands covered with fragments of shell-fish,
and around barren capes which protected the sinking coasts
against the ravages of the waters.

Without this original antiquity, there would have been neither
beauty nor magnificence in the work of the Almighty; and, what
could not possibly be the case, nature, in a state of innocence,
would have been less charming than she is in her present dege
nerate condition. A general infancy of plants, of animals, of ele
ments, would have spread an air of dulness and languor through
out the world, and stripped it of all* poetical inspiration. But
God was not so unskilful a designer of the groves of Eden as
infidels pretend. Man, the lord 6f the earth, was ushered into
life with the maturity of thirty years, that the majesty of his be
ing might accord with the antique grandeur of his new empire;
and in like manner his partner, doubtless, shone in all the bloom
ing graces of female beauty when she was formed from Adam,
that she might be in unison with the flowers and the birds, with
innocence and love, and with all the youthful part of the universe.

12*

BOOK V.

THE EXISTENCE OF GOD DEMONSTRATED BY THE
WORKS OF NATURE.

CHAPTER I.

OBJECT OF THIS BOOK.

ONE of the principal doctrines of Christianity yet remains to
be examined; that is, the state of rewards and punishments in
another life. But we cannot enter upon this important subject
without first speaking of the two pillars which support the edifice
of all the religions in the world the existence of God, and the
immortality of the soul.

These topics are, moreover, suggested by the natural develop
ment of our subject; since it is only after having followed Faith
here below that we can accompany her to those heavenly man
sions to which she speeds her flight on leaving the earth. Ad
hering scrupulously to our plan, we shall banish all abstract ideas
from our proofs of the existence of God and the immortality of the
soul, and shall employ only such arguments as may be derived from
poetical and sentimental considerations, or, in other words, from
the wonders of nature and the moral feelings. Plato and Cicero
among the ancients, Clarke and Leibnitz among the moderns,
have metaphysically, and almost mathematically, demonstrated the
existence of a Supreme Being, 1 while the brightest geniuses in
every age have admitted this consoling dogma. If it is rejected
by certain sophists, God can exist just as well without their
suffrage- Death alone, to which atheists would reduce all things,
stands in need of defenders to vindicate its rights, since it has
but little reality for man. Let us leave it, then, its deplorable
partisans, who are not even agreed among themselves ; for if they
who believe in Providence concur in the principal points of their
doctrine, they, on the contrary, who deny the Creator, are involved

See note L.
138

GENERAL SURVEY OF THE UNIVERSE. 139

in everlasting disputes concerning the basis of their nothingness.
They have before them an abyss. To fill it up, they want only
the foundation-stone, but they are at a loss where to procure it.
Such, moreover, is the essential character of error, that when this
error is not our own it instantly shocks and disgusts us; hence
th 3 interminable quarrels among atheists.

CHAPTER II.

A GENERAL SURVEY OF THE UNIVERSE.

THERE is a God. The plants of the valley and the cedars of
the mountain bless his name; the insect hums his praise; the
elephant salutes him with the rising day; the bird glorifies him
among the foliage; the lightning bespeaks his power, and the
ocean declares his immensity. Man alone has said, " There is no
God."

Has he then in adversity never raised his eyes toward heaven ?
has he in prosperity never cast them on the earth ? Is Nature so
far from him that he has not been able to contemplate its won
ders; or does he consider them as the mere result of fortuitous
causes / But how could chance have compelled crude and stub
born materials to arrange themselves in such exquisite order?

It might be asserted that man is the idea of God displayed,
and the universe his imagination made manifest. They who
have admitted the beauty of nature as a proof of a supreme
intelligence, ought to have pointed out a truth which greatly
enlarges the sphere of wonders. It is this : motion and rest,
darkness and light, the seasons, the revolutions of the heavenly
bodies, which give variety to the decorations of the world, are
successive only in appearance, and permanent in reality. The
scene that fades upon our view is painted in brilliant colors
for another people ; it is not the spectacle that is changed, but
the spectator. Thus God has combined in his work absolute
duration and progressive duration. The first is placed in time,
the second in space ; by means of the former, the beauties of the
universe are one, infinite, and invariable ; by means of the latter,

H0 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. %

they are multiplied, finite, and perpetually renewed. Without
the one, there would be no grandeur in the creation; without
the other, it would exhibit nothing but dull uniformity.

Here time appears to us in a new point of view ; the smallest
of its fractions becomes a complete whole, which comprehends
all things, and in which all things transpire, from the death of
an insect to the birth of a world; each minute is in itself a little
eternity. Combine, then, at the same moment, in imagination,
the most beautiful incidents of nature; represent to yourself at
once all the hours of the day and all the seasons of the year, a
spring morning and an autumnal morning, a night spangled with
stars and a night overcast with clouds, meadows enamelled with
flowers, forests stripped by the frosts, and fields glowing with
their golden harvests; you will then have a just idea of the
prospect of the universe. While you are gazing with admiration
upon the sun sinking beneath the western arch, another beholds
it emerging from the regions of Aurora. By what inconceivable
magic does it come, that this aged luminary, which retires to rest,
as if weary and heated, in the dusky arms of night, is at the
very same moment that youthful orb which awakes bathed in
dew, and sparkling through the gray curtains of the dawn ?
Every moment of the day the sun is rising, glowing at his zenith,
and setting on the world ; or rather our senses deceive us, and
there is no real sunrise, noon, or sunset. The whole is reduced
to a fixed point, from which the orb of day emits, at one and the
same time, three lights from one single substance. This triple
splendor is perhaps the most beautiful incident in nature; for,
while it affords an idea of the perpetual magnificence and omni
presence of God, it exhibits a most striking image of his glorious
Trinity.

We cannot conceive what a scene of confusion nature would
present if it were abandoned to the sole movements of matter.
The clouds, obedient to the laws of gravity, would fall perpen
dicularly upon the earth, or ascend in pyramids into the air ; a
moment afterward the atmosphere would be too dense or too
rarefied for the organs of respiration. The moon, either too near
or too distant, would at one time be invisible, at another would
appear bloody and covered with enormous spots, or would alone
fill the whole celestial concave with her disproportionate orb.

ORGANIZATION OF ANIMALS AND OF PLANTS. 14]

Seized, as it were, with a strange kind of madness, she would
pass from one eclipse to another, or, rolling from side to side,
would exhibit that portion of her surface which earth has never
yet beheld. The stars would appear to be under the influence
of the same capricious power ; and nothing would be seen but a
succession of tremendous conjunctions. One of the summer
signs would be speedily overtaken by one of the signs of winter ;
the Cow-herd would lead the Pleiades, and the Lion would roar
in Aquarius ; here the stars would dart along with the rapidity
of lightning, there they would be suspended motionless; some
times, crowding together in groups, they would form a new ga
laxy; at others, disappearing all at once, and, to use the expression
of Tertullian, rending the curtain of the universe, they would
expose to view the abysses of eternity.

No such appearances, however, Will strike terror into the breast
of man, until the day when the Almighty will drop the reins of
the world, employing for its destruction no other means than to
leave it to itself.

CHAPTER III.

ORGANIZATION OP ANIMALS AND OF PLANTS.

PASSING from general to particular considerations, let us exa
mine whether the different parts of the universe exhibit the
same wisdom that is so plainly expressed in the whole. We shall
here avail ourselves of the testimony of a class of men, benefac
tors alike of science and of humanity : we mean the professors
of the medical art.

Doctor Nieuwentyt, in his Treatise on the Existence of God*
has undertaken to demonstrate the reality of final causes. With*
out following him through all his observations, we shall content
ourselves with adducing a few of them.

1 In all the passages here quoted from the treatise of Nieuwentyt, we have
taken the liberty of altering the language and giving a higher coloring to his
subject. The doctor is learned, intelligent, and judicious, but dry. We have
also added some observations of our own.

142 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

In treating of the four elements, which he considers in their
harmonies with man and the creation in general, he shows, in
respect to air, how our bodies are marvellously preserved beneath
an atmospheric column, equal in its pressure to a weight of
twenty thousand pounds. He proves that the change of one
single quality, either as to rarefaction or density, in the element
we breathe, would be sufficient to destroy every living creature.
It is the air that causes the smoke to ascend ; it is the air that
retains liquids in vessels ; by its agitation it purifies the heavens,
and wafts to the continents the clouds of the ocean.

He then demonstrates, by a multitude of experiments, the ne
cessity of water. Who can behold, without astonishment, the
wonderful quality of this element, by which it ascends, contrary
to all the laws of gravity, in an element lighter than itself, in
order to supply us with rain and dew ? He considers the arrange
ment of mountains, so as to give a circulation to rivers; the
topography of these mountains in islands and on the main land ;
the outlets of gulfs, bays, and mediterranean waters; the innu
merable advantages of seas : nothing escapes the attention of this
good and learned man. In the same manner he unfolds the ex
cellence of the earth as an element, and its admirable laws as a
planet. He likewise describes the utility of fire, and the exten
sive aid it has afforded in the various departments of human
industry. 1

When he passes to animals, he observes that those which we
call domestic come into the world with precisely that degree of
instinct which is necessary in order to tame them, while others
that are unserviceable to man never lose their natural wildness.
Can it be chance that inspires the gentle and useful animals with
the disposition to live together in our fields, and prompts ferocious
beasts to roam by themselves in unfrequented places? Why
should not flocks of tigers be led by the sound of the shepherd s
fife? Why should not a colony of lions be seen frisking in our
parks, among the wild thyme and the dew, like the little animals
celebrated by La Fontaine ? Those ferocious beasts could never
be employed for any other purpose than to draw the car of some

1 Modern physics may correct some errors in this part of his work ; but the
progress of that science, so far from conflicting with the doctrine of final causes,
furnishes new proofs of the bounty of Providence.

ORGANIZATION OF ANIMALS AND OF PLANTS. 143

triumphant warrior, as cruel as themselves, or to devour Chris
tians in an amphitheatre. 1 Alas ! tigers are never civilized among
men, but men oftentimes assume the savage disposition of the
tiger !

The observations of Nieuwentyt on the qualities of birds are
not less interesting. Their wings, convex above and concave
underneath, are oars perfectly adapted to the element they are
designed to cleave. The wren, that delights in hedges of thorn
and arbutus, which to her are extensive deserts, is provided with
a double eyelid, to preserve its sight from every kind of injury.
But how admirable are the contrivances of nature ! this eyelid is
transparent, and the little songstress of the cottage can drop this
wonderful veil without being deprived of sight. Providence
kindly ordained that she should not lose her way when conveying
the drop of water or the grain of millet to her nest, and that her
little family beneath the bush should not pine at her absence.

And what ingenious springs move the feet of birds ? It is not
by a play of the muscles which their immediate will determines,
that they hold themselves firm on a branch : their feet are so
constructed, that, when they are pressed in the centre or at the
heel, the toes naturally grasp the object which presses against
them. 3 From this mechanism it follows that the claws of a bird
adhere more or less firmly to the object on which it alights, as the
motion of that object is more or less rapid ; for. in the waving of
the branch, either the branch presses against the foot or the foot
against the branch, and in either case there results a more forcible
contraction of the claws. When in the winter season, at the ap
proach of night, we see ravens perched on the leafless summit of
the oak, we imagine that it is only by continual watchfulness and
attention, and with incredible fatigue, they can maintain their
position amid the howling tempest and the obscurity of night-
The truth, however, is, that unconscious of danger, and defying the
storm, they sleep amid the war of winds. Boreas himself fixes
them to the branch from which we every moment expect to see
them hurled ; and, like the veteran mariner whose hammock is

1 The reader is acquainted with the cry of the Roman populace : "Away with
the Christians to the lions !" See Tertullian s Apology.

2 The truth of this observation may be ascertained by an experiment on the
foot of a dead bird.

U 4 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

slung to the masts of a vessel, the more they are rocked by the
hurricane the more profound are their slumbers.

With respect to the organization of fishes, their very existence
in the watery element, and the relative change in their weight,
which enables them to float in water of greater or less gravity,
and to descend from the surface to the lowest depths of the abyss,
are perpetual wonders. The fish is a real hydrostatic machine,
displaying a thousand phenomena by means of a small
which it empties or replenishes with air at pleasure.

The flowering of plants, and the use of the leaves and roots,
are also prodigies which afford Nieuwentyt a curious subject of
investigation. He makes this striking observation : that the seeds
of plants are so disposed by their figure and weight as to fall in
variably upon the ground in the position which is favorable to
germination.

Now if all things were the production of chance, would nol
some change be occasionally witnessed in the final causes? Why
should there not be fishes without the air-bladder, which gives
them the faculty of floating? And why would not the eaglet,
that as yet has no need of weapons, have its shell broken by the
bill of a dove? But, strange to relate, there is never any mis
take or accident of this sort in blind nature ! In whatever way
you throw the dice, they always turn up the same numbers. This
is a strange fortune, and we strongly suspect that before it drew
the world from the urn of eternity it had already secretly arranged
the lot of every thing.

But, are there not monsters in nature, and do they not afford
instances of a departure from the final cause ? True ; but take
notice that these beings inspire us with horror, so powerful is the
instinct of the Deity in man so easily is he shocked when he
does not perceive in an object the impress of his Supreme Intel
ligence ! Some have pretended to derive from these irregulari
ties an objection against Providence; but we consider them, on
the contrary, as a manifest confirmation of that very Providence
In our opinion, Grod has permitted this distortion of matter ex
pressly for the purpose of teaching us what the creation would
be without Him. It is the shadow that gives greater effect to
the light a specimen of those laws of chance which, according
to atheists, brought forth the universe.

INSTINCTS OF ANIMALS. U5

CHAPTER IV.

INSTINCTS OF ANIMALS.

HAVING discovered in the organization of beings a regular
plan, which cannot possibly be ascribed to chance, and which pre
supposes a directing mind, we will pass to the examination of
other final causes, which are neither less prolific nor less wonder
ful than the preceding. Here we shall present the result of our
own investigations, of a study which we would never have inter
rupted had not Providence called us to other occupations. We
were desirous, if possible, of producing a Religious Natural His
tory, in opposition to all those modern scientific works in which
mere matter is considered. That we might not be contemptu
ously reproached with ignorance, we resolved to travel, and to see
every object with our own eyes. We shall, therefore, introduce
some of our observations on the different instincts of animals and
of plants, on their habits, migrations, and loves. The field of
nature cannot be exhausted. We always find there a new har
vest. It is not in a menagerie, where the secrets of God are
kept encaged, that we acquire a knowledge of the divine wisdom.
To become deeply impressed with its existence, we must contem
plate it in the deserts. How can a man return an infidel from
the regions of solitude ? Wo to the traveller who, after making
the circuit of the globe, would come back an atheist to the pater
nal roof! Was it possible for us, when we penetrated at midnight
into the solitary vale inhabited by beavers and overshadowed by
the fir-tree, and where reigned a profound silence under the mild
glare of the moon, as peaceful as the people whose labors it illu
mined was it possible for us not to discover in this valley some
trace of a divine Intelligence? Who, then, placed the square
and the level in the eye of that animal which has the sagacity to
construct a dam, shelving toward the water and perpendicular
on the opposite side? What philosopher taught this singular
engineer the laws of hydraulics, and made him so expert with his
incisive teeth and his flattened tail ? Reaumur never foretold the
i K

J46 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

vicissitudes of the seasons with the accuracy of this same beaver,
whose stores, more or less copious, indicate in the month of June
the longer or shorter duration of the ices of January. Alas ! by
questioning the divine Omnipotence, men have struck with ste
rility all the works of the Almighty. Atheism has extinguished
with its icy breath the lire of nature which it undertook to kin
dle. In breathing upon creation, it has enveloped it in its own
characteristic darkness.

There are other facts connected with animal instinct, which,
though more common, and falling daily under our observation, are
not the less wonderful. The hen, for instance, which is so timid,
assumes the courage of a lion when it is question of defending
her young. How interesting to behold her solicitude and excite
ment when, deceived by the treasures of another nest, little
strangers escape from her, and hasten to sport in the neighboring
lake ! The terrified mother runs round the brink, claps her
wings, calls back her imprudent brood, sometimes entreating with
tenderness, sometimes clucking with authority. She walks hastily
on, then pauses, turns her head with anxiety, and is not pacified
till she has collected beneath her wings her weakly and dripping
family, which will soon give her fresh cause of alarm.

Among the various instincts which the Master of life has dis
pensed throughout the animal world, one of the most extraordi
nary is that which leads the fishes from the icy regions of the
pole to a milder latitude, which they find without losing their
way over the vast desert of the ocean, and appear punctually in
the river where their union is to be celebrated. Spring, directed
by the Sovereign of the seas, prepares on our shores the nuptial
pomp. She crowns the willows with verdure; she covers the
grottos with moss, and expands on the surface of the waves the
foliage of the water-lily, to serve as curtains to these beds of
crystal. Scarcely are these preparations completed, when the
scaly tribes make their appearance. These foreign navigators
animate all our shores. Some, like light bubbles of air, ascend
perpendicularly from the bosom of the deep; others gently ba
lance themselves on the waves, or diverge from one common cen
tre, like innumerable stripes of gold. These dart their gliding
forms obliquely through the azure fluid; those sleep in a sunbeam
which penetrates the silvery gauze of the billows. Perpetually

SONG OF BIRDS. 147

wandering to and fro, they swim, they dive, they turti round, they
form into squadrons, they separate and rgain unite; and the in
habitant of the seas, endued with the breath of life, follows with
a bound the fiery track left for him by his beloved in the waves.

CHAPTER V.

4ONG OF BIRDS IT IS MADE FOR MAN LAWS RELATIVE TO
THE CRY OF ANIMALS.

NATURE has her seasons of festivity, for which she assembles
musicians frT&gt;m all the regions of the globe. Skilful performers
with their wondrous sonatas, itinerant minstrels who can only sing
short ballads, pilgrims who repeat a thousand and a thousand
times the couplets of their long solemn songs, are beheld flocking
together from all quarters. The thrush whistles, the swallow
twitters, the ringdove coos: the first, perched on the topmost
branch of an elm, defies our solitary blackbird, who is in no
respect inferior to the stranger; the second, lodged under some
hospitable roof, utters his confused cries, as in the days of Evan-
der; the third, concealed amid the foliage of an oak, prolongs her
soft meanings like the undulating sound of a horn in the forests.
The redbreast, meanwhile, repeats her simple strain on the barn
door, where she has built her compact and mossy nest; but the
nightingale disdains to waste her lays amid this symphony. She
waits till night has imposed silence, and takes upon herself that
portion of the festival which is celebrated in its shades.

When the first silence of night and the last murmurs of day
struggle for the mastery on the hills, on the banks of the rivers,
in the woods and in the valleys; when the forests have hushed
their thousand voices; when not a whisper is heard among the
leaves ; when the moon is high in the heavens, and the ear of
man is all attention, then Philomela, the first songstress of crea
tion, begins her hymn to the Eternal. She first strikes the echoes
with lively bursts of pleasure. Disorder pervades her strains.
She pusses abruptly from flat to sharp, from soft to loud. She

14 g GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

pauses; now she is slow and now quick. It is the expression of
a heart intoxicated with joy-a heart palpitating under the pre
sure of love. But her voice suddenly fails. The bird i
She begins again ; but how changed are her accents ! What ten-
der melody ! Sometimes you hear a languid modulation, thou
varied in its form; sometimes a tune more monotonous, like the
chorus of our ancient ballads those master-pieces of simplicity
and melancholy. Singing is as often an expression of sadness as
of joy. The bird that has lost her young still sings,
repeats the notes of her happy days, for she knows no other ; but,
by a stroke of her art, the musician has merely changed her key,
and the song of pleasure is converted into the lamentation of grief.
It would be very gratifying to those who seek to disinherit man
and to snatch from him the empire of nature, if they could prove
that nothing has been made for him. But the song W birds, for
example, is ordained so expressly for our ears, that in vain we
persecute these tenants of the woods, in vain we rob them of their
nests, pursue, wound, and entangle them in snares. We may give
them the acutest pain, but we cannot compel them to be silent.
In spite of OUT cruelty, they cannot forbear to charm us, as they
are obliged to fulfil the decree of Providence. When held cap
tives in our houses, they multiply their notes. There must bo
some secret harmony in adversity; for all the victims of misfov-
tune are inclined to sing. Even when the bird-catcher, with a
refinement of barbarity, scoops out the eyes of a nightingale, it
has the extraordinary effect of rendering his voice still more me
lodious. This Homer of the feathered tribes earns a subsistence
by singing, and composes his most enchanting airs after he has
lost his sight. " Demodocus," says the poet of Chios, describing
himself in the person of the Phaeacian bard, " was beloved by the
Muse ; but she bestowed upon him the good and the bad. She
deprived him of the blessing of sight, but she gave him the
sweetness of song."

Tov mpt povi &lt;pi\r]ff, hfav &lt;5 ayaSov re, KUKOVTC,
O^a\fjiwv ptv, a^pac, &lt;55ou 6 rj^eiav aoibr]v.

The bird seems to be the true emblem of the Christian here
below. Like him, it prefers solitude to the world, heaven to earth,
and its voice is ever occupied in celebrating the wonders of the
Creator, There are certain laws relative to the cries of animals,

SONG OF BIRDS. 149

which we believe have not yet been observed, though they are
highly deserving of notice. The varied language of the inhabit
ants of the desert appears to be adapted to the grandeur or the
charms of the places in which they live, and to the hours of the
day at which they make their appearance. The roaring of the
lion, loud, rough, and harsh, is in accordance with the burning
regions, where it is heard at sunset; while the lowing of our
cattle charms the rural echoes of our valleys. The bleating of
the goat has in it something tremulous and wild, like the rocks
and ruins among which he loves to climb ; the warlike horse
imitates the shrill sound of the clarion, and, as if sensible that he
was not made for rustic occupations, he is silent under the lash
of the husbandman, and neighs beneath the bridle of the warrior.
Night, according as it is pleasant or gloomy, brings forth the
nightingale or the owl ; the one seems to sing for the zephyrs,
the groves, the moon, and for lovers; the other hoots for the
winds, aged forests, darkness, and death. In short, almost all
carnivorous animals have a particular cry, which resembles that
of their prey : the sparrow-hawk squeaks like the rabbit and
mews like a kitten ; the cat herself has a kind of whining tone
like that of the little birds of our gardens; the wolf bleats, lows,
or barks; the fox clucks or cries; the tiger imitates the bellow
ing of the bull ; and the sea-bear has a kind of frightful roar, like
the noise of the breakers among which he seeks his prey. The
law of which we speak is very astonishing, and perhaps conceals
some tremendous secret. We may observe that monsters among
men follow the same law as carnivorous animals. There have
been many instances of tyrants who exhibited some mark of sen
sibility in their countenance and voice, and who affected the lan
guage of the unhappy creatures whose destruction they were me
ditating. Providence, however, has ordained that we should not
be absolutely deceived by men of this savage character : we have
only to examine them closely, to discover, under the garb of mild
ness, an air of falsehood and rapacity a thousand times more
hideous than their fury itself.

13*

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER VI.

NESTS OP BIRDS

How admirably is the providence of the great Creator displayed
in the nests of birds ! Who can contemplate without emotion
this divine beneficence, which imparts industry to the weak and
foresight to the thoughtless ?

No sooner have the trees expanded their first blossoms, than a
thousand diminutive artisans begin their labors on every side.
Some convey long straws into the hole of an ancient wall; others
construct buildings in the windows of a church; others, again,
rob the horse of his hair, or carry off the wool torn by the jagged
thorn from the back of the sheep. There wood-cutters arrange
small twigs in the waving summit of a tree; here spinsters col
lect silk from a thistle. A thousand palaces are reared, and
every palace is a nest ; while each nest witnesses the most pleas
ing changes; first a brilliant egg, then a young one covered with
down. This tender nestling becomes fledged; his mother in
structs him by degrees to rise up on his bed. He soon acquires
strength to perch on the edge of his cradle, from which he takes
the first survey of nature. With mingled terror and transport,
he drops down among his brothers and sisters, who have not yet
beheld this magnificent sight; but, summoned by the voice of his
parents, he rises a second time from his couch, and this youthful
monarch of the air, whose head is still encircled by the crown of
infancy, already ventures to contemplate the waving summits of
the pines and the abysses of verdure beneath the paternal oak.
But, while the forests welcome with pleasure their new guest,
some aged bird, who feels his strength forsake him, alights beside
the current; there, solitary and resigned, he patiently awaits
death, on the brink of the same stream where he sang his first
loves, and beneath the trees which still bear his nest and his har
monious posterity.

We will notice here another law of nature. Among the
smaller species of birds, the eggs are comironly tinged with one

NESTS OF BIRDS. 151

of the prevailing colors of the male. The bullfinch builds in the
hawthorn, the gooseberry, and other bushes of our gardens; her
eggs are slate-colored, like the plumage of her back. We recol
lect having once found one of these nests in a rose-bush : it re-
sembled a shell of mother-of-pearl containing four blue gems; a
rose, bathed in the dews of morning, was suspended above it:
the male bullfinch sat motionless on a neighboring shrub, like a
flower of purple and azure. These objects were reflected in the
water of a stream, together with the shade of an aged walnut-
tree, which served as a back-ground to the scene, and behind
which appeared the ruddy tints of the morning. In this little
picture the Almighty presented us an idea of .the graces with
which he has decked all nature.

Among the larger birds the law respecting the color of the egg
varies. We are of opinion that, in general, the egg is white
among those birds the male of which has several females,^ or
among those whose plumage has no fixed color for the species.
Among those which frequent the waters and forests, and build
their nests on the sea or on the summits of lofty trees, the egg is
generally of a bluish green, and, as it were, of the same tint as
the elements by which it is surrounded. Certain birds, which
reside on the tops of ancient and deserted towers, have green eggs
like ivy, 1 or reddish like the old buildings they inhabit. 3 It is,
therefore, a law, which may be considered as invariable, that the
bird exhibits in her egg an emblem of her loves, her habits, and
her destinies. The mere inspection of this brittle monument will
almost enable us to determine to what tribe it belonged, what were
its dress, habits, and tastes ; whether it passed its days amid the
dangers of the sea, or, more fortunate, among the charms of a pas
toral life; whether it was tame or wild, and inhabited the moun
tain or the valley. The antiquary of the forest is conducted by
a science much less equivocal than the antiquary of the city: a
scathed oak, with all its mosses, proclaims much more plainly the
hand that gave it existence than a ruined column declares by
what architect it was reared. Among men, tombs are so many
leaves of their history; Nature, on the contrary, records her facts
on living tablets. She has no need of granite or marble to per-

The jack-daw and others. 2 The white owl, Ac.

152 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

petuate her writings. Time has destroyed the annals of the
sovereigns of Memphis, once inscribed on their funereal pyra
mids, but has it been able to efface a single letter of the history
marked on the egg-shell of the Egyptian ibis ?

CHAPTER VII.

MIGRATIONS OP BIRDS AQUATIC BIRDS THEIR HABITS

GOODNESS OF PROVIDENCE.

THE reader is acquainted with the following charming lines of
the younger Racine on the migration of birds :

Ceux qui, de nos hivers redoutant le courroux,
Vont se reTugier dans des climats plus doux,
Ne laisseront jamais la saison rigoureuse
Surprendre parmi nous leur troupe paresseuse.
Dans un sage conseil par les chefs assemble,
Du depart general le grand jour est regie;
II arrive; tout part; le plus jeune peut-Stre
Demande, en regardant les lieux qui 1 ont vu naitre,
Quand viendra le printemps par qui tant d exiles
Dans les champs paternels se verront rappeles! 1

We have known unfortunate persons whose eyes would be suf
fused with tears in reading the concluding lines. The exile pre
scribed by nature is not like that which is ordered by man. If
the bird is sent away for a moment, it is only for its own advan
tage. It sets out with its neighbors, its parents, its sisters and
brothers; it leaves nothing behind; it carries with it all the ob
jects of its affection. In the desert it finds a subsistence and a
habitation; the forests are not armed against it; and it returns,
at last, to die on the spot which gave it birth. There it finds again
the river, the tree, the nest, and the sun, of its forefathers. But

1 Those which, dreading the rigors of our winters, repair to a more genial
climate, will never suffer their tardy troop to be overtaken by the inclement
season. Assembled in prudent council by their chiefs, the great day of their
general departure is fixed. It arrives; the whole tribe departs : the youngest
perhaps inquires, while he casts his eyes over his native fields, when spring
will arrive, to recall so many exiles to their paternal plains.

MIGRATIONS OF BIRDS. 153

is the mortal, driven from his native home, sure of revisiti ig it
again ? Alas ! man, in coming into the world, knows not what
corner of the earth will collect his ashes, nor in what direction
the breath of misfortune will scatter them. Happy still, indeed,
if he only could expire in peace. But no sooner does fortune
frown upon him than he becomes an object of persecution; and
the particular injustice which he suffers becomes general. He
finds not, like the bird, hospitality in his way; he knocks, but no
one opens; he has no place to rest his weary limbs, except, per
haps, the post on the highway, or the stone that marks the limit
of some plantation. But sometimes he is denied even this place
of repose, which would seem to belong to no one; he is forced
onward, and the proscription which has banished him from his
country seems to have expelled him from the world. He dies,
and has none to bury him. His corpse lies forsaken on its hard
couch, whence the commissioner is obliged to have it removed,
not as the body of a man, but as a nuisance dangerous to the
living. Ah ! how much happier, did he expire in a ditch neai the
way-side, that the good Samaritan might throw, as he passes, a
little foreign earth upon his remains ! Let us place all our hope in
heaven, and we shall no longer be afraid of exile : in religion we
invariably find a country !

While one part of the creation daily publishes in the same
place the praises of the Creator, another travels from one country
to another to relate his wonders. Couriers traverse the air, glide
through the waters, and speed their course over mountains and
valleys. Some, borne on the wings of spring, show themselves
among us; then, disappearing with the zephyrs, follow their mova
ble country from climate to climate. Others repair to the habi
tation of man, as travellers from distant climes, and claim the
rio-hts of ancient hospitality. Each follows his inclination in the
choice of a spot. The redbreast applies at the cottage ; the swal
low knocks at the palace of royal descent. She still seems to
court an appearance of grandeur, but of grandeur melancholy
like her fate. She passes the summer amid the ruins of Ver
sailles and the winter among those of Tlu bes.

Scarcely has she disappeared when we behold a colony advanc
ing upon the winds of the north, to supply the place of the tra
vellers to the south, that no vacancy may be left in our fields. On

154 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

some hoary day of autumn, when the northeast wind is sweeping
over the plains and the woods are losing the last remains of their
foliage, you will see a flock of wild ducks, all ranged in a line,
traversing in silence the sombre sky. If they perceive, while
aloft in the air, some Gothic castle surrounded by marshes and
forests, it is there they prepare to descend. They wait till
night, making long evolutions over the woods. Soon as the
vapors of eve enshroud the valley, with outstretched neck and
whizzing wing they suddenly alight on the waters, which resound
with their noise. A general cry, succeeded by profound silence,
rises from the marshes. Guided by a faint light, which perhaps
gleams through the narrow window of a tower, the travellers ap
proach its walls under the protection of the reeds and the dark
ness. There, clapping their wings and screaming at intervals,
amid the murmur of the winds and the rain, they salute the habi
tation of man.

One of the handsomest among the inhabitants of these soli
tudes is the water-hen. Her peregrinations, however, are not so
distant. She appears on the border of the sedges, buries herself
in their labyrinths, appears and vanishes again, uttering a low,
wild cry. She is seen walking along the ditches of the castle,
and is fond of perching on the coats of arms sculptured on the
walls. When she remains motionless upon them, you would take
her, with her sable plumage and the white patch on her head, for
a heraldic bird, fallen from the escutcheon of an ancient knight.
At the approach of spring, she retires to unfrequented streams.
The root of some willow that has been undermined by the waters
affords an asylum to the wanderer. She there conceals herself
from every eye, to accomplish the grand law of nature. The con
volvulus, the mosses, the water maidenhair, suspend a verdant
drapery before her nest. The cress and the lentil supply her
with a delicate food. The soft murmuring of the water soothes
her ear; beautiful insects amuse her eye, and the Naiads of the
stream, the more completely to conceal this youthful mother,
plant around her their distaffs of reeds, covered with empurpled
wool.

Among these travellers from the north, there are some that
become accustomed to our manners, and refuse to return tc their
native land Some, like the companions of Ulysses, are japti-

MIGRATIONS OF BIRDS. 155

vated by delicious fruits; others, like the deserters from the ves
sels of the 1-ritish circumnavigator, are seduced by enchantresses
that detain them in their islands. Most of them, however, leave
us after a residence of a few months. They are attached to the
winds and the storms which disturb the pellucid stream, and
afford them that prey which would escape from them in transpa
rent waters. They love wild and unexplored retreats, and make
the circuit of the globe by a series of solitudes.

Fitness for the scenes of nature, or adaptation to the wants of
man, determines the different migrations of animals. The birds
that appear in the months of storms have dismal voices and wild
manners, like the season which brings them. They come not to
be heard, but to listen. There is something in the dull roaring
of the woods that charms their ear. The trees which mournfully
wave their leafless summits are covered only with the sable le
gions which have associated for the winter. They have their
sentinels and their advanced guards. Frequently a crow that has
seen a hundred winters, the ancient Sybil of the deserts; remains
perched on an oak which has grown old with herself. There,
while all her sisters maintain a profound silence, motionless, and,
as it were, full of thought, she delivers prophetic sounds to
the winds.

It is worthy of remark that the teal, the goose, the duck, the
woodcock, the plover, the lapwing, which serve us for food, all
arrive when the earth is bare; while, on the contrary, the foreign
birds, which visit us in the season of fruits, administer only to
our pleasures. They are musicians sent to enhance the joy of
our banquets. We must, however, except a few, such as the
quail and the wood-pigeon, (though the season for taking them
does not commence till after the harvest,) which fatten on our
corn, that they may afterward supply our table. Thus the birds
of winter are the manna of the rude northern blasts, as the night
ingales are the gift of the zephyrs. From whatever point of the
compass the wind may blow, it fails not to bring us a present
from Providence.

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER VIII.

SEA-FOWL IN WHAT MANNER SERVICEABLE TO MAN IN
ANCIENT TIMES THE MIGRATIONS OF BIRDS SERVED AS A
CALENDAR TO THE HUSBANDMAN.

THE goose and the duck, being domestic animals, are capable
of living wherever man can exist. Navigators have found innu
merable battalions of these birds under the antarctic pole itself,
and on the coasts of New Zealand. We have ourselves met
with thousands, from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the extremity
of Florida. We beheld one day, in the Azores, a company of
little -bluebirds, of the species of teal, that were compelled by
fatigue to alight on a wild fig-tree. The tree had no leaves, but
its red fruit hung chained together in pairs like crystals. When
it was covered by this flock of birds, that dropped their weary
wings, it exhibited a very pleasing appearance. The fruit, sus
pended from the shadowed branches, seemed to have the color of
a brilliant purple, while the tree appeared all at once clothed with
the richest foliage of azure.

Sea-fowl have places of rendezvous where you would imagine
they were deliberating in common on the affairs of their republic.
. These places are commonly the rocks in the midst of the waves.
In the island of St. Pierre, 1 we used often to station ourselves on
the coast opposite to an islet called by the natives Cohmbier,
(Pigeon-house, ) on account of its form, and because they repair
thither in spring for the purpose of gathering eggs.

The multitude of birds that assemble on that rock was so great
that we could frequently distinguish their cries amid the howl-
ings of the tempests. These birds had an extraordinary voice,
resembling the sounds that issued from the sea. If the ocean
has its Flora, it has likewise its Philomela. When the curlew
whistles at sunset on the point of some rock, accompanied by the
hollow murmur of the billows, which forms the bass to the con
cert, it produces one of the most melancholy harmonies that can

At the entrance of the Gul rf St. Lawrence, on the coast of Newfoundland.

SEA-FOWL. 157

possibly be conceived Never did the wife of Ceix breathe forth
such lamentations on the shores that witnessed her misfortunes.

The best understanding prevailed in the republic of Colombier.
Immediately after the birth of a citizen, his mother precipitated
him into the waves, like those barbarous nations who plunged
their children into the river to inure them to the fatigues of life.
Couriers were incessantly despatched from this Tyre with nu
merous attendants, who, under the direction of Providence,
sought different points in the ocean, for the guidance of the mari
ner! Some, stationed at the distance of forty or fifty leagues
from an unknown land, serve as a certain indication to the pilot,
who discovers them like corks floating on the waves. Others
settle on a reef, and in the night these vigilant sentinels raise their
doleful voices to warn the navigator to stand off; while others,
again, by the whiteness of their plumage, form real beacons upon
the black surface of the rocks. For the same reason, we pre
sume, has the goodness of the Almighty given to the foam of the
waves a phosphoric property, rendering it more luminous among
breakers in proportion to the violence of the tempest. How
many vessels would perish amid the darkness were it not for
these wonderful beacons kindled by Providence on the rocks^!

All the accidents of the seas, the flux and reflux of the tide,
and the alternations of calm and storm, are predicted by birds.
The thrush alights on a desolate shore, draws her neck under her
plumage, conceals one foot in her down, and, standing motionless ,
on the other, apprises the fisherman of the moment when the bil
lows are rising. The sea-lark, skimming the surface of the wave,
and uttering a soft and melancholy cry, announces, on the con
trary, the moment of their reflux. Lastly, the little storm -bird
stations herself in the midst of the ocean. 1 This faithful com
panion of the mariner follows the course of ships and predicts
the storm. The sailor ascribes to her something sacred, and reli-

1 The procellaria, or stormy-petrel, is about the size and form of the house-
svrallow. Except in breeding time, these birds are always at sea, and are seen
on the wing all over the vast Atlantic Ocean, at the greatest distance from any
land. They presage bad weather, whence they take their name, and they cau
tion sailors of the approach of a storm by collecting under the stern of the ship.
This bird braves the utmost fury of the tempest, sometimes skimming with in
credible velocity along the hollow and sometimes on the summit of the waves.
14

158 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

giously fulfils the duties of hospitality when the violence of the
wind tosses her on board his vessel. In like manner, the hus-
bauduian pays respect to the red-breast, which predicts tine wea-
ti er. In like manner, he receives him beneath his thatch during
the intense cold of winter. These men, placed in the two most
laborious conditions of life, have friends whom Providence has
prepared for them. From a feeble animal they receive counsel
and hope, which they would often seek in vain among their fellow-
creatures. This reciprocity of benefits between little birds and
men struggling through the world, is one of those pleasing inci
dents which abound in the works of God. Between the red
breast and the husbandman, between the storm-bird and the sailor,
there is a resemblance of manners and of fortunes exceedingly
affecting. Oh, how dry and unmeaning is nature when explained
by the sophist! but how significant and interesting to the simple
heart that investigates her wonders with no other view than to
glorify the Creator!

If time and place permitted, we would have many other migra
tions to describe, many other secrets of Providence to reveal. We
would treat of the cranes of Florida, whose wings produce such
harmonious sounds, and which steer their flight so beautifully
over lakes, savannas, and groves of orange and palm-trees; we
would exhibit the pelican of the woods, visiting the solitary dead,
and stopping only at Indian cemeteries and hillocks of graves;
we would state the reasons of these migrations, which have al
ways some reference to man; we would mention the winds, the
seasons chosen by the birds for changing their climate, the ad
ventures they meet with, the obstacles they encounter, the disas
ters they undergo; how they sometimes land on unknown coasts,
far from the country to which they were bound ; how they perish
on their passage over forests consumed by the lightnings of hea
ven or plains fired by the hands of savages.

In the early ages of the world, it was by the flowering of plants,
the fall of the leaves, the departure and arrival of birds, that the
husbandman and shepherd regulated their labors. Hence arose
among certain people the art of divination ; for it was supposed
that animals which predicted the seasons and tempests could be
no other than tin interpreters of the Deity. The ancient natural
ists and poete, tc whom we are indebted for the little simplicity

SEA FOWL. 159

that is left among us, show how wonderful was this mode of
reckoning by the incidents of nature, and what a charm it dif
fused over life. God is a profound secret; man, created in his
image, is likewise incomprehensible; it was therefore perfectly
consonant to the nature of things to see the periods of his days
regulated by timekeepers as mysterious as himself.

Beneath the tents of Jacob or of Booz, the arrival of a bird
set every thing in motion : the patriarch made the tour of his
encampment, at the head of his servants, provided with sickles;
and if it was rumored that the young larks had been seen mak
ing their first efforts to fly, the whole people, trusting in God,
entered joyfully upon the harvest. These charming signs, while
they directed the labors of the present season, had the advantage
of predicting the changes of the succeeding ones. If the geese
and the ducks appeared in great numbers, it was known with
certainty that the winter would be long. If the crow began to
build her nest in January, the shepherds expected in April the
flowers of May. The marriage of a young female, on the margin
of a fountain, had its relation with the blooming flowers ; and the
aged, who often die in autumn, fell with the acorns and the ripe
fruits. While the philosopher, curtailing or lengthening the
year, made the winter encroach upon the domain of spring, the
husbandman had no reason to apprehend that the bird or the
flower, the astronomer sent him by Heaven, would lead him
astray. He knew that the nightingale would not confound the
month of frosts with that of roses, or warble the strains of sum
mer at the winter solstice. Thus all the labors, all the diversions,
all the pleasures of the countryman were regulated, not by the
uncertain calendar of a philosopher, but by the infallible laws of
Him who has traced the course of the sun. That supreme Di
rector himself decreed that the festivals of his worship should be
determined by the simple epochs borrowed from his own works;
and hence, in those days of innocence, according to the season
and occupations of men, it was the voice of the zephyr or the
storm, of the eagle or the dove, that summoned them to the
temple of the God of nature.

Our peasants still make use occasionally of these charming
tables, on which are engraven the seasons of rustic labor. The
natives of India also have recourse to them, and the negroes and

160 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

American savages retain the same method of computation. A
Seminole of Florida will tell you that his daughter was married
at the arrival of the humming-bird; his child died in the moult*
ing season of the nonpareil; his mother had as many young
warriors as there are eggs in the nest of the pelican.

The savages of Canada mark the sixth hour after noon by the
moment when the wood-pigeon repairs to the stream to drink,
and the savages of Louisiana by that in which the day-fly issues
from the waters. The passage of various birds regulates the sea
son of the chase; and the time for reaping the crops of corn,
maple-sugar, and wild oats, is announced by certain animals,
which never fail to appear at the hour of the banquet.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SUBJECT OF MIGRATIONS CONCLUDED QUADRUPEDS.

MIGRATION is more frequent among fishes and birds than
among quadrupeds, on account of the multiplicity of the former,
and the facility of their journeys through the two elements by
which the earth is surrounded. There is nothing astonishing in
all this but the certainty with which they reach the shores to
which they are bound. It appears natural that an animal, driven
by hunger, should leave the country he inhabits in search of food
and shelter; but is it possible to conceive that matter causes him
to arrive at one place rather than another, and conducts him,
with wonderful precision, to the very spot, where this food and
shelter are to be found ? How should he know the winds and
the tides, the equinoxes and the solstices? We have no doubt
that if the migratory tribes were abandoned for a single moment
to their own instinct, they would almost all perish. Some, wish
ing to pass to a colder climate, would reach the tropics; others,
intending to proceed under the line, would wander to the poles.
Our redbreasts, instead of passing over Alsace and Germany in
search of little insects, would themselves become the prey of some
enormous beetle in Africa; the Greenlander, attracted by a plain-

MIGRATIONS OF QUADRUPEDS. 161

live cry issuing from the rocks, would draw near, and find poor
philomela in the agony of death.

Such mistakes are not permitted by the Almighty. Every
thing in nature has its harmonies and its relations : zephyrs ac
cord with flowers, winter is suited to storms, and grief has its
seat in the heart of man. The most skilful pilots will long miss
the desired port before the fish mistakes the longitude of the
smallest rock in the ocean. Providence is his polar star, and,
whatever way he steers, he has constantly in view that luminary
which never sets.

The universe is like an immense inn, where all is in motion.
You behold a multitude of travellers continually entering and
departina^ In the migrations of quadrupeds, nothing perhaps
can be c^Ppared to the journeys of the bisons across the immense
prairies of Louisiana and New Mexico. 1 When the time has
arrived for them to change their residence, and to dispense abun
dance to savage nations, some aged buffalo, the patriarch of the
herds of the desert, calls around him his sons and daughters.
The rendezvous is on the banks of the Meschacebe ; the close of
day is fixed for the time of their departure. This moment hav
ing arrived, the leader, shaking his vast mane, which hangs down
over his eyes and his curved horns, salutes the setting sun with
an inclination of the head, at the same time raising his huge back
like a mountain. With a deep, rumbling sound, he gives the
signal for departure. Then, suddenly plunging into -the foaming
waters, he is followed by the whole multitude of bulls and heifers,
bellowing after him in the expression of their love.

While this powerful family of quadrupeds is crossing with tre
mendous uproar the rivers and forests, a peaceful squadron is
seen moving silently over the solitary lake, with the aid of the
starlight and a favorable breeze. It is a troop of small, black
squirrels, that having stripped all the walnut trees of the vicinity,
resolve to seek their fortune, and to embark for another forest.
Raising their tails, and expanding them as silken sails to the

1 The bison is the wild bull or ox, from which several races of common cattle
are descended. It is found wild in many parts of the old and new continents,
and is distinguished by its large size and the shagginess of its hair about the
head, neck, and shoulders. In the western territories of the United State*
*hey are seen in herds innumerable, intermixed with deer.
14* L

16 2 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

wind, this intrepid race boldly tempt the inconstant waves.
imprudent pirates, transported by the desire of riches! The
tempest arises, the waves roar, and the squadron is on the point
of perishing. It strives to gain the nearest haven, but some
times an army of beavers oppose the landing, fearful lest nhese
strangers are come to pillage their stores. In vain the nimble
battalions, springing upon the shores, think to escape by climb
ing the trees, and from their lofty tops to defy the enemy. Ge
nius is superior to artifice j a band of sappers advance, under
mine the oak, and bring it to the ground, with all its squirrels,
like a tower, filled with soldiers, demolishad by the ancient bat
tering-ram.

Our adventurers experience many other mishaps, wiich, how
ever, are in some degree compensated by the fruit th^Wiave dis
covered and the sports in which they indulge. Athens, reduced
to captivity by the Lacedemonians, was not, on that account, of
a less amiable or less frivolous character.

In ascending the North River in the packet-boat from New
York to Albany, we ourselves beheld one of these unfortunate
squirrels, which had attempted to cross the stream. He was un
able to reach the shore, and was taken half-drowned out of the
water ; he was a beautiful creature, black as ebony, and his tail
was twice the length of his body. He was restored to life,
but lost his liberty by becoming the slave of a young female
passenger.

The reindeer of the north of Europe, and the elks of North
America, have their seasons of migration, invariably calculated,
like those of birds, to supply the necessities of man. Even the
white bear of Newfoundland is sent by a wonderful Providence
to the Esquimaux Indians, that they may clothe themselves with
its skin. These marine monsters are seen approaching the coasts
of Labrador on islands of floating ice, or on fragments of vessels,
to which they cling like sturdy mariners escaped from shipwreck.
The elephants of Asia also travel, and the earth shakes beneath
their feet, yet man has nothing to fear ; chaste, tender, intelli
gent, Behemoth is gentle because he is strong ; peaceful, because
he is powerful. The first servant of man, but not his slave, he
ranks next to him in the scale of the creation When the ani
mals, after the original fall, removed from the habitation of inr.ii,

AMPHIBIOUS ANIMALS AND REPTILES. 163

the elephant, from the generosity of his nature, appears to have
retired with the greatest reluctance ; for he has always remained
near the cradle of the world. He now goes forth occasionally
from his desert, and advances toward an inhabited district, to
supply the place of some companion that has died without pro
geny in the service of the children of Adam. 1

CHAPTER X.

AMPHIBIOUS ANIMALS AND REPTILES.

IN the Floridas, at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains,
there are springs which are called natural wells. Each well is
scooped out of the centre of a hill planted with orange-trees,
evergreen oaks, and catalpas. This hill opens in the form of a

1 The eloquent writers who have described the manners of this animal render
it unnecessary for us to enlarge on the subject. We shall merely observe that
the conformation of the elephant appears so extraordinary to us, only because
we see it separated from the plants, the situations, the waters, the mountains,
the colors, the light, the shade, and the skies, which are peculiar to it. The
productions of our latitudes, planned on a smaller scale, the frequent roundness
of objects, the firmness of the grasses, the slight denticulation of the leaves,
the elegant bearing of the trees, our languid days and chilly nights, the fugitive
tints of our verdure, in short, even the color, clothing and architecture of
Europeans, have no conformity with the elephant. Were travellers more accu
rate observers, we should know in what manner this quadruped is connected
with that nature which produces him. For our own part, we think we hare a
glimpse of some of these relations. The elephant s trunk, for example, has a
striking coincidence with the wax-tree, the aloe, the lianne, the rattan, and in
the animal kingdom with the long serpents of India; his ears are shaped like
the leaves of the eastern fig-tree ; his skin is scaly, soft, and yet rigid, like the
substance which covers part of the trunk of the palm, or rather like the ligneous
coat of the cocoanut; many of the large plants of the tropics support them
selves on the earth in the manner of his feet, and have the same square and
heavy form ; his voice is at once shrill and strong, like that of the Caffre in his
deserts, or like the war-cry of the Sepoy. When, covered with a rich carpet,
laden with a tower resembling the minarets of a pagoda, he carries some pious
monarch to the ruins of those temples which are found in the peninsula of
India, his massive form, the columns which support him, his irregular figure,
and his barbarous pomp, coincide with the colossal structure formed of hewn
rocks piled one upon another. The vast animal and the ruined monument both
Boem to be relics of the giant age.

164 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

crescent toward the savanna, and at the aperture is a channel
through which the water flows from the well. The foliage of t]ie
trees bending over the fountain causes the water beneath to
appear perfectly black; but at the spot where the aqueduct joins
the base of the cone, a ray of light, entering by the bed of the
channel, falls upon a single point of the liquid mirror, which
produces an effect resembling that of the glass in the camera
obscura of the painter. This delightful retreat is commonly in
habited by an enormous crocodile, which stands motionless in the
centre of the basin ;* and from the appearance of his greenish
hide, and his large nostrils spouting the water in two colored
ellipses, you would take him for a dolphin of bronze in some
grotto among the groves of Versailles.

The crocodiles or caymans of Florida live not always in soli
tude. At certain seasons of the year they assemble in troops,
and lie in ambush to attack the scaly travellers who are expected
to arrive from the ocean. When these have ascended the rivers,
and, wanting water for their vast shoals, perish stranded on the
shores, and threaten to infect the air, Providence suddenly lets
loose upon them an army of four or five thousand crocodiles. The
monsters, raising a tremendous outcry and gnashing their horrid
jaws, rush upon the strangers. Bounding from all sides, the
combatants close, seize, and entwine each other. Plunging to
the bottom of the abyss, they roll themselves in the mud, and
then to the surface of the waves. The waters, stained with
blood, are covered with mangled carcasses and reeking with en
trails. It is impossible to convey an idea of these extraordinary
scenes described by travellers, and which the reader is always
tempted to consider as mere exaggerations. Routed, dispersed,
and panic-struck, the foreign legions, pursued as far as the At
lantic, are obliged to return to its abyss, that by supplying our
wants at some future period, they may serve without injuring us. 9
This species of monsters has sometimes proved a stumbling-
block to atheistic minds ; they are, however, extremely necessary
in the general plan. They inhabit only the deserts where the
absence of man requires their presence : they are placed there

1 See Bertram. Voyage dans les Carolines et dans les Florides.

2 The immense advantages derived by man from the migrations of fishes are
so voll known that we shall not enlarge on that subject.

AMPHIBIOUS ANIMALS AND REPTI ,ES. 165

for the express purpose of destroying, till the arrival of the great
destroyer. The moment we appear on the coast, they resign the
empire to us ; certain that a single individual of our species will
make greater havoc than ten thousand of theirs. 1

"And why," it will be asked, "has God made superfluous
creatures, which render destruction a necessary consequence?"
For this great reason, that God acts not, like us, in a limited
way. He contents himself with saying, " increase and multi
ply," and in these two words exists infinity. Henceforth, we
shall perhaps measure the wisdom of the Deity by the rule of
mediocrity; we shall deny him the attribute of infinitude, and
reject altogether the idea of immensity. Wherever we behold it
in nature, we shall pronounce it an "excess," because it is above
our comprehension. What ! If God thinks fit to place more
than a certain number of suns in the expanse of heaven, shall we
consider the excess as superfluous, and, in consequence of this
profusion, declare the Creator convicted of folly and imbecility?

Whatever may be the deformity of the beings which we call
monsters, if we consider them individually, we may discover in
their horrible figures some marks of divine goodness. Has a
crocodile or a serpent less affection for her young than a night
ingale or a dove ? And is it not a contrast equally wonderful and
pleasing to behold this crocodile building a nest and laying an
egg like a hen, and a little monster issuing from that egg like a
chicken ? After the birth of the young one, the female croco
dile evinces for it the most tender solicitude. She walks her
rounds among the nests of her sisters, which are cones of eggs
and of clay, and are ranged like the tents of a camp on the bank
of a river. The amazon keeps a vigilant guard, and leaves the fires
of day to operate ] for, if the delicate tenderness of the mother is,
as it were, represented in the egg of the crocodile, the strength
and the manners of that powerful animal are denoted by the sun
which hatches that egg and by the rnud which aids it to ferment.

1 It has been observed that, in the Carolinas, where the caymans have been
destroyed, the rivers are often infected by the multitude of fishes which ascend
from the ocean, and which perish for want of water during the dog-days.

The cayman is commonly known by the name of Antilles Crocodile, because
it abounds in those islands. It is the most hideous, terrible, and destructive
of the Lacerta genus of animals.

166 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

As s )on as one of the broods is hatched, the female takes the
young monsters under her protection ; they are not always her own
children but she thus serves an apprenticeship to maternal care,
and acquires an ability equal to her future tenderness. When
her family, at length, burst from their confinement, she conducts
them to the river, she washes them in pure water, she teaches
them to swim, she catches small fishes for them, and protects
them from the males, by whom otherwise they would frequently
be devoured.

A Spaniard of Florida related to us that, having taken t
brood of a crocodile, which he ordered some negroes to carry away
in a basket, the female followed him with pitiful cries,
the young having been placed upon the ground, the mother im
mediately began to push them with her paws and her snout j
sometimes posting herself behind to defend them, sometimes
walking before to show them the way. The young animals,
groaning, crawled in the footsteps of their mother; and this
enormous reptile, which used to shake the shore witk her bellow
ing, then made a kind of bleating noise, as gentle as that of a
goat suckling her kids.

The rattlesnake vies with the crocodile in maternal affection.
This superb reptile, which gives a lesson of generosity to man, 1
also presents to him a pattern of tenderness. When her offspring
are pursued, she receives them into her mouth : a dissatisfied with
every other place of concealment, she hides them within herself,
concluding that children can have no better refuge than the
bosom of their mother. A perfect example of sublime love, she
never survives the loss of her young ; for it is impossible to de
prive her of them without tearing out her entrails.

Shall we mention the poison of this serpent, always the most
violent at the time she has a family? Shall we describe the
tenderness of the bear, which, like the female savage, carries
maternal affection to such a pitch as to suckle her offspring after
their death? 3 If we follow these monsters, as they are called, in
*11 their instincts ; if we study their forms and their weapons of

1 It is never the first to attack.

2 See Carver s Travels in Canada for a confirmation of this statement.

3 See Cook s Voyages.

AMPHIBIOUS ANIMALS AND REPTILES.

defence ; if we consider the link which they make in the chain
of creation ; if we examine the relations they have among them
selves, and those which they have to man; we shall be convinced
that final causes are, perhaps, more discernible in this class of
beings than in the most favored species of nature. In a rude
and unpolished work, the traits of genius shine forth the more
prominently amid the shadows that surround them.

The objections alleged against the situations which these mon
sters inhabit appear to us equally unfounded. Morasses, how
ever noxious they may seem, have, nevertheless, very important
uses. They are the urns of rivers in champagne countries, and
reservoirs for rain in those remote from the sea. Their mud and
the ashes of their plants serve the husbandman for manure.
Their reeds supply the poor with fuel and with shelter a frail
covering, indeed, though it harmonizes with the life of man, last
ing no longer than himself. These places even possess a certain
beauty peculiar to themselves. Bordering on land and water,
they have plants, scenery, and inhabitants, of a specific character.
Every object there partakes of the mixture of the two elements.
The corn-flag forms the medium between the herb and the shrub,
between the leek of the seas and the terrestrial plant. Some of
the aquatic insects resemble small birds. When the dragon-fly,
with his blue corslet and transparent wings, hovers round the
flower of the white water-lily, you would take him for a hum
ming-bird of the Floridas on a rose of magnolia. In autumn
these morasses are covered with dried reeds, which give to ste
rility itself the appearance of the richest harvests. In the spring
they exhibit forests of verdant lances. A solitary birch or willow,
on which the gale has suspended tufts of feathers, towers above
these moving plains, and when the wind passes over their bend
ing summits, one bows its head while another rises; but suddenly,
the whole forest inclining at once, you discover ei .her the gilded
bittern or ;he white heron, standing motionless on one of its long
paws, as it fixed upon a spear.

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER XL

OP PLANTS AND THEIR MIGRATIONS.

WE now enter that kingdom of nature in which the wonders
of Providence assume a milder and more charming character.
Rising aloft in the air, and on the summits of the mountains,
plants would seem to borrow something of that heaven to which
they make approaches. We often see, at the first dawn of day,
in a time of profound stillness, the flowers of the valley motion
less on their stems, and inclining in various directions toward
every point of the horizon. At this very moment, when all ap
pears so tranquil, a great mystery is accomplishing. Nature con
ceives, and all these plants become so many youthful mothers,
looking toward the mysterious region from which they derive
their fecundity. The sylphs have sympathies less aerial, commu
nications less imperceptible. The narcissus consigns her virgin
progeny to the stream. The violet trusts her modest posterity to
the zephyrs. A bee, collecting honey from flower to flower, un
consciously fecundates a whole meadow. A butterfly bears a
whole species on his wings. All the loves of the plants, however,
are not equally peaceful. Some are stormy, like the passions of
men. Nothing less than a tempest is required to marry, on their
inaccessible heights, the cedar of Lebanon to the cedar of Sinai;
while, at the foot of the mountain, the gentlest breeze is sufficient
to produce a voluptuous commerce among the flowers. Is it not
thus that the rude blast of the passions agitates the kings of the
earth upon their thrones, while the shepherds enjoy uninterrupted
happiness at their feet?

The flower yields honey. It is the daughter of the morning,
the charm of spring, the source of perfumes, the graceful orna
ment of the virgin, the delight of the poet. Like man, it passes
rapidly away, but drops its leaves gently to the earth. Among
the ancients it crowned the convivial cup and the silvery hair of
the sage. With flowers the first Christians bedecked the remains
of martyrs and the altars of the catacombs; and, in commemora-

PLANTS AND THEIR MIGRATIONS. 169

tioii of those ancient days, we still use them for the decoration of
our temples. In the world, we compare our affections to the
colors of the flower. Hope has its verdure, innocence its whiteness,
modesty its roseate hue. Some nations make it the interpreter
of the feelings, a charming book, containing no dangerous error,
but recording merely the fugitive history of man s changing heart.

By a wise distribution of the sexes in several families of plants,
Providence h;;s multiplied the mysteries and the beauties of na
ture. By this means the law of migrations is reproduced in a
kingdom destitute, apparently, of every locomotive faculty.
Sometimes it is the seed or the fruit, sometimes it is a portion
of the plant, or even the whole plant, that travels. The cocoa-
tree frequently grows upon rocks in the midst of the ocean. The
storm rages, the fruits fall and are carried by the billows to in
habited coasts, where they are transformed into stately trees an
admirable symbol of Virtue, who fixes herself upon the rock, ex
posed to the tempest. The more she is assailed by the wands,
the more she lavishes treasures upon mankind.

On the banks of the Yare, a small river in the county of Suf
folk, England, we were shown a very curious species of the cress
It changes its place, and advances, as it were, by leaps and bounds.
From its summit descend several fibres, and when those which
happen to be at one extremity are of sufficient length to reach
the bottom of the water, they take root. Drawn away by the
action of the plant, which settles upon its new foot, that on the
opposite looses its hold, and the tuft of cresses, turning on its
pivot, removes the whole length of its bed. In vain you seek
the plant on the morrow in the place where you left it the pre
ceding night. You perceive it higher up or lower down the
current of the river, producing, with the other aquatic families,
new effects and new beauties. We have not seen this singular
species of cress, either in its flowering or bearing state; but we
have given it the name of migrator, or the traveller. 1

Marine plants are liable to change their climate. They seem
to partake of the adventurous spirit of those nations whose geo
graphical position has rendered them commercial. The fucus
giganteus issues with the tempests from the caverns of the north.

1 None of the naturalists consulted upon this subject have verified the de
scription of this curious species of cress.

170 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Borne upon the sea, it moves along encircling an immense mnss
of water. Like a net Wretched across the ocean from shore to
shore, it carries along with it the shells, seals, thornbacks, and
turtles which it meets in its way. Sometimes, as if fatigued with
swimming on the waves, it extends one leg to the bottom of the
abyss, and remains stationary; then, pursuing its voyage with a
favorable breeze, after having floated beneath a thousand different
latitudes, it proceeds to cover the Canadian shores with garlands
torn from the rocks of Norway.

The migrations of marine plants, which, at the first view,
would seem to be the mere sport of chance, have, nevertheless,
very interesting relations with man.

Walking one evening along the seashore at Brest, we perceived
a poor woman wandering, in a stooping posture, among the rocks.
She surveyed with attention the fragments of a wreck, and exa
mined particularly the plants which adhered to it, as if she sought
to ascertain, from their age, the exact period of her misfortune.
She discovered, beneath some stones, one of those chests in which
mariners are used to keep their bottles. Perhaps she had once
filled it herself, for her husband, with cordials purchased with the
fruit of her economy; at least so we judged, for we saw her lift
the corner of her apron to wipe the tears from her eyes. Sea-
mushrooms now replaced the offerings of her affection. Thus,
while the report of cannon announces to the great ones of this
earth the destruction of human grandeur, Providence brings the
tale of sorrow, on the same shore, to the weak and lowly, by se
cretly disclosing to them a blade of grass or a ruin.

CHAPTER XII.

TWO VIEWS OF NATURE.

WHAT we have said respecting animals and plants leads us to
a more general view of the scenes of nature. Those wonders
which, separately considered, so loudly proclaimed the providence
of God, will now speak to us of the same truth in their collective
capacity.

TWO VIEWS OF NATURE. 171

We shall place before the reader two views of nature; one an
ocean scene, the other a land picture ; one sketched in the middle
of the Atlantic, the other in the forests of the New World.
Thus, no one can say that the imposing grandeur of this scenery
has been derived from the works of man.

The vessel in which we embarked for America having passed
the bearing of any land, space was soon enclosed only by the two
fold azure of the sea and of the sky. The color of the waters
resembled that of liquid glass. A great swell was visible from
the west, though the wind blew from the east, while immense un
dulations extended from the north to the south, opening in their
valleys long vistas through the deserts of the deep. The fleeting
scenes changed with every minute. Sometimes a multitude of
verdant hillocks appeared to us like a series of graves in some
vast cemetery. Sometimes the curling summits of the waves
resembled white flocks scattered over a heath. Now space seemed
circumscribed for want of an object of comparison; but if a billow
reared its mountain crest, if a wave curved like a distant shore,
or a squadron of sea-dogs moved along the horizon, the vastness
of space again suddenly opened before us. We were most power
fully impressed with an idea of magnitude, when a light fog,
creeping along the surface of the deep, seemed to increase im
mensity itself. Oh ! how sublime, how awful, at such times, is
the aspect of the ocean ! Into what reveries does it plunge you,
whether imagination transports you to the seas of the north, into
the midst of frosts and tempests, or wafts you to southern islands,
blessed with happiness and peace !

We often rose at midnight and sat down upon deck, where we
found only the officer of the watch and a few sailors silently
smoking their pipes. No noise was heard, save the dashing of
the prow through the billows, while sparks of fire ran with a white
foam along the sides of the vessel. God of Christians ! it is on
the waters of the abyss and on the vast expanse of the heavens
that thou hast particularly engraven the characters of thy omni
potence ! Millions of stars sparkling in the azure of the celestial
dome the moon in the midst of the firmament a sea unbounded
by any shore infinitude in the skies and on the waves proclaim
with most impressive effect the power of thy arm ! Never did
thy greatness strike me with profounder awe than in those nights,

jj2 GENIUS OF CHRISTIAN!! i".

when, suspended between the stars and the ocea i, I *xheld im
mensity over my head and immensity beneath my feet!

I am nothing; I am only a simple, solitary wanderer, and
often have I heard men of science disputing on the subject of a
Supreme Being, without understanding them ; but I have inva
riably remarked, that it is in the prospect of the sublime scenes
of nature that this unknown Being manifests himself to the
human heart. One evening, after we had reached the beautiful
waters that bathe the shores of Virginia, there was a profound
calm, and every sail was furled. I was engaged below, when I
heard the bell that summoned the crew to prayers. I hastened
to mingle my supplications with those of my travelling com
panions. The officers of the ship were on the quarter-deck
with the passengers, while the chaplain, with a book in his
hand, was stationed at a little distance before them ; the seamen
were scattered at random over the poop; we were all standing,
our faces toward the prow of the vessel, which was turned to
the west.

The solar orb, about to sink beneath the waves, was seen
through the rigging, in the midst of boundless space ; and, from
the motion of the stern, it appeared as if it changed its horizon
every moment. A few clouds wandered confusedly in the east,
where the moon was slowly rising. The rest of the sky was serene;
and toward the north, a water-spout, forming a glorious triangle
with the luminaries of day and night, and glistening with all
the colors of the prism, rose from the sea, like a column of
crystal supporting the vault of heaven.

He had been well deserving of pity who would not have re
cognised in this prospect the beauty of God. When my com
panions, doffing their tarpaulin hats, entoned with hoarse voice
their simple hymn to Our Lady of Good Help, the patroness of
the seas, the tears flowed from my eyes in spite of myself. How
affecting was the prayer of those men, who, from a frail plank in
the midst of the ocean, contemplated the sun setting behind the
waves! How the appeal of the poor sailor to the Mother cf
Sorrows went to the heart ! The consciousness of our insignifi
cance in the presence of the Infinite, our hymns, resounding to
a distance over the silent waves, the night approaching with its
dangers, our vessel, itself a wonder among so many wonders, a

TWO VIEWS OF NATURE, 173

religious crew, penetrated with admiration and tfith awe, a ve
nerable priest in prayer, the Almighty bending over the abyss,
with one hand staying the sun in the west, with the other raising
the moon in the east, and lending through all immensity, an
attentive ear to the feeble voice of his creatures, all this consti
tuted a scene which no power of art can represent, and which it
is scarcely possible for the heart of man to feel.

Let us now pass to the terrestrial scene.

I had wandered one evening in the woods, at some distance
from the cataract of Niagara, when soon the last glimmering of
daylight disappeared, and I enjoyed, in all its loneliness, the
beauteous prospect of night amid the deserts of the New World.

An hour after sunset, the moon appeared above the trees in
the opposite part of the heavens. A balmy breeze, which the
queen of night had brought with her from the east, seemed to
precede her in the forests, like her perfumed breath. The lonely
luminary slowly ascended in the firmament, now peacefully pur
suing her azure course, and now reposing on groups of clouds
which resembled the summits of lofty, snow-covered mountains.
These clouds, by the contraction and expansion of their vapory
forms, rolled themselves into transparent zones of white satin,
scattering in airy masses of foam, or forming in the heavens
brilliant beds of down so lovely to the eye that you would have
imagined you felt their softness and elasticity.

The scenery on the earth was not less enchanting : the soft and
bluish beams of the moon darted through the intervals between
the trees, and threw streams of light into the midst of the most
profound darkness. The river that glided at my feet was now
lost in the wood, and now reappeared, glistening with the constel
lations of night, which were reflected on its bosom. In a vast
plain beyond this stream, the radiance of the moon reposed
quietly on the verdure. Birch-trees, scattered here and there in
the savanna, and agitated by the breeze, formed shadowy islands
which floated on a motionless sea of light. Near me, all was
silence and repose, save the fall of some leaf, the transient
rustling of a sudden breath of wind, or the hooting of the owl ;
but at a distance was heard, at intervals, the solemn roar of the
Falls of Niagara, which, in tl) stillness of the night, was prolonged
from desert to desert, and died away among the solitary forests.
15*

174 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The grandeur, the astonishing solemnity of this scene, cannot
be expressed in language ; nor can the most delightful nights of
Europe afford any idea of it. In vain does imagination attempt
to soar in our cultivated fields; it everywhere meets with the
habitations of men : but in those wild regions the mind loves to
penetrate into an ocean of forests, to hover round the abysses of
cataracts, to meditate on the banks of lakes and rivers, and, as it
were, to find itself alone with God.

CHAPTER XIII.

PHYSICAL MAN.

To complete the view of final causes, or the proofs of the
existence of God, deducible from the wonders of nature, we have
only to consider man in his physical or material aspect; and here
we shall quote the observations of those who were thoroughly
acquainted with the subject.

Cicero describes the human body in the following terms :*
" With respect to the senses, by which exterior objects are con
veyed to the knowledge of the soul, their structure corresponds
wonderfully with their destination, and they have their seat in
the head as in a fortified town. The eyes, like sentinels, occupy
the most elevated place, whence, on discovering objects, they
may give the alarm. An eminent position was suited to the ears,
because they are destined to receive sounds, which naturally
ascend. The nostrils required a similar situation, because odors
likewise ascend, and it was necessary that they should be near
the mouth, because they greatly assist us in judging of our meat
and drink. Taste, by which we are apprised of tJhe quality of
the food we take, resides in that part of the mouth through which
nature gives a passage to solids and liquids. As for the touch,
it is generally diffused over the whole body, that we might neither
receive any impression, nor be attacked by cold or heat, without
feeling it. And as an architect will not place the sewer of a

1 De Natura Deorum, lib. ii.

PHYSICAL MAN. 175

house before the eyes or under the nose of his employer, -10 Na
ture has removed from our senses every thing of a siinila; kind
in the human body.

" But what other artist than Nature, whose dexterity is incom
parable, could have formed our senses with such exquisite skill ?
She has covered the eyes with very delicate tunics, transparent
before, that we might see through them, and close in their tex
ture, to keep the eyes in their proper situation. She has made
them smooth and moveable, to enable them to avoid every thing
by which they might be injured and to look with facility to
whatever side they please. The pupil, in which is united all
that constitutes the faculty of sight, is so small that it escapes
without difficulty from every object capable of doing it mischief.
The eyelids have a soft and polished surface, that they may not
hurt the eyes Whether the fear of some accident obliges us to
shut them, or we choose to open them, the eyelids are formed in
such a manner as to adapt themselves to either of these motions,
which are performed in an instant ; they are, if we may so ex
press it, fortified with palisades of hair, which serve to repel
whatever may attack the eyes when they are open, and to
envelop them that they may repose in peace when sleep closes
and renders them useless to us. Our eyes possess the additional
advantage of being concealed and defended by eminences j for,
on the one hand, to stop the sweat that trickles down from the
head and forehead, they have projecting eyebrows; and on the
other, to preserve them from below, they have cheeks which like
wise advance a little. The nose is placed between both like a
wall of partition.

" With respect to the ear, it remains continually open, because
we have occasion for its services, even when asleep. If any
sound then strikes it, we are awaked. It has winding channels,
lest, if they were straight and level, some object might find its
way into them

"And then our hands, how convenient are they, and how use
ful in the arts ! The fingers are extended or contracted without
the least difficulty, so extremely flexible are their joints. With
their assistance the hands use the pencil and the chisel, and play
on the lyre arid the lute : so much for the agreeable. As to what
is necessary, they cultivate the earth, build houses, make clothes,

176 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

and work in copper and iron. The imagination invents, the
senses examine, the hand executes; so that, if we are lodged,
clothed, and sheltered, if we have cities, walls, habitations, tem
ples, it is to our hands that we are indebted for all these."

It must be allowed that matter alone could no more have
fashioned the human body for so many admirable purposes, than
this beautiful discourse of the Roman orator could have been
composed by a writer destitute of eloquence and of skill. 1

Various authors, and Nieuwentyt in particular, have proved
that the bounds within which our senses are confined, are the
very limits that are best adapted to them, and that we should be
exposed to a great number of inconveniences and dangers were
the senses in any degree enlarged. 3 Galen, struck with admira
tion in the midst of an anatomical analysis of a human body,
suddenly drops the scalpel, and exclaims :

"0 Thou who hast made us! in composing a discourse so
sacred, I think that I am chanting a hymn to thy glory ! I honor
thee more by unfolding the beauty of thy works, than bv sacri
ficing to thee whole hecatombs of bulls or by burning in thy
temples the most precious incense. True piety consists in first
learning to know myself, and then in teaching others the great
ness of thy bounty, thy power, and thy wisdom. Thy bounty is
conspicuous in the equal distribution of thy presents, having
allotted to each man the organs which are necessary for him ; thy
wisdom is seen in the excellence of thy gifts, and thy power is
displayed in the execution of thy designs." 8

1 Cicero borrowed what he says concerning the service of the hand from
Aristotle. In combating the philosophy of A naxagoras, the Stagyrite observes,
with his accustomed sagacity, that man is not superior to the animals because
he has hands, but that he has hands because he is superior to the animals.
Plato likewise adduces the structure of the human body as a proof of a divine
intelligence; and there are some sublime sentences in Job on the same subject

2 See note M.

Stolen, de Usu Part., lib Hi. o. 10.

LOVE OF OUR NATIVE COUNTRY. 177

CHAPTER XIV.

LOVE OF OUR NATIVE COUNTRY.

As we have considered the instincts of animals, it is proper
that we should allude to those of physical man ; but as he com
bines in himself the feelings of different classes of the creation,
such as parental tenderness, and many others, we shall select one
quality that is peculiar to him.

The instinct with which man is pre-eminently endued that
which is of aU the most beautiful and the most moral is the love
of his native country. If this law were not maintained by a
never-ceasing miracle, to which, however, as to many others, we
pay not the smallest attention, all mankind would crowd together
into the temperate zones, leaving the rest of the earth a desert.
We may easily conceive what great evils would result from this
collection of the human family on one point of the globe. To
prevent these calamities, Providence has, as it were, fixed the feet
of each individual to his native soil by an invincible magnet, so
that neither the ices of Greenland nor the burning sands of
Africa are destitute of inhabitants.

We may remark still further, that the more sterile the soil, the
more rude the climate, of a country, or, what amounts to the sams
thing, the greater the injustice arid the more severe the persecu
tion we have suffered there, the more strongly we are attached to
it. Strange and sublime truth! that misery should become a
bond of attachment, and that those who have lost but a cottage
should most feelingly regret the paternal habitation! The reason
of this phenomenon is, that the profusion of a too fertile soil de
stroys, by enriching us, the simplicity of the natural ties arising
from our wants ; when we cease to love our parents and our rela
tions because they are no longer necessary to us, we actually
cease also to love our country.

Every thing tends to confirm the truth of this remark. A
savage is more powerfully attached to his hut than a prince to his
palace, and the mountaineer is more delighted with his native

178 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

rocks than the inhabitant of the plain with his golden corn-fields.
Ask a Scotch Highlander if he would exchange his lot with the
first potentate of the earth. When far removed from his beloved
mountains, he carries with him the recollection of them whither
soever he goes; he sighs for his flocks, his torrents, and his
clouds. He longs to eat again his barley-bread, to drink goat s
milk, and to sing in the valley the ballads which were sung by
his forefathers. He pines if he is prevented from returning to
his native clime. It is a mountain plant which must be rooted
among rocks; it cannot thrive unless assailed by the winds and
the rain; in the soil, the shelter, and the sunshine of the plain,
it quickly droops and dies.

With what joy will he again fly to his roof of furze ! with what
delight will he visit all the sacred relics of his indigence !

" Sweet treasures !" he exclaims, " pledges dear !
That lying and envy have attracted ne er,
Come back : from all this royal pomp I flee,
For all is but an idle dream to me."

Who can be more happy than the Esquimaux, in his frightful
country? What to him are all the flowers of our climates com
pared to the snows of Labrador, and all our palaces to his smoky
cabin ? He embarks in spring, with his wife, on a fragment of
floating ice. 3 Hurried along by the currents, he advances into
the open sea on this frozen mass. The mountain waves over the
deep its trees of snow, the sea-wolves revel in its valleys, and the
whales accompany it on the dark bosom of the ocean. The dar
ing Indian, under the shelter afforded by his frozen mountain,
presses to his heart the wife whom God has given him, and finds
with her unknown joys in this mixture of perils and of pleasures.
It should be observed, however, that this savage has very good
teasons for preferring his country and his condition to ours. De
graded as his nature may appear to us, still, we may discover in
him, or in the arts he practises, something that displays the dig
nity of man. The European is lost every day, in some vessel

1 "Doux tresors!" se dit-il: "chers gages, qui jamais

N attirates sur vous 1 envie et le mensonge,
Je vous reprends: sortons cie ces riches palais,
Comme Ton sortiroit d un songe.

2 See Hietci^e de la Nouvelle France, by Charlevoix.

LOVE OF OUR NATIVE COUNTRY. 179

which is a master-piece of human industry, on the same shores
where the Esquimaux, floating in a seal s skin, smiles at every
kind of danger. Sometimes he hears the ocean which covers
him roaring far above his head ; sometimes mountain-billows bear
him aloft to the skies : he sports among the surges, as a child
balances himself on tufted branches in the peaceful recesses of
the forest. When God placed man in this region of tempests, he
stamped upon him a mark of royalty. " Go/ said he to him from
amidst the whirlwind, "go, wretched mortal; I cast thee naked
upon the earth ; but, that thy destiny may not be misconceived,
thou shalt subdue the monsters of the deep with a reed, and thou
shalt trample the tempests under thy feet."

Thus, in attaching us to our native land, Providence justifies
its dealings toward us, and we find numberless reasons for loving
our country. The Arab never forgets the well of the camel, the
antelope, and, above all, the horse, the faithful companion of his
journeys through his paternal deserts; the negro never ceases to
remember his cottage, his javelin, his banana, and the track of
the zebra and the elephant in his native sands.

It is related that an English cabin-boy had conceived such an
attachment for the ship in which he was born that he could
never be induced to leave it for a single moment. The greatest
punishment the captain could inflict was to threaten him with
beino- sent ashore ; on these occasions he would run with loud
shrieks and conceal himself in the hold. What inspired the little
mariner with such an extraordinary affection for a plank beaten
by the winds ? Assuredly not associations purely local and phy
sical. Was it a certain moral conformity between the destinies
of man and those of a ship ? or did he perhaps find a pleasure in
concentrating his joys and his sorrows in what we may justly call
his cradle? The heart is naturally fond of contracting itself; the
more it is compressed, the smaller is the surface which is liable
to be wounded. This is the reason why persons of delicate sensi
bilitysuch the unfortunate generally are prefer to live in retire
ment. What sentiment gains in energy it loses in extent. When
the Roman republic was bounded by the Aventine Mount, her
citizens joyfully sacrificed their lives in her defence : they ceased
to love her when the Alps and Mount Taurus were the limits of
her territory. It was undoubtedly some reason of this kind that

180 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

cherished in the heart of the English youth a predilection for his
paternal vessel. An unknown passenger on the ocean of life, he
beheld the sea rising as a barrier between him and our afflictions;
happy in viewing only at a distance the melancholy shores of the
world !

Among civilized nations the love of country has performed
prodigies. The designs of God have always a connection; he
has grounded upon nature this affection for the place of our
nativity, and hence, the animal partakes, in a certain degree, of
this instinct with man ; but the latter carries it farther, and trans
forms into a virtue what was only a sentiment of universal con
cordance. Thus the physical and moral laws of the universe are
linked together in an admirable chain. We even doubt whether
it be possible to possess one genuine virtue, one real talent, with
out the love of our native country. In war this passion has ac
complished wonders; in literature it produced a Homer and a
Virgil. The former delineates in preference to all others the
manners of Ionia, where he drew his first breath, and the latter
feasted on the remembrance of his native place. Born in a cot
tage, and expelled from the inheritance of his ancestors, these
two circumstances seem to have had an extraordinary influence
on the genius of Virgil, giving to it that melancholy tint which
is one of its principal charms. He recalls these events continu
ally, and shows that the country where he passed his youth was
always before his eyes :

Et dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos. 1

But it is the Christian religion that has invested patriotism
with its true character. This sentiment led to the commission
of crime among the ancients, because it was carried to excess;
Christianity has made it one of the principal affections in man,
but not an exclusive one. It commands us above all things to
be just; it requires us to cherish the whole family of Adam,
since we ourselves belong to it, though our countrymen have the
first claim to our attachment. This morality was unknown before
the coming of the Christian lawgiver, who has been unjustly ac
cused of attempting to extirpate the passions : God destroys not

1 jffineid, lib. x.

LOVE OF OUR NATIVE COUNTRY. 181

his own work. The gospel is not the destroyer of the heart, but
its regulator. It is to our feelings what taste is to the fine arts;
it retrenches all that is exaggerated, false, common, and trivial;
it leaves all that is fair, and good, and true. The Christian reli
gion, rightly understood, is only primitive nature washed from
original pollution.

It is when at a distance from our country that we feel the full
force of the instinct by which we are attached to it. For want
of the reality, we try to feed upon dreams; for the heart is expert
in deception, and there is no one who has been suckled at the
breast of woman but has drunk of the cup of illusion. Some
times it is a cottage which is situated like the paternal habitation ;
sometimes it is a wood, a valley, a hill, on which we bestow some
of the sweet appellations of our native land. Andromache gives
the name of Simois to a brook. And what an affecting object is
this little rill v which recalls the idea of a mighty river in her
native country ! Remote from the soil which gave us birth, na
ture appears to us diminished, and but the shadow of that which
we have lost.

Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a great
value to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which comes from
our native land, and which we have brought with us into exile.
The soul seems to dwell even upon the inanimate things which
have shared our destiny : we remain attached to the down on
which our prosperity has slumbered, and still more to the straw
on which we counted the days of our adversity. The vulgar have
an energetic expression, to describe that languor which oppresses
the soul when away from our country. "That man," they say,
"is home-sick." A sickness it really is, and the only cure
for it is to return. If, however, we have been absent a few
7ears, what do we find in the place of our nativity ? How few
of those whom we left behind in the vigor of health are still
alive! Here are tombs where once stood palaces; there rise
palaces where we left tombs. The paternal field is overgrown
wi+h briers or cultivated by the plough of a stranger; and the
tree beneath which we frolicked in our boyish days has dis
appeared.

In Louisiana there were two females, one a negro, the other an
16

182 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Indian, who were the slaves of two neighboring planters Each
of the women had a child ; the black a little girl two years old,
and the Indian a boy of the same age. The latter died. The two
unfortunate women having agreed upon a solitary spot, repaired
thither three successive nights. The one brought her dead child,
the other her living infant; the one her Manitou, the other her
Fetiche. They were not surprised thus to find themselves of the
same religion, both being wretched. The Indian performed the
honors of the solitude: " This is the tree of my native land,"
said she; "sit down there and weep." Then, in accordance
with the funeral custom of savage nations, they suspended their
children from the branch of a catalpa or sassafras-tree, and rocked
them while singing some patriotic air. Alas ! these maternal
amusements, which had oft lulled innocence to sleep, were inca
pable of awaking death ! Thus these women consoled themselves;
the one had lost her child and her liberty, the other her liberty
und her country. We find a solace even in tears.

It is said that a Frenchman, who was obliged to fly during the
reign of terror, purchased with the little he had left a boat upon
the Rhine. Here he lived with his wife and two children. As
he had no money, no one showed him any hospitality. When he
was driven from one shore, he passed without complaining to the
other; and, frequently persecuted on both sides, he was obliged to
cast anchor in the middle of the river. He fished for the sup
port of his family; but even this relief sent by divine Providence
he was not allowed to enjoy in peace. At night he went to col
lect some dry grass to make a fire, and his wife remained in cruel
anxiety till his return. Obliged to lead the life of outcasts,
among four great civilized nations, this family had not a single
spot on earth where thej durst set their feet ; their only consola
tion was, that while they wandered in the vicinity of France they
could sometimes inhale the breeze which had passed over their
native land.

Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind us to
the place of our nativity, we would find some difficulty in answer
ing the question. It is, perhaps, the sniile of a mother, of a
father, of a sister ; it is, perhaps, the recollection of the old pre-
ceptoT who instructed us and of the young companions of our

LOVE OF OUR NATIVE COUNTRY. 183

childhood ; it is, perhaps, the care bestowed upon us by a tender
Qurse, by some aged domestic, so essential a part of the house
hold ; finally, it is something most simple, and, if you please, most
trivial, a dog that barked at night in the fields, a nightingale
that returned every year to the orchard, the nest of the swallow
over the window, the village clock that appeared above the trees,
the churchyard yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple
things demonstrate the more clearly the reality of a Providence,
as they could not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the
great virtues which it begets, unless by the appointment of the
Almighty himself.

BOOK VI.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL PROVED BY THE
MORAL LAW AND THE FEELINGS.

CHAPTER I.

DESIRE OF HAPPINESS IN MAN.

WERE there no other proofs of the existence of God than the
wonders of nature, these evidences are so strong that they would
convince any sincere inquirer after truth. But if they who deny
a Providence are, for that very reason, unable to explain the
wonders of the creation, they are still more puzzled when they
undertake to answer the objections of their own hearts. By
renouncing the Supreme Being, they are obliged to renounce a
future state. The soul nevertheless disturbs them; she appears,
as it were, every moment before them, and compels them, in
spite of their sophistry, to acknowledge her existence and her
immortality.

Let them inform us, in the first place, if the soul is extin
guished at the moment of death, whence proceeds the desire of
happiness which continually haunts us ? All our passions here
below may easily be gratified ; love, ambition, anger, have their
full measure of enjoyment : the desire of happiness is the only
one that cannot be satisfied, and that fails even of an object, as
we know not what that felicity is which we long for. It must be
admitted, that if every thing is matter, nature has here made a
strange mistake, in creating a desire without any object.

Certain it is that the soul is eternally craving. No sooner has
it attained the object for which it yearned, than a new wish is
formed ; and the whole universe cannot satisfy it. Infinity is the
only field adapted to its nature ; it delights to lose itself in num
bers, to conceive the greatest as well as the smallest dimensions,
and to multiply without end. Filled at length, but not satisfied

with all that it has devoured, it seeks the bosom of the Deity, in
184

DESIRE OF HAPPINESS IN MAN. 185

whom centre all ideas of infinity, whether in perfection, duration,
or space. But it seeks the bosom of Deity only because he is a
being full of mystery, a a hidden God." 1 If it had a clear ap
prehension of the divine nature, it would undervalue it, as it does
all other objects that its intellect is capable of measuring; for,
if it could fully comprehend the eternal principle, it would be
either superior or equal to this principle. It is not in divine as
it is in human things. A man may understand the power of a
king without being a king himself; but he cannot understand
the divinity without being God.

The inferior animals are not agitated by this hope which mani
fests itself in the heart of man ; they immediately attain their
highest degree of happiness ; a handful of grass satisfies the
lamb, a little blood is sufficient for the tiger. If we were to
assert, with some philosophers, that the different conformation of
the organs constitutes all the difference between us and the brute,
this mode of reasoning could, at the farthest, be admitted only in
relation to purely material acts. But of what service is my hand
to my mind, when amid the silence of night I soar through the
regions of boundless space, to discover the Architect of so many
worlds ? Why does not the ox act in this respect as I do ? His
eyes are sufficient; and if he had my legs or my arms, they
would for this purpose be totally useless to him. He may repose
upon the turf, he may raise his head toward the sky, and by his
bellowing call upon the unknown Being who fills the immense
expanse. But no : he prefers the grass on which he treads; and
while those millions of suns that adorn the firmament furnish the
strongest evidences of a Deity, the animal consults them not ; he
is insensible to the prospect of nature, and unconscious that he
is himself thrown beneath the tree at the foot of which he lies,
as a slight proof of a divine Intelligence.

Man, therefore, is the only creature that wanders abroad, and
looks for happiness out of himself. The vulgar, we are told, feel
not this mysterious restlessness. They are undoubtedly less un
happy than we, for they are diverted by laborious occupations
from attending to their desires, and drown the thirst of felicity
in the sweat of their brow. But when you see them toil six

Is. xlv. 15.
16*

186 - GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

days in the week that they may enjoy a little pleasure on the
seventh, when, incessantly hoping for repose and never finding
it, they sink into the grave without eeasing to desire, will you say
that they share not the secret aspiration of all men after an un
known happiness ? You may reply, that in the class of which we
are speaking this wish is at least limited to terrestrial things ;
but your assertion remains to be proved. Give the poorest wretch
all the treasures in the world, put an end to his toils, satisfy all
his wants, and you will observe that, before a few months have
elapsed, his heart will conceive new desires and new hopes.

Besides, is it true that the lower classes, even in their state of
indigence, are strangers to that thirst of happiness which extends
beyond this life ? Whence proceeds that air of seriousness often
observed in the rustic ? We have often seen him on Sundays
and other festive days, while the people of the village were gone
to offer up their prayers to that Reaper who will separate the
wheat from the tares, we have often seen him standing alone at
the door of his cottage j he listened with attention to the sound
of the bell ; his air was pensive, and the sparrows that played
around him and the insects that buzzed in every direction
seemed not to distract him. Behold that noble figure, placed like
the statue of a god upon the threshold of a cabin ; that brow,
sublime though wrinkled with care ; and then say if this being,
so majestic, though indigent, could be thinking of nothing, or
reflecting only on things of this world. Ah, no ! such was not
the expression of those half-open lips, of that motionless body,
of those eyes fixed on the ground : recollections of God surely
accompanied the sound of the religious bell.

If it is impossible to deny that man cherishes hopes to the
very tomb, if it is certain that all earthly possessions, so far
from crowning our wishes, only serve to increase the void in the
soul, we cannot but conclude that there must be a something
beyond the limits of time. " The ties of this world," says St.
Augustin, "are attended with real hardship and false pleasure;
certain pains and uncertain joys; hard labor and unquiet rest; a
situation fraught with wo and a hope void of felicity." 1 Instead

1 Vincula hujus mundi asperitatem habent veram, jucunditatem falsain ;
certum dolorem, incertam voluptatem ; durum la-bore in, timidam quietem : rem
plenam miseries, spem beatitudinis inaneui. Epist. 30 A

REMORSE AND CONSCIENCE. 187

of complaining that the desire of happiness has leen placed in
this world, and its object in the other, let us admire in this
arrangement the beneficence of God. Since we must sooner or
later quit this mortal life, Providence has placed beyond the fatal
boundary a charm which attracts us, in order to diminish our
horror of the grave : thus, the affectionate mother who wishes
her child to cross a certain limit, holds some pleasing object on
the other side to encourage him to pass it.

CHAPTER II.

REMORSE AND CONSCIENCE.

CONSCIENCE furnishes a second proof of the immortality of the
soul. Each individual has within his own heart a tribunal, where
he sits in judgment on himself till the Supreme Arbiter shall con
firm the sentence. If vice is but a physical consequence of our
organization, whence arises this dread which embitters the days
of prosperous guilt ? Why is remorse so terrible that many would
choose rather to submit to poverty and all the rigors of virtue
than enrich themselves with ill-gotten goods ? What is it that
gives a voice to blood and speech to stones ? The tiger devours
his prey, and slumbers quietly; man takes the life of his fellow-
creature, and keeps a fearful vigil ! He seeks some desert place,
and yet this solitude affrights him; he skulks about the tombs,
and yet the tombs fill him with horrors. His eyes are wild and
restless; he dares not fix them on the wall of the banqueting-
room, for fear he should discover there some dreadful signs. All
his senses seem to become more acute in order to torment him :
he perceives at night threatening confiscations; he is always sur
rounded by the smell of carnage ; he suspects the taste of poison
in the food which he has himself prepared; his ear, now wonder
fully sensitive, hears a noise where for others there is profound
silence; and when embracing his friend, he fancies that he feels
under his garments a hidden dagger.

Conscience ! is it possible that thou canst be but a phantom of

188 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

the imagination, or the fear of the punishment of men? I ask
my own heart, I put to myself this question: "If thou couldst
by a mere wish kill a fellow-creature in China, and inherit his
fortune in Europe, with the supernatural conviction that the fact
would never be known, wouldst thou consent to form such a
wish?" In vain do I exaggerate my indigence; iu vain do I
attempt to extenuate the murder, by supposing that through the
effect of my wish the Chinese expires instantaneously and with
out pain that, had he even died a natural death, his property,
from the situation of his affairs, would have been lost to the
state ; in vain do I figure to myself this stranger overwhelmed
with disease and affliction ; in vain do I urge that to him death
is a blessing, that he himself desires it, that he has but a moment
longer to live : in spite of all my useless subterfuges, I hear a
voice in the recesses of my soul, protesting so loudly against the
mere idea of such a supposition, that I cannot for one moment
doubt the reality of conscience.

It is a deplorable necessity, then, that compels a man to deny
remorse, that he may deny the immortality of the soul and the
existence of an avenging Deity. Full well we know, that athe
ism, when driven to extremities, has recourse to this disgraceful
denial. The sophist, in a paroxysm of the gout, exclaimed, "
pain ! never will I acknowledge that thou art an evil !" Were it
even true that there exist men so unfortunate as to be capable of
stifling the voice of conscience, what then? We must not judge
of him who possesses the perfect use of his limbs by the paralytic
who is deprived of his physical strength. Guilt, in its highest
degree, is a malady which sears the soul. By overthrowing reli
gion we destroy the only remedy capable of restoring sensibility
in the morbid regions of the heart. This astonishing religion of
Christ is a sort of supplement to the deficiency of the human
mind. Do we sin ly excess, by too great prosperity, by violence
of temper ? she is at hand to warn us of the fickleness of fortune
and the danger of angry excitement. Are we exposed, on tho
contrary, to sin by defect, by indigence, by indifference of soul ?
she teaches us to despise riches, at the same time warms OUT
frigid hearts, and, as it were, kindles in us the fire of the passions.
Toward the criminal, in particular, her charity is inexhaustible ;
no man is so depraved but she admits him to repentance, no

REMORSE AND CONSCIENCE.

leper so disgusting but she cures him with her pure hands. For
the past she requires only remorse, for the future only virtue :
"where sin abounded," she says, "grace did much more abound." 1
Ever ready to warn the sinner, Jesus Christ established his reli
gion as a second conscience for the hardened culprit who should
be so unfortunate as to have lost the natural one, an evangelical
conscience, full of pity and indulgence, to which the Son of God
has given the power to pardon, which is not possessed by the
conscience of man.

Having spoken of the remorse which follows guilt, it would be
unnecessary to say any thing of the satisfaction attendant on vir
tue. The inward delight which we feel in doing a good action
is no more a combination of matter than the accusation of con
science, when we commit a bad one, is fear of the laws.

If sophists maintain that virtue and pity are but self-love in
disguise, ask them not if they ever felt any secret satisfaction
after relieving a distressed object, or if it is the fear of returning
to the state of childhood that affects them when contemplating
the innocence of the new-born infant. Virtue and tears are for
men the source of hope and the groundwork of faith; how then
should he believe in God who believes neither in the reality of
virtue nor in the truth of tears ?

It would be an insult to the understanding of our readers, did
we attempt to show how the immortality of the soul and the ex
istence of God are proved by that inward voice called conscience.
"There is in man," says Cicero, "a power which inclines him
to that which is good and deters him from evil; which was not
only prior to the origin of nations and cities, but as ancient as
that God by whom heaven and earth subsist and are governed :
for reason is an essential attribute of the divine intelligence; and
. that reason which exists in God necessarily determines what is
vice and what is virtue." 2

Rom. v. 20. a Ad. Attic., xii. 38.

J90 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER III.

THERE CAN BE NO MORALITY IF THERE BE NO FUTURE STATE

PRESUMPTION IN FAVOR OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL
DEDUCED FROM THE RESPECT OF MAN FOR TOMBS.

MORALITY is the basis of society ; but if man is a mere mass
of matter, there is in reality neither vice nor virtue, and of course
morality is a mere sham. Our laws, which are ever relative and
variable, cannot serve as the support of morals, which are always
absolute and unalterable; they must, therefore, rest on something
more permanent than the present life, and have better guarantees
than uncertain rewards or transient punishments. Some philo
sophers have supposed that religion was invented in order to up
hold morality : they were not aware that they were taking the
effect for the cause. It is not religion that springs from morals,
but morals that spring from religion; since it is certain, as we
have just observed, that morals cannot have their principle in
physical man or mere matter; and that men no sooner divest
themselves of the idea of a God than they rush into every spe
cies of crime, in spite of laws and of executioners.

It is well known that a religion which recently aspired to erect
itself on the ruins of Christianity, and fancied that it could sur
pass the gospel, enforced in our churches that precept of the De
calogue : Children, honor your parents. But why did the Theo-
philanthropists retrench the latter part of this precept, that ye
may live long f l Because a secret sense of poverty taught them
that the man who has nothing can give nothing away. How.
could he have promised length of years who is not sure himself
of living two minutes? We might with justice have said to him,
" Thou makest me a present of life, and perceivest not that thou
art thyself sinking into dust ? Like Jehovah, thou assurest me

1 The Theophilanthropists, hardly deserving the name of a religious sect,
arose out of the infatuation of the French revolution. Their system was partly
positive and partly negative; they were advocates of some scraps of morality ;
and they denied the doctrine of the resurrection. K.

CERTAIN OBJECTIONS ANSWERED. 191

Ji protracted existence, but where is thy eternity like his from
which to dispense it? Thoughtless mortal! even the present
rapid hour is not thine own; thine only inheritance is death:
what then but nothingness canst thou draw forth from the bot
tom of thy sepulchre to recompense my virtue ?"

There is another moral proof of the immortality of the soul on
which it is necessary to insist, that is, the veneration of mankind
for tombs. By an invisible charm, life and death are here linked
together, and human nature proves itself superior to the rest of
the creation, and appears in all its high destinies. Does the brute
know any thing about a coffin, or does he concern himself about
his remains ? What to him are the bones of his parent, or, rather,
can he distinguish his parent after the cares of infancy are past?
Whence comes, then, the powerful impression that is made upon
us by the tomb ? Are a few grains of dust deserving of our vene
ration ? Certainly not ; we respect the ashes of our ancestors for
this reason only because a secret voice whispers to us that all is
not extinguished in them. It is this that confers a sacred cha
racter on the funeral ceremony among all the nations of the
globe ; all are alike persuaded that the sleep even of the tomb is
not everlasting, and that death is but a glorious transfiguration.

CHAPTER IV.

OF CERTAIN OBJECTIONS.

WITHOUT entering too deeply into metaphysical proofs, which
we have studiously avoided, we shall nevertheless endeavor to
answer certain objections which are incessantly brought forward.
Cicero has asserted, after Plato, that there is no people among
whom there exists not some notion of the Deity. But this uni
versal consent of nations, which the ancient philosophers con
sidered as a law of nature, has been denied by modern infidels,
who maintain that certain tribes of savages have no idea of God.

In vain do atheists strive to conceal the weakness of their cause.
The result of all their arguments is that their system is grounded

192 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

on exceptions alone, whereas the belief of a God forms the general
rule. If you assert that all mankind believe in a Supreme Being,
the infidel first objects to you some particular tribe of savages,
then some particular individual, or himself, who are of a different
opinion. If you assert that chance could not have formed the
world, because there could have been but one single favorable
chance against innumerable impossibilities, the infidel admits the
position, but replies that this chance actually did exist ; and the
same mode of reasoning he pursues on every subject. Thus,
according to the atheist, nature is a book in which truth is to be
found only in the notes and never in the text; a language the
genius and essence of which consist in its barbarisms.

When we come to examine these pretended exceptions, we
discover either that they arise from local causes, or that they even
fall under the established law. In the case alleged, for example,
it is false that there are any savages who have no notion of a
Heity. The early travellers who advanced this assertion have
been contradicted by others who were better informed. Among
the infidels of the ^forest were numbered the Canadian hordes ;
but we have seen these sophists of the cabin, who were supposed
to have read in the book of nature, as our sophists have in theirs,
that there is no God, nor any future state for man ; and we must
say that these Indians are absurd barbarians, who perceive the
soul of an infant in a dove, and that of a little girl in the sensi
tive plant. Mothers among them are so silly as to sprinkle their
milk upon a grave; and they give to man in the sepulchre the
same attitude which he had in the maternal womb. May not
this be done to intimate that death is but a second mother, by
whom we are brought forth into another life? Atheism will
never make any thing of those nations which are indebted to
Providence for lodging, food, and raiment; and we would advise
the infidel to beware of these bribed allies, who secretly receive
presents from the enemy.

Another objection is this : " Since the mind acquires and loses
its energies with age, since it follows all the alterations of mat
ter, it must be of a material nature, consequently divisible and
liable to perish/

Either the mind and the body are two distinct beings, or they
are but one and the same substance. If there are two, you must

CERTAIN OBJECTIONS ANSWERED. 193

admit that the mind is comprehended in the body; hence it
follows that, as long as this union lasts, the mind cannot but be
affected in a certain degree by the bonds in which it is held. It
will appear to be" elevated or depressed in the same proportion as
its mortal tabernacle. The objection, therefore, is done away in
the hypothesis by which the mind and the body are considered as
two distinct, substances.

If you suppose that they form but one and the same substance,
partaking alike of life and death, you are bound to prove the as
sertion. But it has long been demonstrated that the mind is
essentially different from motion and the other properties of mat
ter, being susceptible neither of extension nor division.

Thus the objection falls entirely to the ground, since the only
point to be ascertained is, whether matter and thought be one and
the same thing : a position which cannot be maintained without
absurdity.

Let it not be imagined that, in having recourse to prescription
for the solution of this difficulty, we are, therefore, unable to sap
its very foundation. It may be proved that even when the mind
seems to follow the contingencies of the body, it retains the dis
tinguishing characters of its essence. For instance, atheists tri
umphantly adduce, in support of their views, insanity, injuries of
the brain, and delirious fevers. To prop their wretched system,
these unfortunate men are obliged to enrol all the ills of human
ity as allies in their cause. Well, then, what, after all, is proved
by these fevers, this insanity, which atheism that is to say, the
genius of evil so properly summons in its defence? I see a dis
ordered imagination connected with a sound understanding. The
lunatic and the delirious perceive objects which have no existence;
but do they reason falsely respecting those objects? They only
draw logical conclusions from unsound premises.

The same thing happens to the patient in a paroxysm of fever.
llis mind is beclouded in that part in which images are reflected,
because the senses, from their imbecility, transmit only fallacious
notions; but the region of ideas remains uninjured and unalter
able. As a flame kindled with a substance ever so vile is never
theless pure fire, though fed with impure aliments, so the mind,
a celestial flame, rises incorruptible and immortal from the midst
of corruption and of death.

17 N

194 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

W th respect to the influence of climate upon the miid, which
has been alleged as a proof of the material nature of the soul, we
request the particular attention of the reader to our reply; for,
instead of answering a mere objection, we shall deduce from the
very point that is urged against us a remarkable evidence of the
immortality of the soul.

It has been observed that nature displays superior energies in
the north and in the south; that between the tropics we meet
with the largest quadrupeds, the largest reptiles, the largest birds,
the largest rivers, the highest mountains; that in the northern
regions we find the mighty cetaceous tribes, the enormous fucus,
and the gigantic pine. If all things are the effects of matter,
combinations of the elements, products of the solar rays, the
result of cold and heat, moisture and drought, why is man alone
excepted from this general law? Why is not his physical and
moral capacity expanded with that of the elephant under the
line and of the whale at the poles? While all nature is changed*
by the latitude under which it is placed, why does man alone re
main everywhere the same? Will you reply that man, like the
ox, is a native of every region ? The ox, we answer, retains his
instinct in every climate; and we find that, in respect to man, the
case is very different.

Instead of conforming to the general law of nature, instead
of acquiring higher energy in those climates where matter is
supposed to be most active, man, on the contrary, dwindles in the
same ratio as the animal creation around him is enlarged. In
proof of this, we may mention the Indian, the Peruvian, the
Negro, in the south; the Esquimaux and the Laplander in the
north. Nay, more : America, where the mixture of mud and
water imparts to vegetation all the vigor of a primitive soil
America is pernicious to the race of man, though it is daily be
coming less so in proportion as the activity of the material prin
ciple is reduced. Man possesses not all his energies except in
those regions where the elements, being more temperate, allow a
freer scope to the mind; where that mind, being in a manner
released from its terrestrial clothing, is not restrained in any of
its motions or in any of its faculties.

Here, then, we cannot but discover something in direct oppo
sition to passive nature. Now this something is our immortal

CERTAIN OBJECTIONS ANSWERE1 195

soul. It accords not with the operations of matter. It s/ckens
and languishes when in too close contact with it. This languor
of the soul produces, in its turn, debility of body. The body
which, had it been alone, would have thriven under the powerful
influence of the sun, is kept back by the dejection of the mind.
If it be said that, on the contrary, the body, being incapable of
enduring the extremities of cold and heat, causes the soul to de
generate together with itself, this would be mistaking a second
time the effect for the cause. It is not the mud that acts upon
the current, but the current that disturbs the mud ; and, in like
manner, all these pretended effects of the body upon the soul are
the very reverse the effects of the soul upon the body.

The twofold debility, mental and physical, of people at the
north and south, the gravity of temper which seems to oppress
them, cannot, then, in our opinion, be ascribed to too great relaxa
tion or tension of the fibre, since the same accidents do not pro-
*duce the same effects in the temperate zones. This disposition
of the natives of the polar and tropical regions is a real intel
lectual dejection, produced by the state of the soul and by its
struggles against the influence of matter. Thus God has not only
displayed his wisdom in the advantages which the globe derives
from the diversity of latitudes, but, by placing man upon this
species of ladder, he has demonstrated, with almost mathematical
precision, the immortality of our essence; since the soul possesses
the greatest energy where matter operates with the least force,
and the intellectual powers of man diminish where the corporeal
mass of the brute is augmented.

Let us consider one more objection: "If the idea of God is
naturally impressed upon our souls, it ought to precede education
and reason, and to manifest itself in earliest infancy. Now
children have no idea of God, consequently/ &c.

God being a spirit, which cannot be comprehended but by a
sjririt, a child, in whom the intellectual faculties are not yet de
veloped, is incapable of forming a conception of the Supreme
Being. How unreasonable to require the heart to exercise its
noblest function when it is not yet fully formed when the won
derful work is yet in the hands of the Maker !

It may be asserted, however, that the child has at least the in-
st.inct of his Creator. Witness his little reveries, his inquietudes,

196 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

his terrors in the night, and his propensity to nvise his ejes to
heaven. Behold that infant folding his innocent hands and re
peating after his mother a prayer to the God of mercy. Why
does this young angel of the earth stammer forth with such love
and purity the name of that Supreme Being concerning whom
he knows nothing?

Who, at the mere sight of a new-born infant, could doubt the
presence of God within it? Look at the little creature which a
nurse is carrying in her arms. What has it said that excites
such joy in that venerable veteran, in the man who has just
reached his prime, and in that youthful female? Two or three
half-articulate syllables, which nobody could understand; and this
alone is sufficient to fill rational beings with transport, from the
grandfather, who knows all the incidents of life, to the inexperi
enced mother, who has yet to learn them. Who, then, has con
ferred such power on the accents of man? Why is the sound of^
the human voice so irresistibly moving? What so deeply affects
you in this instance is a mystery attached to higher causes than
the interest which you may take in the age of this infant. Some
thing whispers you that these inarticulate words are the first
expressions of an immortal soul.

CHAPTER V.

DANGER AND INUTILITY OF ATHEISM.

THERE are two classes of atheists totally distinct from each
other : the one composed of those who are consistent in their
principles, declaring without hesitation that there is no God, con
sequently no essential difference between good and evil, and that
the world belongs to those who possess the greatest strength or
the most address; the other embraces those good peop e of the
system the hypocrites of infidelity; absurd characters, a thou
sand times more dangerous than the first, and who, with a feigned
benevolence, would indulge in every excess to support their pre
tensions ; they would call you brother while cutting your throat

DANGER AND INUTILITY OF ATHEISM. 197

the words morality and humanity are continually on their lips :
they are trebly culpable, for to the vices of the atheist they add
the intolerance of the sectary and the self-love of the author.

These men pretend that atheism is not destructive either of
happiness or virtue, and that there is no condition in which it is
not as profitable to be an infidel as a pious Christian ; a position
which it may not be amiss to examine.

If a thing ought to be esteemed in proportion to its greater or
less utility, atheisnr. must be very contemptible, for it is of use to
nobody.

Let us survey human life; let us begin with the poor and the
unfortunate, as they constitute the majority of mankind. Say,
countless families of indigence, is it to you that atheism is ser
viceable? I wait for a reply; but not a single voice is raised in
its behalf. But what do I hear ? a hymn of hope mingled with
sighs ascending to the throne of the Lord ! These are believers.
Let us pass on to the wealthy.

It would seem that the man who is comfortably situated in this
world can have no interest in being an atheist. How soothing
to him must be the reflection that his days will be prolonged be
yond the present life ! With what despair would he quit this
world if he conceived that he was parting from happiness for
ever ! In vain would fortune heap her favors upon him ; they
would only serve to inspire him with the greater horror of anni
hilation. The rich man may likewise rest assured that religion
will enhance his pleasures, by mingling with them an ineffable
satisfaction ; his heart will not be hardened, nor will he be cloyed
with enjoyment, which is the natural result of a long series of
prosperity. Religion prevents aridity of heart, as is intimated
in her ceremonial. The holy oil which she uses in the consecra
tion of authority, of youth and of death, teaches us that they are
not destined to a moral or eternal sterility.

Will the soldier who marches forth to battle that child of
gl or y k e an atheist? Will he who seeks an endless life consent
to perish forever? Appear upon your thundering clouds, ye
countless Christian warriors, now hosts of heaven ! appear ! From
your exalted abode, from the holy city, proclaim to the heroes of
our day that the brave man is not wholly consigned to the tomb,
and that something more of him survives than an empty name.

198 GENIUS OP CHRISTIANITY.

All the great generals of antiquity were remarkable for theii
piety. Epaminondas, the deliverer of his country, had the cha
racter of the most religious of men ; Xenophon, that philosophic
warrior, was a pattern of piety; Alexander, the everlasting model
of conquerors, gave himself out to be the son of Jupiter. Among
the Romans, the ancient consuls of the republic, a Cincinnatus,
a Fabius, a Papirius Cursor, a Paulus JEniilius, a Scipio, placed
all their reliance on the deity of the Capitol ; Pompey marched
to battle imploring the divine assistance ; Caesar pretended to
be of celestial descent; Cato, his rival, was convinced of the im
mortality of the soul; Brutus, his assassin, believed in the exist
ence of supernatural powers; and Augustus, his successor, reigned
only in the name of the gods.

In modern times was that valiant Sicambrian, the conqueror
of Rome and of the Gauls, an unbeliever, who, falling at the feet
of a priest, laid the foundation of the empire of France ? Was
St. Louis, the arbiter of kings, revered by infidels themselves,
an unbeliever ? Was the valorous Du Guesclin, whose coffin was
sufficient for the capture of cities, the Chevalier Bayard, without
fear and without reproach, the old Constable de Montmorenci,
who recited his beads in the camp, were these men without re
ligion ? But, more wonderful still, was the great Turenne, whom
Bossuet brought back to the bosom of the Church, an unbeliever?
No character is more admirable than that of the Christian hero
The people whom he defends look up to him as a father; he pro
tects the husbandman and the produce of his fields; he is an
angel of war sent by God to mitigate the horrors of that scourge.
Cities open their gates at the mere report of his justice ;" ram
parts fall before his virtue ; he is beloved by the soldier, he is
idolized by nations; with the courage of the warrior he combines
the charity of the gospel; his conversation is impressive and in
structing; his words are full of simplicity; you are astonished to
find such gentleness in a man accustomed to live in the midst of
dangers. Thus the honey is hidden under the rugged bark of an
oak which has braved the tempests of ages. We may safely con
clude that in no respect whatever is atheism profitable for the
soldier.

Neither can we perceive that it would be more useful in the
different states of nature than in the conditions of society. If

DANGER AND INUTILITY OF ATHEISM. 199

the moral system is wholly founded on the doctrine of the exist
ence of God and the immortality of the soul, a father, a son, the
husband, the wife, can have no interest in heing unbelievers.
Ah ! how is it possible, for instance, to conceive that a woman
can be an atheist ? What will support this frail reed if religion
do not sustain her ? The feeblest being in nature, ever on the
eve of death or exposed to the loss of her charms, who will save
her if her hopes be not extended beyond an ephemeral existence?
For the sake of her beauty alone, woman ought to be pious.
Gentleness, submission, suavity, tenderness, constitute part of
the charms which the Creator bestowed on our first mother, and
to charms of this kind philosophy is a mortal foe.

Shall woman, who is naturally prone to mystery, who takes
delight in concealment, who never discloses more than half of
her graces and of her thoughts, whose mind can be conjectured
but not known, who as a mother and a maiden is full of secrets,
who seduces chiefly by her ignorance, whom Heaven formed for
virtue and the most mysterious of sentiments, modesty and love,
shall woman, renouncing the engaging instinct of her sex, pre
sume, with rash and feeble hand, to withdraw the thick vei
which conceals the Divinity ? Whom doth she think to please
by this effort, alike absurd and sacrilegious ? Does she hope, by
mingling her foolish impiety and frivolous metaphysics with the
imprecations of a Spinosa and the sophistry of a Bayle, to give
us a high opinion of her genius ? Assuredly she has no thoughts
of marriage ; for what sensible man would unite himself for life to
an impious partner?

The infidel wife seldom has any idea of her duties : she spends
her days either in reasoning on virtue without practising its pre
cepts, or in the enjoyment of the tumultuous pleasures of the
world. Her mind vacant and her heart unsatisfied, life becomes
a burden to her; neither the thought of G-od, nor any domestic
cares, afford her happiness.

But the day of vengeance approaches. Time arrives, leading
Age by the hand. The spectre with silver hair and icy hands
plants himself on the threshold of the female atheist; she per
ceives him and shrieks aloud. Who now will hear her voice?
Her husband? She has none; long, very long, has he withdrawn
from the theatre of his dishonor. Her children? Ruined by

200 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

an impious education and by maternal example, they concern
themselves not about their mother. If she surveys the past, she
beholds a pathless waste; her virtues have left no traces behind
them. For the first time her saddened thoughts turn toward
heaven, and she begins to think how much more consolatory it
would have been to have a religion. Unavailing regret! The
crowning punishment of atheism in this world is to desire faith
without being able to acquire it. When, at the term of her
career, she discovers the delusions of a false philosophy, when
annihilation, like an appalling meteor, begins to appear above the
horizon of death, she would fain return to God; but it is too late :
the mind, hardened by incredulity, rejects all conviction. Oh !
what a frightful solitude appears before her, when God and man

letire at once from her view ! She dies, this unfortunate woman,

expiring in the arms of a hireling nurse, or of some man, perhaps,
who turns with disgust from her protracted sufferings. A com-
mon coffin now encloses all that remains of her. At her funeral
we see no daughter overpowered with grief, no sons-in-law or
grandchildren in tears, forming, with the blessing of the people
and the hymns of religion, so worthy an escort for the mother of
a family. Perhaps only a son, who is unknown, and who knows
not himself the dishonorable secret of his birth, will happen to
meet the mournful convoy, and will inquire the name of the de
ceased, whose body is about to be cast to the worms, to which it
had been promised by the atheist herself!

How different is the lot of the religious woman ! Her days
are replete with joy; she is respected, beloved by her husband,
her children, her household; all place unbounded confidence in
her, because they are firmly convinced of the fidelity of one who
is faithful to her God. The faith of this Christian is strength
ened by her happiness, and her happiness by her faith; she be
lieves in God because she is happy, and she is happy because she
believes in God.

It is enough for a mother to look upon her smiling infant to
be convinced of the reality of supreme felicity. The bounty of
Providence is most signally displayed in the cradle of man. What
affecting harmonies! Could they be only the effects of inani
mate matter? The child is born, the breast fills; the little guest
has no teeth that can wound the maternal bosom : he grows, the

DANGER AND INUTILITY OF ATHEISM. 201

milk becomes more nourishing ; he is weaned, and the wonderful
fountain ceases to flow. This woman, before so weak, has all at
once acquired such strength as enables her to bear fatigues which
a robust man could not possibly endure. What is it that awakens
her at midnight, at the very moment when her infant is ready to
demand the accustomed repast? Whence comes that address
which she never before possessed? How she handles the tender
flower without hurting it ! Her attentions seem to be the fruit
of the experience of her whole life, and yet this is her first-born !
The slightest noise terrified the virgin : where are the embattled
armies, the thunders, the perils, capable of appalling the mother?
Formerly this woman required delicate food, elegant apparel, and
a soft couch ; the least breath of air incommoded her : now, a
crust of bread, a common dress, a handful of straw, are sufficient;
nor wind, nor rain, scarcely makes any impression, while she has
in her breast a drop of milk to nourish her son and in her tat
tered garments a corner to cover him.

Such being the state of things, he must be extremely obstinate
who would not espouse the cause in behalf of which not only
reason finds the most numerous evidences, but to which morals,
happiness, and hope, nay, even instinct itself, and all the desires
of the soul, naturally impel us; for if it were as true as it is false,
that the understanding keeps the balance even between God and
atheism, still it is certain that it would preponderate much in
favor of the former; for, besides half of his reason, man puts the
whole weight of his heart into the scale of the Deity.

Of this truth you will be thoroughly convinced if you examine
the very different manner in which atheism and religion proceed
in their reasoning.

Religion adduces none but general proofs; she founds her judg
ment only on the harmony of the heavens and the immutable laws
of the universe; she views only the graces of nature, the charm
ing instincts of animals, and their exquisite conformities with

man.

Atheism sets before you nothing but hideous exceptions; it
seek naught but calamities, unhealthy marshes, destructive v :j-
canoes, noxious animals; and, as if it were anxious to conceal it
self in the mire, it interrogates the reptiles and insects that they
may furnish it with proofs against God.

202 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Religion speaks only of the grandeur and beauty of man.
Atheism is continually setting the leprosy and plague before our
eyes.

Religion derives her reasons from the sensibility of the soul,
from the tenderest attachments of life, from filial piety, conjugal
love, and maternal affection.

Atheism reduces every thing to the instinct of the brute, and,
as the first argument of its system, displays to you a heart that
naught is capable of moving.

Religion assures us that our afflictions dhall have an end; she
comforts us, she dries our tears, she promises us another life.

On the contrary, in the abominable worship of atheism, human
woes are the incense, death is the priest, a coffin the altar, and
annihilation the Deity.

CHAPTER VI.

CONCLUSION OF THE DOCTRINES OF CHRISTIANITY STATE OF

PUNISHMENTS AND REWARDS IN A FUTURE LIFE ELYSIUM

OF THE ANCIENTS.

THE existence of a Supreme Being once acknowledged, and
the immortality of the soul granted, there can be no farther dif
ficulty to admit a state of rewards and punishments after this
life; this last tenet is a necessary consequence of the other two.
All that remains for us, therefore, is to show how full of morality
and poetry this doctrine is, and how far superior the religion of
the gospel is in this respect to all other religions.

In the Elysium of the ancients we find none but heroes and
persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth.
Children, and, apparently, slaves and the lower class of men, that
is to say, misfortune and innocence, were banished to the infernal
regions. And what rewards for virtue were those feasts and
dances, the everlasting duration of which would be sufficient to
constitute one of the torments of Tartarus !

Mahomet promises other enjoyments. His paradise is a land

DOCTRINE OF A FUTURE STATE. 203

of musk and of the purest wheaten flour, watered by the river
of life and the Acawtar, another stream which rises under the
roots of Tuba, or the tree of happiness. Streams springing up in
grottos of ambergris, and bordered with aloes, murmur beneath
golden palm-trees. On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand
a thousand goblets made of stars, out of which the souls predes
tined to felicity imbibe the crystal wave. All the elect, seated on
silken carpets, at the entrance of their tents, eat of the terrestrial
globe, reduced by Allah into a wonderful cake. A number of
eunuchs and seventy-two black-eyed damsels place before them,
in three hundred dishes of gold, the fish Nun and the ribs of the
buffalo Balam. The angel Israfil sings, without ceasing, the most
enchanting songs; the immortal virgins with their voices accom
pany his strains; and the souls of virtuous poets, lodged in the
throats of certain birds that are hovering round the tree of hap
piness, join the celestial choir. Meanwhile the crystal bells sus
pended in the golden palm-trees are melodiously agitated by a
breeze which issues from the throne of God. 1

The joys of the Scandinavian heaven were sanguinary, but there
was a degree of grandeur in the pleasures ascribed to the martial
shades, and in the power of gathering the storm and guiding the
whirlwind which they were said to possess. This paradise was the
image of the kind of life led by the barbarian of the north.
Wandering along the wild shores of his country, the dreary sounds
emitted by ocean plunged his soul into deep reveries; thought
succeeded thought, as in the billows murmur followed murmur,
till, bewildered in the mazes of his desires, he mingled with the
elements, rode upon the fleeting clouds, rocked the leafless forest,
and flew across the seas upon the wings of the tempest.

The hell of the unbelieving nations is as capricious as their
heaven. Our observations on the Tartarus of the ancients we
shall reserve for the literary portion of our work, on which we
are about to enter. Be this as it may, the rewards which Chris
tianity promises to virtue, and the punishments with which it
threatens guilt, produce at the first glance a conviction of their
truth. The heaven and hell of Christians are not devised after
the manners of any particular people, but founded on the general

The Koran and the Arabic poets.

204 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

ideas that are adapted to all nations and to all classes of society
What can be more simple, and yet more sublime, than the truths
conveyed in these few words ! the felicity of the righteous in a
future life will consist in the full possession of God; the misery
of the wicked will arise from a knowledge of the perfections
of the Deity, and from being forever deprived of their enjoy
ment.

It may perhaps be said that here Christianity merely repeats
the lessons of the schools of Plato and Pythagoras. In this case,
it must at least be admitted that the Christian religion is not the
religion of shallow minds, since it inculcates what are acknow
ledged to have been the doctrines of sages.

The Gentiles, in fact, reproached the primitive Christians with
being nothing more than a sect of philosophers ; but were it cer
tain (what is not proved) that the sages of antiquity entertained
the same notions that Christianity holds respecting a future state,
still, a truth confined within a narrow circle of chosen disciples is
one thing, and a truth which has become the universal consolation
of mankind is another. What the brightest geniuses of Greece
discovered by a last effort of reason is now publicly taught in
every church; and the laborer, for a few pence, may purchase,
in the catechism of his children, the most sublime secrets of the
ancient sects.

W T e shall say nothing here on the subject of Purgatory, as we
shall examine it hereafter under its moral and poetical aspects.
4s to the principle which has produced this place of expiation, it
is founded in reason itself, since between vice and virtue there ia
a state of tepidity which merits neither the punishment of hell
nor t) e rewards of heaven

THE LAST JUDGMENT. 205

CHAPTER VII.

THE LAST JUDGMENT.

THE Fathers entertained different opinions respecting the state
of the soul of the righteous immediately after its separation from
the body. St. Augustin thinks that it is placed in an abode of
peace till it be reunited to its incorruptible body. 1 St. Bernard
believes that it is received into heaven, where it contemplates
the humanity of Jesus Christ, but not his divinity, which it will
enjoy only after the resurrection ; 2 in some other parts of his ser
mons he assures us that it enters immediately into the pleni
tude of celestial felicity; 3 and this opinion the Church seems to
have adopted. 4

But, as it is just that the body and soul, which have together
committed sin or practised virtue, should suffer or be rewarded
together, so religion teaches us that he who formed us out of
dust will summon us a second time before his tribunal. The
stoic school believed, as Christians do, in hell, paradise, purga
tory, and the resurrection of the body; 5 and the Magi had also a

1 De Trinit., lib. xv. c. 25.

2 Serm. in Sanet. omn., 1, 2, 3 ; De Consider at., lib. v. c. 4.

3 Serm. 2, de S. Malac. n. 5; Serm. de S. Viet., n. 4.

4 It is an article of Catholic faith, that the souls of the just, who have nothing
to atone for after their departure from this life, are admitted immediately to the
beatific vision. Though some of the early fathers supposed that this happiness
would be deferred until after the resurrection, they were not on that account
taxable with heresy, because the tradition of the Church was not yet plainly
manifested. This tradition is gathered, not from the opinions of a few fathers
or doctors, but from the sentiment generally held. The declarations of the
second Counul of Lyons in 1274, that of Florence in 1439, and the Tridentine
Synod in the sixteenth century, have explicitly determined the question. St.
Augustine, after his elevation to the episcopacy, coincided with the prevailing
sentiment on this point. Tract. 26 and 49 in loan, lib. 9; Confess, c. 3. The
passages from St. Bernard which seem to conflict with that sentiment are all
susceptible of an orthodox interpretation. T.

5 Senec., Epist 90 : Id., ad. Marc. ; Laert., lib. vii. ; Plut., in Resig. Stoic,
: in fxc. Inn.

206 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

confused idea of this last doctrine. 1 The Egyptians hoped to
reviv3 after they had passed a thousand years in the tomb; 3 and
the Sybilline verses mention the resurrection and the last judg
ment. 3

Pliny, in his strictures on Democritus, informs us what was
the opinion of that philosopher on the subject of the resurrection :
Similis et de asservandis corporibus hominum, ac reviviscendi
promi&sa d Dcmocrito vanitas, qui non vixit ipse.*

The resurrection is clearly expressed in these verses of Phocy-
lides on the ashes of the dead :

Ov KaXov appoviiiv avaXv^iitv avSpwtroio.
Kai ra\a 6 iic yafrjf L\Tti(,0(iv If $aoj c\6civ
omot\ont.vu&gt;i&gt; oiriao) fe Sc

" It is impious to disperse the remains of man ; for the ashes
and the bones of the dead shall return to life, and shall become
like unto gods."

Virgil obscurely hints at the doctrine of the resurrection in the
sixth book of the ^Eneid.

But how is it possible for atoms dispersed among all the ele
ments to be again united and to form the same bodies ? It is a
long time since this objection was first urged, and it has been
answered by most of the Fathers. 5 "Tell me what thou art,"
said Tertullian, "and I will tell thee what thou shalt be." 6

Nothing can be more striking and awful than the moment of
the final consummation of ages foretold by Christianity. In those
days baleful signs will appear in the heavens; the depths of the
abyss will open ; the seven angels will pour out their vials filled
with wrath; nations will destroy each other; mothers will hear
the wailings of their children yet in the womb; and Death, on
his pale horse, will speed his course through the kingdoms of the
earth. 7

1 Hyde, Belig. Pers. ; Plut., de Is. et Osir.

2 Diod. et Herodot.

3 Bocchus, in Solin., c. 8 ; Lack, lib. viii., c. 29 j lib. iv. c. 15, 18, 19.

4 Lib. vii. c. 55.

5 St. Cyril, bishop of Jerusalem, Catech., xviii. St. Greg. Nat. Oret. pro #.
Cam.; St. August., de Civ. Dei, lib. xx.j St. Chrys., Homil in Resur. Cam.:
St. Gregor. pope, Dial, iv. j St. Ainb., Serm. in Fid. res. ; St. Epiph. Ancyrot.

Tn Apologet. ? Apocalypse.

HAPPINESS OF THE RIGHTEOUS. 207

Meanwhile the globe begins to tremble on its axis; the moon
is covered with a bloody veil; the threatening stars hang half
detached from the vault of heaven, and the agony of the world
commences. Then, all at once, the fatal hour strikes; God sus
pends the movements of the creation, and the earth hath passed
away like an exhausted river.

Now resounds the trump of the angel of judgment; and the
cry is heard, "Arise, ye dead!" The sepulchres burst open with
a terrific noise, the human race issues all at once from the tomb,
and the assembled multitudes fill the valley of Jehoshaphat.

Behold, the Son of Man appears in the clouds : the powers
of hell ascend from the depths of the abyss to witness the last
judgment pronounced upon ages ; the goats are separated from
the sheep, the wicked are plunged into the gulf, the just ascend
triumphantly to heaven, God returns to his repose, and the
reign of eternity commences.

CHAPTER VIII.

HAPPINESS OP THE RIGHTEOUS.

IT has been asked, what is that plenitude of celestial happi
ness promised to virtue by Christianity? we have heard com
plaints of its too great mysteriousness. In the mythological
systems, it is said, " people could at least form an idea of the
pleasures of the happy shades ; but who can have any conception
of the felicity of the elect ?"

Fenelon, however, had a glimpse of that felicity in his relation
of the descent of Telemachus to the abode of the manes : his
Elysium is evidently a Christian paradise. Compare his descrip
tion with the Elysium of the ^Eneid, and you will perceive what
progress has been made by the mind and heart of man under the
influence of Christianity.

" A soft and pure light is diffused around the bodies of those
righteous men, and environs them with its rays like a garment.
This light is not like the sombre beams which illumine the eyes

208 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

of wretched mortals; it is rather a celestial radiance than a
light ; it pervades the thickest bodies more completely than the
sun s rays penetrate the purest crystal ; it doth not dazzle, but,
on the contrary, strengthens the eyes, and conveys inexpressible
serenity to the soul ; by this alone the blest are nourished ; it
issues from them and it enters them again; it penetrates and is
incorporated with them as aliments are incorporated with the
body. They see, they feel, they breathe it; it causes an inex
haustible source of peace and joy to spring up within them; they
are plunged into this abyss of delight, as the fishes are merged in
the sea; they know no wants; they possess all without having
any thing; for this feast of pure light appeases the hunger of
their hearts.

"An eternal youth, a felicity without end, a radiance wholly
divine, glows upon their faces. But their joy has nothing light or
licentious; it is a joy soothing, noble, and replete with majesty;
a sublime love of truth and virtue, which transports them ; they
feel every moment, without interruption, the same raptures as a
mother who once more beholds her beloved son whom she believed
to be dead ; and that joy, which is soon over for the mother,
never leaves the hearts of these glorified beings." 1

The most glowing passages of the Phaedon of Plato are less
divine than this picture ; and yet Fe"nelon, confined within the
limits of his story, could not attribute to the shades all the
felicity which he would have ascribed to the elect in heaven.

The purest of -our sentiments in this world is admiration ; but
this terrestrial admiration is always mingled with weakness,
either in the person admiring or in the object admired. Imagine,
then, a perfect being, the source of all beings, in whom is clearly
and sacredly manifested all that was, and is, and is to come;
suppose, at the same time, a soul exempt from envy and wants,
incorruptible, unalterable, indefatigable, capable of attention
without end ; figure to yourself this soul contemplating the Om
nipotent, incessantly discovering in him new attributes and new
perfections, proceeding from admiration to admiration, and con
scious of its existence only by the ceaseless feeling of this very
admiration; consider, moreover, the Deity as supreme beauty,

1 Telem., book xiv.

HAPPINESS OF THE RIGHTEOUS. 209

as the universal principle of love ; represent to yourself all the
friendships of the earth meeting together, and lost in this abyss
of sentiments like drops of water in the vast ocean, so that the
happy spirit is wholly absorbed by the love of God, without,
however, ceasing to love the friends whom it esteemed here
below; lastly, persuade yourself that the blest are thoroughly con
vinced of the endless duration of their happiness r 1 you will then
have an idea though very imperfect, it is true of the felicity
of the righteous ; you will then comprehend that the choir of the
redeemed can do nothing but repeat the song of Holy! holy!
holy! which is incessantly dying away, and incessantly reviving,
in the everlasting ecstasies of heaven.

1 St. Augustin.

fart % SttmU.

THE POETIC OF CHRISTIANITY.

BOOK I.

GENERAL SURVEY OF CHRISTIAN EPIC POEM?
CHAPTER I.

THE POETIC OF CHRISTIANITY IS DIVIDED INTO

BRANCHES : POETRY, THE FINE ARTS, AND LITERATURE
THE SIX BOOKS OF THIS SECOND PART TREAT IN AN ES
PECIAL MANNER OF POETRY.

THE felicity of the blessed sung by the Christian Home*
naturally leads us to consider the effects of Christianity in poetry
In treating of the spirit of that religion, how could we forget its
influence on literature and the arts an influence which has in a
manner changed the human mind, and produced in modern
Europe nations totally different from those of ancient times ?

The reader, perhaps, will not be displeased if we conduct him
to Horeb and Sinai, to the summits of Ida and of the Taygetus,
among the sons of Jacob and of Priam, into the company of the
gods and of the shepherds. A poetic voice issues from the ruing
which cover Greece and Idumaea, and cries from afar to the tra
veller, " There are but two brilliant names and recollections in
history those of the Israelites and of the ancient Greeks."

The twelve 1 books which we have devoted to these literary in
vestigations compose, as we have observed, the second and third
parts of our work, and separate the six books on the doctrines
from the six books on the ceremonies of the Christian religion.

1 Now ten only; Atala and Rene, two episodes of the original work, having
been retrenched by tho author. T.
210

THE POETIC OF CHRISTIANITY. 211

We shall, in the first place, take a view of the poems in which
that religion supplies the place of mythology, because the epic
is the highest class of poetic compositions. Aristotle, it is true,
asserts that the epic poem is wholly comprised in tragedy; but
might we not think, on the contrary, that the drama is wholly
comprised in the epic poem ? The parting of Hector and
Andromache, Priam in the tent of Achilles, Dido at Carthage,
JEneas at the habitation of Evander or sending back the body
of the youthful Pallas, Tancred and Ernrinia, Adam and Evr,
are real tragedies, in which nothing is wanting but the division
into scenes and the names of the speakers. Was it not, more
over, the Iliad that gave birth to tragedy, as the Margites was
the parent of comedy? 1 But if Calliope decks herself with all
the ornaments of Melpomene, the former has charms which the
latter cannot borrow; for the marvellous, the descriptive, and the
digressive, are not within the scope of the drama. Every kind
of tone, the comic not excepted, every species of poetic harmony,
from the lyre to the trumpet, may be introduced in the epic.
The epic poem, therefore, has parts which the drama has not : it
consequently requires a more universal genius ; it is of course a
more complete performance than a tragedy. It seems, in fact,
highly probable that there should be less difficulty in composing
the five acts of an (Edipus than in creating the twenty-four
books of an Iliad. The result of a few months labor is not the
monument that requires the application of a lifetime. Sophocles
and Euripides were, doubtless, great geniuses } but have they
obtained from succeeding ages that admiration and high renown
which have been so justly awarded to Homer and Virgil ? Finally,
if the drama holds the first rank in composition, and the epic
only the second, how has it happened that, from the Greeks to
the present day, we can reckon but five epic poems, two ancient
and three modern : whereas there is not a nation but can boast
of possessing a multitude of excellent tragedies.

i The Margites was a comic or satirical poem attributed to Homer. It is
mentioned by Aristotle in his Treatise on Poetry, but no part of it is known to
have escaped the ravages of time.

212 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER IL

GENERAL SURVEY OF THE POEMS IN WHICH THE MARVELLOUS

OF CHRISTIANITY SUPPLIES THE PLACE OF MYTHOLOGY THE

INFERNO OF DANTE THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED OF TASSO.

LET us first lay down certain principles.

Tn every epic poem, men and their passions are calculated to
occupy the first and most important place.

Every poem, therefore, in which any religion is employed as
the subject and not as an accessory, in which the marvellous is
the ground and not the accident of the picture, is essentially
faulty.

If Homer and Virgil had laid their scenes in Olympus, it is
doubtful whether, with all their genius, they would have been
able to sustain the dramatic interest to the end. Agreeably to
this remark, we must not ascribe to Christianity the languor that
pervades certain poems in which the principal characters are
supernatural beings ; this languor arises from the fault of the
composition. We shall find in confirmation of this truth, that
the more the poet observes a due medium in the epic between
divine and human things, the more entertaining he is, if we may
be allowed to use an expression of Boileau. To amuse, for the
purpose of instructing, is the first quality required in poetry.

Passing over several poems written in a barbarous Latin style,
the first work that demands our attention is the Divina Comcdia
of Dante. The beauties of this singular production proceed,
with few exceptions, from Christianity: its faults are to be as
cribed to the age and the bad taste of the author. In the pa
thetic and the terrific, Dante has, perhaps, equalled the greatest
poets. The details of his poem will be a subject of future con
sideration.

Modern times have afforded but two grand subjects for an epic
poem the Crusades, and the Discovery of the New World. Mal-
filatre purposed to sing the latter. The Muses still lament the
premature decease of this youthful poet before he had time to

THE INFERNO THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 213

accomplish his design. This subject, however, has the dis
advantage of being foreign for a Frenchman ; and according to
another principle, the truth of which cannot be con-jested, a poet
ought to adopt an ancient subject, or, if he select a modern
one, should by all means take his own nation for his theme.

The mention of the Crusades reminds us of the Jerusalem
Delivered. This poem is a perfect model of composition. Here
you may learn how to blend subjects together without confusion.
The art with which Tasso transports you from a battle to a love-
scene, from a love-scene to a council, from a procession to an
enchanted palace, from an enchanted palace to a camp, from an
assault to the grotto of an anchorite, from the tumult of a be
sieged city to the hut of a shepherd, is truly admirable. His
characters are drawn with no less ability. The ferocity of Argantes
is opposed to the generosity of Tancred, the greatness of Soly-
man to the splendor of Rinaldo, the wisdom of Godfrey to the
craft of Aladin; and even Peter the hermit, as Voltaire has
remarked, forms a striking contrast with Ismeno the magician.
As to the females, coquetry is depicted in Armida, sensibility in
Erminia, and indifference in Clorinda. Had Tasso portrayed
the mother, he would have made the complete circle of female
characters. The reason of this omission must, perhaps, be sought
in the nature of his talents, which possessed more charms than
truth, and greater brilliancy than tenderness.

Homer seems to have been particularly endowed with genius,
Virgil with sensibility, Tasso with imagination. We should not
hesitate what place to assign to the Italian bard, had he some of
those pensive graces which impart such sweetness to the sighs of
the Mantuan swan ; for he is far superior to the latter in his
characters, battles, and composition. But Tasso almost always
fails when he attempts to express the feelings of the heart; and,
as the traits of the soul constitute the genuine beauties of a poem,
he necessarily falls short of the pathos of Virgil.

If the Jerusalem Delivered is adorned with the flowers of ex
quisite poetry, if it breathes the youth, the loves, and the afflic
tions, of that great and unfortunate man who produced this mas
ter-piece in his juvenile years, we likewise perceive in it the
faults of an age not sufficiently mature for such a high attempt
as an epic poem. Tasso s measure of eight feet is hardly ever

214 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

full ; and his versification, which often exhibits marks of haste,
cannot be compared to that of Virgil, a hundred times tem
pered in the fire of the Muses. It must likewise be remarked
that the ideas of Tasso are not of so fair a family as those of the
Latin bard. The works of the ancients may be known, we had
almost said, by their blood. They display not, like us, a few
brilliant ideas sparkling in the midst of a multitude of common
place observations, so much as a series of beautiful thoughts,
which perfectly harmonize together, and have a sort of family
likeness. It is the naked group of Niobe s simple, modest, blush
ing children, holding each other by the hand with an engaging
smile, while a chaplet of flowers, their only ornament, encircles
their brows.

After the Jerusalem Delivered, it must be allowed that some
thing excellent maybe produced with a Christian subject. What
would it then have been had Tasso ventured to employ all the
grand machinery which Christianity could have supplied ? It is
obvious that he was deficient in boldness. His timidity has
obliged him to have recourse to the petty expedients of magic,
whereas he might have turned to prodigious account the tomb of
Jesus Christ, which he scarcely mentions, and a region hallowed
by so many miracles. The same timidity has occasioned his
failure in the description of heaven, while his picture of hell
shows many marks of bad taste. It may be added that he has
not availed himself as much as he might have done of the Mo
hammedan religion, the rites of which are the more curious as
being the less known. Finally, he might have taken some notice
f ancient Asia, of Egypt so highly renowned, of Babylon so
vast, and Tyre so haughty, and of the times of Solomon and
Isaias. How could the muse, when visiting the land of Israel
forget the harp of David ? Are the voices of the prophets no
longer to be heard on the summits of Lebanon ? Do not their
holy shades still appear beneath the cedars and among the pines ?
Has the choir of angels ceased to sing upon Golgotha, and the
M-ook Cedron to murmur ? Surely the patriarchs, and Syria, the
nursery of the world, celebrated in some part of the Jerusalem
delivered, could not have failed to produce a grand efiect. 1

1 The reader s attention may here be invited to Palestine, an Oxford IriTe
poem, wnttea by Mr. Reginald Hober. It derives its various and exquilito

PARADISE LOST. 215

CHAPTER III.

PARADISE LOST.

THE Paradise Lost of Milton may be charged with the same
fault as the Inferno of Dante. The marvellous forms the subject,
and not the machinery, of the poem ; but it abounds with superior
beauties which essentially belong to the groundwork of our
religion.

The poem opens in the infernal world, and yet this beginning
offends in no respect against the rule of simplicity laid down by
Aristotle. An edifice so astonishing required an extraordinary
portico to introduce the reader all at once into this unknown
world, which he was no more to quit.

Milton is the first poet who has closed the epic with the mis
fortune of the principal character, contrary to the rule generally
adopted. We are of opinion, however, that there is something
more interesting, more solemn, more congenial with the condition
of human nature, in a history which ends in sorrows, than in one
which has a happy termination. It may even be asserted that
the catastrophe of the Iliad is tragical ; for if the son of Peleus
obtains the object of his wishes, still the conclusion of the poem
leaves a deep impression of grief. 1 After witnessing the funeral
of Patroclus, Priam redeeming the body of Hector, the anguish

beauties chiefly from Scriptural sources. Mr. Heber, endued with a large por
tion of Tasso s genius, has supplied many of Tasso s deficiences, so ably enu
merated by our author. K.

1 This sentiment, perhaps, arises from the interest which is felt for Hector.
Hector is as much the hero of the poem as Achilles, and this is the great fault
of the Iliad. The reader s affections are certainly engaged by the Trojans,
contrary to the intention of the poet, because all the dramatic scenes occur
within the walls of Ilium. The aged monarch, Priam, whose only crime was
too much love for a guilty son, the generous Hector, who was acquainted with
his brother s fault, and yet defended that brother, Andromache, Astyanax,
Hecuba, melt every heart; whereas the camp of the Greeks exhibits naught
but avarice, perfidy, and ferocity. Perhaps, also, the remembrance of the JEneid
secretly influences the modern reader and he unintentionally espouses the side
of the heroes sung by Virgil.

216 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

of Hecuba and Andromache at the funeral pile of that hero,
we still perceive in the distance the death of Achilles and the
fall of Troy.

The infancy of Rome, sung by Virgil, is certainly a grand sub
ject; but what shall we say of a poem that depicts a catastrophe
of which we are ourselves the victims, and which exhibits to us
not the founder of this or that community, but the father of the
human race ? Milton describes neither battles, nor funeral games,
nor camps, nor sieges : he displays the grand idea of God mani
fested in the creation of the universe, and the first thoughts of
man on issuing from the hands of his Maker.

Nothing can be more august and more interesting than this
study of the first emotions of the human heart. Adam awakes
to life; his eyes open; he knows not whence he originates. He
gazes on the firmament ; he attempts to spring toward this beau
tiful vault, and stands erect, with his head nobly raised to heaven.
He examines himself, he touches his limbs ; he runs, he stops ;
he attempts to speak, and his obedient tongue gives utterance to
his thoughts. He naturally names whatever he sees, exclaiming,
"O sun, and trees, forests, hills, valleys, and ye different ani
mals !" and all the names which he gives are the proper appella
tions of the respective beings. And why does he exclaim, "0
sun, and ye trees, know ye the name of Him who created me ?"
The first sentiment experienced by man relates to the existence
of a Supreme Being; the first want he feels is the want of a
God ! How sublime is Milton in this passage ! But would he
have conceived such grand, such lofty ideas, had he been a
stranger to the true religion ?

God manifests himself to Adam ; the creature and the Creator
hold converse together; they discourse on solitude. We omit
the reflections. God knew that it was not good for man to be
alone. Adam falls asleep ; God takes from the side of our com
mon father the substance out of which he fashions a new crea
ture, whom he conducts to him on his waking.

Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love.

Woman is her name, of man

Extracted ; for this cause he shall forego
Father and mother, and to his wife adhere;
And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one soul.

PARADISE LOST. 217

Wo to him who cannot perceive here a reflection of the Deity !

The poet continues to develop these grand views of human
nature, this sublime reason of Christianity. The character of
vhe woman is admirably delineated in the fatal fall. Eve trans
gresses by self-love ; she boasts that she is strong enough alone
to encounter temptation. She is unwilling that Adam should
accompany her to the solitary spot where she cultivates her
flowers. This fair creature, who thinks herself invincible by rea
son of her very weakness, knows not that a single word can sub
due her. Woman is always delineated in the Scripture as the
slave of vanity. When Isaias threatens the daughters of Jeru
salem, he says, " The Lord will take away your ear-rings, your
bracelets, your rings, and your veils." We have witnessed in our
own days a striking instance of this disposition. Many a woman,
during the reign of terror, exhibited numberless proofs of hero
ism, whose virtue has since fallen a victim to a dance, a dress, an
amusement. Here we have the development of one of those
great and mysterious truths contained in the Scriptures. God,
when he doomed woman to bring forth with pain, conferred v~ on
her an invincible fortitude against pain ; but at the same time,
as a punishment for her fault, he left her weak against pleasure.
Milton accordingly denominates her "this fair defect of nature."

The manner in which the English bard has conducted the fall
of our first parents is well worthy of our examination. An ordi
nary genius would not have failed to convulse the world at the
moment when Eve raises the fatal fruit to her lips; but Milton
merely represents that

Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat,
Sighing, through all her works gave signs of wo
That all was lost.

The reader is, in fact, the more surprised, because this effect is
much less surprising. What calamities does this present tran
quillity of nature lead us to anticipate in future! Tertullian,
inquiring why the universe is not disturbed by the crimes of
men, adduces a sublime reason. This reason is, the PATIENCE
of God.

When the mother of mankind presents the fruit of knowledge
to her husband, our common father does not roll himself in th
19

218 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

dust, or tear his hair, or loudly vent his grief. On the con
trary,

Adam, soon as he heard
The fatal trespass done by Eve, amaz d,
Astonied stood and blank, while horror chill
Ran through his veins, and all his joints relax d.
Speechless he stood, and pale.

He perceives the whole enormity of the crime. On the one hand,
if he disobey, he will incur the penalty of death; on the other,
if he continue faithful, he will retain his immortality, but will
lose his beloved partner, now devoted to the grave. He may re
fuse the fruit, but can he live without Eve? The conflict is long.
A world at last is sacrificed to love. Adam, instead of loading
his wife with reproaches, endeavors to console her, and accepts
the fatal apple from her hands. On this consummation -of the
crime, no change yet takes place in nature. Only the first storms
of the passions begin to agitate the hearts of the unhappy pair.

Adam and Eve fall asleep; but they have lost that innocence
which renders slumber refreshing. From this troubled sleep they
rise as from unrest. Tis then that their guilt stares them in the
face. "What have we done?" exclaims Adam. "Why art thou
naked? Let us seek a covering for ourselves, lest any one see us
in this state !" But clothing does not conceal the nudity which
has been once seen.

Meanwhile their crime is known in heaven. A holy sadness
seizes the angels, but

Mix d

With pity, violated not their bliss.

A truly Christian and sublime idea! God sends his Son to judge
the guilty. He comes and calls Adam in the solitude: "Where
art thou?" Adam hides himself from his presence: "Lord, I
dare not show myself, because I am naked." "How dost thou
know thyself to be naked ? Hast thou eaten the fruit of know
ledge?" What a dialogue passes between them! It is not of
human invention. Adam confesses his crime, and God pro
nounces sentence: 1 "Man! in the sweat of thy brow shalt thou
eat bread. In sorrow shalt thou cultivate the earth, till thou re-

1 Genesis, iii. ; Paradise Lost, book x.

PARADISE LOST. 219

turn unto dust from which thou wast taken. Woman, thou shalt
bring forth children with pain." Such, in a few words, is the
history of the human race. We know not if the reader is struck
by it as we are; but we find in this scene of Genesis something
so extraordinary and so grand that it defies all the comments of
criticism. Admiration wants terms to express itself with ade
quate force, and art sinks into nothing.

The Son of God returns to heaven. Then commences that
celebrated drama between Adam and Eve in which Milton is said
to have recorded an event of his own life the reconciliation be
tween himself and his first consort. We are persuaded that the
great writers have introduced their history into their works. It
is only by delineating their own hearts, and attributing them to
others, that they are enabled to give such exquisite pictures of
nature ; for the better part of genius consists in recollections.

Behold Adam now retiring at night in some lonely spot. The
nature of the air is changed. Cold vapors and thick clouds ob
scure the face of heaven. The lightning has scathed the trees.
The animals flee at the sight of man. The wolf begins to pursue
the lamb, the vulture to prey upon the dove. He is overwhelmed
with despair. He wishes to return to his native dust. YP*
says he,

One doubt

Pursues me still, lest all I cannot die ;
Lest that pure breath of life, the spirit of man,
Which God inspired, cannot together perish
With corporeal clod; then in the grave,
Or in some other dismal place, who knows
But I shall die a living death ?

Can philosophy require a species of beauties more exalted and
more solemn ? Not only the poets of antiquity furnish no instance
of a despair founded on such a basis, but moralists themselves
have conceived nothing so sublime.

Eve, hearing her husband s lamentations, approaches with
timidity. Adam sternly repels her. Eve falls humbly at his
feet and bathes them with her tears. Adam relents, and raises
the mother of the human race. Eve proposes to him to live in
continence, or to inflict death upon themselves to pave their poste
rity. This despair, so admirably ascribed to a woman, as well for

220 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

its vehemence as for its generosity, strikes our common father
What reply does he make to his wife?

Eve, thy contempt of life and pleasure seems
To aigue in thee something more sublime
And excellent than what thy mind contemns.

The unfortunate pair resolve to offer up their prayers to God,
and to implore the mercy of the Almighty. Prostrating them
selves on the ground, they raise their hearts and voices, in a spirit
of profound humility, toward Him who is the source of forgive
ness. These accents ascend to heaven, where the Son himself
undertakes the office of presenting them to his Father. The
suppliant prayers which follow Injury, to repair the mischiefs she
has occasioned, are justly admired in the Iliad. It would indeed
be impossible to invent a more beautiful allegory on the subject
of prayer. Yet those first sighs of a contrite heart, which find
the way that the sighs of the whole human race are soon destined
to follow, those humble prayers which mingle with the incense
fuming before the Holy of Holies, those penitent tears which fill
the celestial spirits with joy, which are presented to the Almighty
by the Redeemer of mankind, and which move God himself, (such
is the power of this first prayer in repentant and unhappy man,)
all those circumstances combined have in them something so
moral, so solemn, and so pathetic, that they cannot be said to be
eclipsed by the prayer* of the bard of Ilium.

The Most High relents, and decrees the final salvation of man.
Milton has availed himself with great ability of this first mystery
of the Scriptures, and has everywhere interwoven the impressive
history of a God, who, from the commencement of ages, devotes
himself to death to redeem man from destruction. The fall of
Adam acquires a higher and more tragic interest when we behold
it involving in its consequences the Son of the Almighty himself.

Independently of these beauties which belong to the subject of
the Paradise Lost, the work displays minor beauties too nume
rous for us to notice. Milton had, in particular, an extraordinary
felicity of expression. Every reader is acquainted with his dark
ness visible, his incased silence, &c. These bold expressions, when
sparingly employed, like discords in music, produce a highly
brilliant effect They have a counter air of genius; but great

PARADISE LOST. 221

care must be taken not to abuse them. When tc&lt; studiously
sought after, they dwindle into a mere puerile play upon words,
as injurious to the language as they are inconsistent with good
taste.

We shall, moreover, observe that the bard of Eden, after the
example of Virgil, has acquired originality in appropriating to
himself the riches of others; which proves that the original style
is not the style which never borrows of any one, but that which
no other person is capable of reproducing.

This art of imitation, known to all great writers, consists in a
certain delicacy of taste which seizes the beauties of other times,
and accommodates them to the present age and manners. Virgil
is a model in this respect. Observe how he has transferred to
the mother of Euryalus the lamentations of Andromache on the
death of Hector. In this passage Homer is rather more natural
tha.n the Mantuan poet, whom he has moreover furnished with
all the striking circumstances, such as the work falling from the
hands of Andromache, her fainting, &c., while there are others,
which are not in the ^neid, as Andromache s presentiment of
her misfortune, and her appearance with dishevelled tresses upon
the battlements; but then the episode of Euryalus is more tender,
more pathetic. The mother who alone, of all the Trojan women,
resolved to follow the fortunes of her son; the garments with
which her maternal affection was engaged and now rendered use
less; her exile, her age, her forlorn condition at the very moment
when the head of her Euryalus was carried under the ramparts
of the camp; such are the conceptions of Virgil alone. The
lamentations of Andromache, being more diffuse, lose something
of their energy. Those of the mother of Euryalus, more closely
concentrated, fall with increased weight upon the heart. This
proves that there was already a great difference between the age
of Virgil and Homer, and that in the time of the former all the
arts, even that of love, had arrived at a higher perfection.

19*

222 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER IV.

OF SOME FRENCH AND FOREIGN POEMS.

HAD Christianity produced no other poem than Paradise Lost,
had its genius inspired neither the Jerusalem Delivered, nor
Polyeuctes, nor Esther, nor Athalie, nor Zara, nor Alzira, still
we might insist that it is highly favorable to the Muses. We
shall notice in this chapter, between Paradise Lost and the Jlen-
riad, some French and foreign productions, on which we have
but a few words to say.

The more remarkable passages in the Saint Louis of Father
Lemoine have been so frequently quoted that we shall not refer
to them here. This poem, rude as it is, possesses beauties which
we would in vain look for in the Jerusalem. It displays a gloomy
imagination, well adapted to the description of that Egypt, so full
of recollections and of tombs, which has witnessed the succession
of the Pharaohs, the Ptolemies, the anchorets of Thebais, and the
sultans of the barbarians.

The Pucelle of Chapelain, the Maine SauvS of Saint-Amand,
and the David of Coras, are scarcely known at present, except
by the verses of Boileau. Some benefit may, however, be derived
from the perusal of these works : the last, in particular, is worthy
of notice.

The prophet Samuel relates to David the history of the chiefs
of Israel :

Ne er shall proud tyrants, said the sainted seer,
Escape the vengeance of the King of kings;
His judgments justly poured on our last chiefs
Stand of this truth a lasting monument.

Look but at Heli, him whom God s behest
Appointed Israel s judge and pontiff too!
His patriot zeal had nobly served the state
If not extinguish d by his worthless sons.

FRENCH AXD FOREIGN POEMS. 223

Over these youths, on vicious courses bent,
Jehovah thundered forth his dread decree ;
And by a sacred messenger denounced
Destruction gainst them both and all their race.
Thou knowest, God! the awful sentence past,
What horrors racked old Heli s harrowed soul !
These eyes his anguish witnessed, and this brow
He oft bedewed with grief-extorted tears.

These lines (in the original) are remarkable, because they pos
sess no mean poetic beauties. The apostrophe which terminates
them is not unworthy of a first-rate poet.

The episode of Ruth, which is related in the sepulchral grotto,
the burial-place of the ancient patriarchs, has a character of sim
plicity :

We know not which, the husband or the wife,
Had purer soul, or more of happiness.

Coras is sometimes felicitous in description. Witness the fol
lowing :

Meanwhile the sun, with peerless glory crowned,
Lessening in form, more burning rays dispensed.

Saint Amand, whom Boileau extols as a man of some genius,
is nevertheless inferior to Coras. The Mo ise Sauve is a languid
composition, the versification tame and prosaic, and the style
marked by antithesis and bad taste. It contains, however, some
fine passages, which no doubt won the favor of the critic who
wrote the Art Poetique.

It would be useless to waste our time upon the Araucana, with
its three parts and thirty-five original songs, not forgetting the
supplementary ones of Don Diego de Santisteban Ojozio It
contains nothing of the Christian marvellous. It is an historical
narrative of certain events which occurred in the mountains of
Chili The most interesting feature in the poem is the figure
made in it by Ercylla himself, who appears both as a warrior and
a writer. The Araucana is in eight-line stanzas, like the Orlando
and the Jerusalem. Italian literature at this period gave the
law of versification to all European nations. Ercylla among the
Spaniards, and Spenser among the English, have adopted this
kind of stanza, and imitated Ariosto even in the arrangement of
their subjects.

224 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Ercylla says :

No las damns, amor, no gentilezas,
De cabelleros canto enamorados,
Ni las muestras, rcgalos y ternezas
De amorosos afectos y cuidados:
Mas el valor, los hechos, las proezas
De aquellos Espanoles esforzados,
Que a la cerviz do Arauco no domada
Pusieron duro yugo por la espada.

The subject of the Lusiad is a very rich one for an epic poem
~i is difficult to conceive how a man possessing the genius of
^*moens should not have had the art to turn it to better account
that, he has done. At the same time, it should be recollected
thai this is the first modern epic, that he lived in a barbarous
age, that there are many pathetic 1 and even sublime touches in
the details of his poem, and that after all the bard of the Ta&lt;rus
was the most unfortunate of mortals. It is a false notion, worthy
of our hard-hearted age, that the noblest works are produced in
adversity;- for it is not true that a man can write best under the
pressure oi misfortune. All those inspired men who devote
themselves to the service of the muses are sooner overwhelmed
by affliction tlmn vulgar minds. A mighty genius speedily wears
out the body which it animates; great souls, like large rivers, are
liable to lay waste their banks.

The manner in which Camoens has intermixed fable and Chris
tianity renders it unnecessary for us to say any thing of the
marvellous of his performance.

Klopstock has also committed the fault of taking the marvel
lous of Christianity for the subject of his poem. His principal
character is the Divinity, and this alone would be sufficient to
destroy the tragic effect. There are, however, some beautiful
passages in the Messiah. The two lovers whom Christ raised
from the dead furnish a charming episode, which the mythologic

We nevertheless differ on this subject from other critics. The episode of
Ines is, in our opinion, chaste and pathetic, but has been upon the whole too

e devel P ment8 of whi &lt;* it was BUS-

2 Juvenal has applied a similar observation to the epic poet :
Nam si Virgilio puer, -et tolerabile deesset
Hospitium, caderent omnes a crinibus hydri,
Surda nihil gemeret grave buccina.

FRENCH AND FOREIGN POEMS. 225

times could never have produced. We recollect no characters
recalled from the grave among the ancients, except Alceste, Hip-
polytus, and Heres of Pamphylia. 1

Richness and grandeur are the particular characteristics of the
marvellous in the Messiah. Those spheres inhabited by beings
of a different nature from man the multitude of angels, spirits
of darkness, unborn souls, and souls that have already finished
the career of mortality, plunge the mind into the ocean of im
mensity. The character of Abbadona, the penitent angel, is
a happy conception. Klopstock has also created a species of
mystic seraphs, wholly unknown before his time.

Gessner has left us in his Death of Abel a work replete with
tenderness and majesty. It is unfortunately spoiled by that sickly
tincture of the idyl which the Germans generally give to subjects
taken from Scripture; they are all guilty of violating one of the
principal laws of the epic, consistency of manners, and transform
the pastoral monarchs of the East into innocent shepherds of
Arcadia.

As to the author of NoaTi, he was overwhelmed by the richness
of his subject. To a vigorous imagination, however, the ante
diluvian world opens a grand and extensive field. There would
be no necessity for creating all its wonders : by turning to the
Critias of Plato, 2 the Chronologies of Eusebius, and some treatises
of Lucian and Plutarch, an abundant harvest might be obtained.
Scaliger quotes a fragment of Polyhistor, respecting certain tables
written before the deluge and preserved at Sippary, probably
the same as the Sippliara of Ptolemy. 3 The muses speak and
understand all languages : how many things might they decipher
on these tables !

1 In Plato s Republic, book x. Since the appearance of the first edition, we
have been informed by Mr. Boissonade, a philologist equally learned and polite,
that several other personages are mentioned by Apollodorus and Telesarchus as
having been resuscitated in pagan antiquity.

2 The Crit .as or Atlanticus is an unfinished dialogue of Plato. He describes
an atlantic island that existed in the infancy of the world. Its climate waa
genial and its soil fertile. It was inhabited by a happy race of mortals, who
cultivated arts similar to those of Greece. This island, according to the beau
tiful tradition of the Egyptian priests, was swallowed up by an inundation
prior to the deluge ol Deucaleon.

3 Unless we derive Sippary from the Hebrew word Sepher, which signifies a

226 3ENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER V.

THE HENRIAD.

IF a judicious plan, a spirited and well-sustained narrative,
excellent versification, a pure taste, and a correct and flowing
style, were the only qualities necessary for the epic, the Ilenriad
would be a perfect poem : these, however, are not sufficient, for
it requires besides an heroic and supernatural action. But how
could Voltaire have made a happy application of the marvellous
of Christianity he who directed all his efforts to the destruction
of that marvellous ? Such is, nevertheless, the power of religious
ideas, that to the very faith which he persecuted the author of
the Ilenriad is indebted for the most striking passages of his
epic poem, as well as for the most exquisite scenes in his tra
gedies.

A tincture of philosophy and a cold and grave morality be
come the historic muse ; but this spirit of severity transferred to
the epic is a sort of contradiction. When, therefore, Voltaire, in
the invocation of his poem, exclaims

From thy celestial seat, illustrious Truth,
Descend

he has fallen, in our opinion, into a gross mistake. Epic poetry
Is built on fable, and by fiction lives.

Tasso, who also treated a Christian subject, followed Plato and

Lucretius 1 in his charming lines beginning

Sai che la torre in mondo, ove piu versi
Di sue dolcezze il lusinghier Parnasso, &lt;fcc.

library. Josephus (de Antiq. Jud., lib. i. c. 2) mentions two columns, one of
nek, the other of stone, on which Seth s children had engraved the human
fences that they might not be swept away by the deluge, which Adam had

predicted. These two columns are said to have existed long after the time of

1 "A 3 the physician who, to save his patient, mixes pleasant draughts with
ie medicines proper for curing him, and, on the contrary, introduces bitter
drugs into such aliments as are pernicious," Ac. Plato, de Lea lib i A
p. ueris absinthia tetra medentes, &c. Lucret., lib. v.

THE HENRIAD. 227

"There can be no good poetry where there is no fiction/ ob
serves Plutarch. 1

Was semi-barbarous France no longer sufficiently covered with
forests to present some castle of the days of yore, with its port
cullis, dungeons, and towers overgrown with ivy, and teeming
with marvellous adventures? Was there no Gothic temple to be
found in a solitary valley, embosomed in woods ? Had not the
mountains of Navarre some druid, a child of the rock, who, be
neath the sacred oak, on the bank of the torrent, amid the howl
ing of the tempest, celebrated the deeds of the Gauls and wept,
over the tombs of heroes? I am sure there must have been still
left some knight of the reign of Francis I., who within his an
tique mansion regretted the tournaments of former days and the
good old times when France went to war with recreants and in
fidels. How many circumstances might have been gleaned from
that Batavian revolution, the neighbor, and, as it were, the sister,
of the League! The Dutch were just then forming settlements
in the Indies, and Philip was receiving the first treasures from
Peru. Coligny had even sent a colony to Carolina; the Chevalier
de Gourgues would have furnished the author of the Henriad
with a splendid and pathetic episode. An epic poem should em
brace the universe.

Europe, by the happiest of contrasts, exhibited a pastoral na
tion in Switzerland, a commercial nation in England, and a nation
devoted to the arts in Italy. France also presented a most
favorable epoch for epic poetry; an epoch which ought always to
be chosen, as it was by Voltaire, at the conclusion of one age
and at the commencement of another ; an epoch bordering upon
old manners on the c.ne hand and new manners on the other.
Barbarism was expiring, and the brilliant age of the great Louis
began to dawn. Malherbe was come, and that hero, both a bard
and a knight, could lead the French to battle, at the same time
chanting hymns to victory.

It is admitted that the characters in the Henriad are but por-

If we were to be told that Tasso had also invoked Truth, we should reply
that he has not done it like Voltaire. Tasso s Truth is a muse, an angel, a
vague something without a name, a Christian being, and not Truth directly
personified, like that of the Henriad.

228 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

traits, and this species of painting, of which Rome in her decline
exhibited the first models, has been perhaps too highly ex
tolled.

The portrait belongs not to the epic. Its beauties are destitute
of action and motion.

Some have likewise questioned whether consistency of manners
be sufficiently preserved in the Ilcnriad. The heroes of that
poem spout very fine verses, which serve as vehicles for the phi
losophical principles of Voltaire; but are they good representa
tives of warriors such as they actually were in the sixteenth
century? If the speeches of the Leaguers breathe the spirit of
the age, are we not authorized to think that the actions of the
characters should display this spirit still more than their words ?
At least the bard who has celebrated Achilles has not thrown
the Iliad into dialogue.

As to the marvellous, it amounts to little more than nothing
in the Henriad. If we were not acquainted with the wretched
system which froze the poetic genius of Voltaire, we should be
at a loss to conceive how he could have preferred allegorical
divinities to the marvellous of Christianity. He has imparted
DO warmth to his inventions except in those passages where he
has ceased to be a philosopher that he may become a Christian.
No sooner does he touch upon religion, the source of all poetry,
than the current freely flows. The oath of the sixteen in the
cavern, the appearance of the ghost of Guise, which comes to
furnish Clement with a dagger, are circumstances highly epic,
and borrowed even from the superstitious of an ignorant and
unhappy age.

Was not the poet guilty of another error when he introduced
his philosophy into heaven ? His Supreme Being is, doubtless,
a very, equitable God, who judges with strict impartiality both
the Bonze and the Dervise, the Jew and the Mohammedan; but
was this to be expected of the muse? Should we not rather
require of her poetry, a Christian heaven, sacred songs, Jehovah,
in a word, the mens divinior religion ?

Voltaire has, therefore, broken with his own hand the most
harmonious string of his lyre, in refusing to celebrate that sacred
host, that glorious army of martyrs and angels, with which his
talents would have produced an admirable effect. He might

THE HENRIAD. 229

have found among our saints powers as great as those of the
goddesses of old and names as sweet as those of the graces.
What a pity that he did not choose to make mention of those
shepherdesses transformed, for their virtues, into beneficent
divinities j of those Genevieves who, in the mansions of bliss,
protect the empire of Clovis and Charlemagne ! In our opin
ion, it must be a sight not wholly destitute of charms for the
muses, to behold the most intelligent and the most valiant
of nations consecrated by religion to the daughter of simpli
city and peace. Whence did the Gauls derive their trouba
dours, their frankness of mind, and their love of the graces,
except from the pastoral strains, the innocence, and the beauty, of
their patroness ?

Judicious critics have observed that there are two individuals
iii Voltaire the one abounding in taste, science, and reason, and
the other marked by the contrary defects. It may be questioned
whether the author of the Henriad possessed a genius equal
to Racine, but he had perhaps more varied talents and a more
flexible imagination. Unfortunately, what we are able to do is
not always the measure of what we actually accomplish. If Vol
taire had been animated by religion, like the author of Athalie,
and like him had profoundly studied the works of the fathers
and antiquity, if he had not grasped at every species of compo
sition and every kind of subject, his poetry would have been
more nervous, and his prose would have acquired a decorum and
gravity in which it is but too often deficient. This great man
had the misfortune to pass his life amid a circle of scholars of
moderate abilities, who, always ready to applaud, were incapable
of apprising him of his errors. We love to represent him to
ourselves in the company of his equals the Pascals, the Arnauds,
the Nicoles, the Boileaus, the Racines. By associating with such
men he would have been obliged to alter his tone. The jests
and the blasphemies of Forney would have excited indignation
at Port Royal. The inmates of that institution detested works
composed in a hurry, and would not, for all the world, have
deceived the public by submitting to it a poem which had not
cost them the labor of twelve long years at least; and a circum
stance truly astonishing is, that, amid so many occupations, these
excellent men still found means to fulfil every, even the least
20

230 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANm.

important, of their religious duties, and to carry with them into
society the urbanity of their illustrious age. 1

Such a school Voltaire wanted. He is greatly to be pitied for
having possessed that twofold genius which extorts at the same
time our admiration and our hatred. He erects and overthrows ;
he gives the most contradictory examples and precepts; he extols
the age of Lo iis XIV. to the skies, and afterward attacks in
detail the reputation of its great men. He alternately praises
and slanders antiquity; he pursues through seventy volumes
what he denominates the wretch, and yet the finest passages in
his works were inspired by religion. While his imagination
enchants you, he throws around him the glare of a fallacious
reason, which destroys the marvellous, contracts the soul, and
shortens the sight. Except in some of his master-pieces, he con
siders only the ludicrous side of things and times, and exhibits
man to man in a light hideously diverting. He charms and
fatigues by his versatility; he both delights and disgusts you;
you are at a loss to decide what form is peculiarly his own ; you
would think him insane, were it not for his good sense, and a
misanthropist, did not his life abound with acts of beneficence.
You can perceive, amid all his impieties, that he hated sophists. 9
To love the fine arts, letters, and magnificence, was so natural to
him that it is nothing uncommon to find him in a kind of ad
miration of the court of Rome. His vanity caused him, through
out his life, to act a part for which he was not formed, and which
was very far beneath him. He bore, in fact, no resemblance to
Diderot, Rayual, or D Alembert. The elegance of his manners,
the urbanity of his demeanor, his love of society, and, above all,
his humanity, would probably have rendered him one of the most
inveterate enemies of the revolutionary system. He is most
decidedly in favor of social order, while he unconsciously saps its
foundations by attacking the institutions of religion. The most
equitable judgment that can be passed upon him is that his

1 It is much to be regretted that the excellence of these writers and their
literary labors were so deeply sullied by their attachment to the cause of
Jansenism. Though Voltaire was not the cotemporary of Pascal, he knew how
to combat Christianity with the same weapons of ridicule that the latter had
employed against the Society of Jesus, the great bulwark of Catholicism in
that age. T. 2 See note N.

THE HENRIAD. 23]

infidelity prevented his attaining the height for which nature
qualified him, rnd that his works (with the exception of his
fugitive poems) have fallen very short of his actual abilities an
example which ought to be an everlasting warning to all those
who pursue the career of letters. 1 Voltaire was betrayed into all
these errors, all these contradictions of style and sentiment, only
because he wanted the great counterpoise of religion; and he is
an instance to prove that grave morals and piety of thought are
more necessary even than a brilliant genius for the successful
cultivation of the muse.

"Voltaire s pen was fertile and very elegant; his observations are very
acute, yet he often betrays great ignorance when he treats on subjects of an
cient learning. Madame de Talmond once said to him, I think, sir, that a
philosopher should never write but to endeavor to render mankind less wicked
and unhappy than they are. Now you do quite the contrary; you are always
writing against that religion which alone is able to restrain wickedness and to
afford us consolation under misfortunes. Voltaire was much struck, and ex
cused himself by saying that he only wrote for those who were of the same
opinion with himself. Tronchin assured his friends that Voltaire died in great
agonies of mind. I die forsaken by Gods and men! exclaimed he, in those
awful moments when truth will force its way. I wish, added Tronchin, that
those who had been perverted by his writings had been present at his death.
It was a sight too horrid to support. " Seward s Anecdote*, vol. v. p. 274.

BOOK II.

OF POETRY CONSIDERED IN ITS RELATION TO MAN.

Characters.

CHAPTER I.

NATURAL CHARACTERS.

FROM the general survey of epic poems we shall pass to the
details of poetic compositions. Let us first consider the natural
characters, such as the husband and wife, the father, the mother,
&c., before we enter upon the examination of the social charac
ters, such as the priest and the soldier ; and let us set out from a
principle that cannot be contested.

Christianity is, if we may so express it, a double religion. Its
teaching has reference to the nature of intellectual being, and
also to our own nature : it makes the mysteries of the Divinity
and the mysteries of the human heart go hand-in-hand ; and, by
removing the veil that conceals the true God, it also exhibits man
just as he is.

Such a religion must necessarily be more favorable to the
delineation of characters than another which dives not into the
secrets of the passions. The fairer half of poetry, the dramatic,
received no assistance from polytheism, for morals were sepa
rated from mythology. 1 A god ascended his chariot, a priest
offered a sacrifice ; but neither the god nor the priest taught what
man is, whence he comes, whither he goes, what are his propen
sities, his vices, his virtues, his ends in this life and his destinies
in another.

In Christianity, on the contrary, religion and morals are one
and the same thing. The Scripture informs us of our origin ; it

1 See note 0.
232

ULYSSES AND PENELOPE. 233

makes us acquainted with our twofold nature ; the Christian
mysteries all relate to us ; we are everywhere seen ; for us the
Son of God is sacrificed. From Moses to Jesus Christ, from the
apostles to the last fathers of the Church, every thing presents
the picture of the internal man, every thing tends to dispel the
obscurity in which he is enveloped; and one of the distinguishing
characteristics of Christianity is that it invariably introduces
man in conjunction with God, whereas the false religions have
separated the Creator from the creature.

Here, then, is an incalculable advantage which poets ought to
have observed in the Christian religion, instead of obstinately
continuing to decry it. For if it is equal to polytheism in the
marvellous, or in the relations of supernatural things, as we shall
in the sequel attempt to prove, it has moreover the drama and
moral part which polytheism did not embrace.

In support of this great truth, we shall adduce examples ; we
shall ^nstitute comparisons, which, while they refine our taste,
may serve to attach us to the religion of our forefathers by the
charms of the most divine among the arts.

We shall commence the study of the natural characters by
that of husband and wife, and contrast the conjugal love of Adam
and Eve with the conjugal love of Ulysses and Penelope. It will
not be said of us that we have purposely selected inferior sub
jects in antiquity, in order to heighten the effect of the Christian
subjects.

CHAPTER II.

THE HUSBAND AND WIPE.

Ulysses and fen el ope.

THE suitors having been slain by Ulysses, Euryclea goes to
awaken Penelope, who long refuses to believe the wonderful story
related by her nurse. She rises, however, and, "descending the
steps, passed the stone threshold, and sat down opposite to

Ulysses, who was himself seated at the foot of a lofty column,
20*

234 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

and, his eyes fixed on the ground, was waiting to hear what his
wife would say. But she kept silence, for great astonishment
had seized her heart." 1

Telemachus accuses his mother of coldness. Ulysses smiles,
and makes an excuse for Penelope. The princess still doubts;
and, to try her husband, commands the bed of Ulysses to be pre
pared out of the nuptial chamber; upon which the hero imme
diately exclaims, "Who, then, has removed my couch? Is it no
longer spread on the trunk of the olive, around which I built
with this hand a bower in my court ?"

" He said ; and suddenly the heart and knees of Penelope at
once failed her; she recognised Ulysses by this indubitable sign.
Soon running to him, bathed in tears, she threw her arms about
her husband s neck; she kissed his sacred head, and cried,
Be not angry, thou who wast always the wisest of men ! Let
me not move thy wrath, if I forbore to throw myself into thine
amis. My heart trembled for fear a stranger should betray my

faith by deceitful words But now I have a manifest

proof that it is thyself, by that which thou hast said concerning
our couch, which no other man has ever seen, which is known to
ourselves and to Actoris alone, (the slave whom my father gave
to me when I came to Ithaca, and who is the only attendant on
our nuptial chamber.) Thou restorest confidence to this heart
rendered distrustful by grief/

" She said : and Ulysses, unable to restrain his tears, wept
over this chaste and prudent spouse, whom he pressed to his
heart. As mariners gaze at the wished-for land, when Neptune
has shattered their rapid vessel, the sport of the winds and the
mountain billows, when a small number of the crew, floating on
the bosom of the ocean, swim to the shore, and, covered with
briny foam, gain the strand, overjoyed at their narrow escape
from destruction, so Penelope fixed her delighted eyes on Ulysses.
She could not take her arms from the hero s neck, and rosy-
lingered Aurora would have beheld the sacred tears of the royal

pair had not Minerva held back the sun in the wavy main

Meanwhile, Eurynome, with a torch in her hand, goes before
Ulysses and Penelope, and conducts them to the nuptial chamber.

1 Odyss., b. xxiii. v. 88.

ULYSSES AND PENELOPE. 235

The king and his consort, after yielding to the bland
ishments of love, enchanted each other by the mutual recital of

their sorrows Scarcely had Ulysses finished the last

words of his history, when beneficent slumber, stealing upon his
weary limbs, produced a sweet forgetfulness of all his cares/

This meeting of Ulysses and Penelope is, perhaps, one of the
most exquisite specimens of ancient genius. Penelope sitting in
silence, Ulysses motionless at the foot of a column, and the
scene illumined by the blaze of the hospitable hearth what
grandeur and what simplicity of design ! And by what means
do they recognise each other ? By the mention of a circumstance
relative to the nuptial couch. Another object of admiration is,
that the couch itself was formed by the hand of a king upon the
trunk of an olive-tree, the tree of peace and of wisdom, worthy
of supporting that bed which never received any other man than
Ulysses. The transports which succeed the discovery; that deeply
affecting comparison of a widow finding her long-lost husband
to a mariner who descries land at the very moment of ship
wreck; the conjugal pair conducted by torch-light to their
apartment; the pleasures of love followed by the joys of grief
or the mutual communication of past sorrows ; the twofold de
light of present happiness and recollected misfortunes ; that sleep
which gradually steals on, and at length closes the eyes and lips
of Ulysses, while relating his adventures to the attentive Pene
lope : all these traits display the hand of a master, and cannot be
too highly admired.

It would be a truly interesting study to consider what course
a modern writer would have pursued in the execution of some
particular part of the works of an ancient author. In the fore
going picture, for instance, there is every reason to suspect that
the scene, instead of passing in action between Ulysses and Pe
nelope, would have been described in the narrative form by the
poet. This narration would have been interspersed with philoso
phical reflections, brilliant verses, and pretty turns of expression.
Instead of adopting this showy and laborious manner, Homer
exhibits to you a pair who meet again after an absence of twenty
years, and who, without uttering any vehement exclamations,
seem as if they had parted only the preceding day. Wherein,
then, consists the beauty of its delineation ? In its truth.

236 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The moderns are, in general, more scientific, more delicate,
more acute, and frequently even more interesting, in their com
positions than the ancients. The latter, on the other hand, are
more simple, more august, more tragic, more fertile, and, above
all, more attentive to truth, than the moderns. They have a better
taste, a nobler imagination : they work at their composition as a
whole, without affectation of ornament. A shepherd giving way
to his lamentations, an old man relating a story, a hero fighting,
are sufficient with them for a whole poem; and we are puzzled to
tell how it happens that this poem, which contains nothing, is
nevertheless better filled than our novels that are most crowded
with incidents and characters. The art of writing seems to have
followed the art of painting : the pallet of the modern poet is
covered with an infinite variety of hues and tints ; the poet of
antiquity composes all his pieces with the three colors of Poly-
gnotus. The Latins, placed between the Greeks and us, partake
of both manners ; they resemble Greece in the simplicity of the
ground, and us in the art of detail. It is probably this happy
combination of both styles that renders the productions of Virgil
so enchanting.

Let us now turn to the picture of the loves of our first pa
rents. The Adam and Eve of the blind bard of Albion will
form an excellent match for the Ulysses and Penelope of the
blind bard of Smyrna.

CHAPTER III.

THE HUSBAND AND WIFE, (CONTINUED.)

Adam and Eve.

SATAN, having penetrated into the terrestrial paradise, surveys
the animals of the new creation. Among these,

Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

Godlike erect, with native honor clad,

In naked majesty seemed lords of all,

And worthy seemed : for in their looks divine

The image of their glorious Maker shone.

ADAM AND EVE. 237

Truth, wisdom, sanetitude severe and pure,
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
Whence true authority in men : though both
Not equal as their sex not equal seemed ;
For contemplation he and valor formed,
For softness she, and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him.
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
* Absolute rule, and hyacinthine locks

Round fronr. his parted forelock rnanly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad*.
She as a veil down to the slender waist
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet reluctant amorous delay.
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed :
Then was not guilty shame ; dishonest shame
Of Nature s works, honor dishonorable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
And banished from man s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence !
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or angels, for they thought no ill :
So hand-in-hand they passed, the loveliest pair
That ever since in love s embraces met;
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve. 1

Our first parents retire beneath a tuft of shade ~by a fresh
fountain s side. Here they take their evening repast amid the
animals of the creation, which frisk around their human sove
reigns. Satan, disguised under the form of one of these crea
tures, contemplates the happy pair, and his enmity is almost
overcome by their beauty, their innocence, and the thoughts of
the calamities which through his means will soon succeed such
exquisite felicity a truly admirable trait! Meanwhile Adam
and Eve enter into sweet converse beside the fountain, and Eve
thus addresses her husband :

That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed

1 Paradise Lost, b. iv.

238 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Under a shade of flowers, much wondering where

And what I was, whence thither brought and how.

Not distant far from thence a munnuring sound

Of waters issued from a cave, and spread

Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved

Pure as the expanse of Heaven : I thither went

With unexperienced thought, and laid me down

On the green bank, to look into the clear

Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.

As I went down to look, just opposite

A shape within the watery gleam appeared,

Bending to look on me : I started back,

It started back ; but, pleased, I soon returned ;

Pleased, it returned as soon, with answering looka

Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed

Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,

Had nut a voice thus warned me: What thou seest.

What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.

With thee it comes and goes; but follow me,

And I will bring thee where no shadow stays

Thy coming, and thy soft embraces; he

Whose image thou art, him thou shalt enjoy,

Inseparably thine; to him shalt bear

Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called

Mother of human race. What could I do

But follow straight, invisibly thus led?

Till I espied thee, fair, indeed, and tall,

Under a platan; yet, methought, less fair,

Less winning soft, less amiably mild,

Than that smooth watery image. Back I turned;

Thou, following, criedst aloud, "Return, fair Eve;

Whom flyest thou? whom thou flyest, of him thou artj

His flesh, his bone. To give thee being, I lent

Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart,

Substantial life, to have thee by my side

Henceforth an individual solace dear.

Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim,

My other half." With that, thy gentle hand

Seized mine; I yielded, and from that time see

How beauty is excelled by minly grace

And wisdom, which alone is truly fair.

So spake our general mother, and with eyes
Of conjugal attraction, unreproved,
And meek surrender, half embracing, leaned
On our first father. Half her swelling breast
Naked met his, under the flowing gold
Of her loose tresses hid. He, in delight
Both of her beauty and submissive charms,
Smiled with superior love, a? Jupiter

ADAM AND EVE. 239

On Juno smiles when he impregns the clouds
That shed May flowers, and pressed her matron lip
With kisses pure ........

..... The sun had fallen

Benenth the Azores. Whether the prime orb,
Incredible how swift, had thither rolled
Diurnal, or this less volubil earth,
By shorter flight to the east, had left him there,
Arraying with reflected purple and gold
The clouds that on his western throne attend.
Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad.
Silence accompanied: for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;
She all night long her amorous descant sung.
Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires. Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o er the dark her silver mantle threw.

Adam and Eve, "having offered up their prayers to the Almightj
retire to the nuptial bower. Proceeding to its inmost covert.
they lie down upon a bed of flowers. The poet, remaining as it
were at the entrance, entones a canticle to Hymen, in the presence
of the starry host. Without preliminary, and as by an impulse
of inspiration, he bursts forth into this magnificent epithalamium,
after the manner of the ancients :

Hail wedded love, mysterious law, true source
Of human offspring -

Thus, after Hector s death, does the Grecian army all at once

E*ropa 6Tov.
"We have gained great glory ! We have slain the divine Hector

In like manner, the Salii, celebrating the festival of Hercules, in
Virgil, abruptly shout :

Tu nubigenas, invicte, bimembres, &lt;fcc.
"Thy arms, unconquered hero, could subdue
The cloud-born Centaurs and the monster crew!"

This hymn to conjugal fidelity puts the finishing stroke to

242 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

nelope and Ulysses remind us of past troubles; Adam and Eve
point to impending woes. Every drama is fundamentally defect
ive that represents joys without any mixture of sorrows past or
sorrows in reserve. We are tired by unalloyed happiness and
shocked by absolute misery. The former is destitute of recollec
tions and of tears, the latter of hope and of smiles. If you
ascend from pain to pleasure, (as in the scene of Homer,) you
will be more pathetic, more melancholy, because the soul then
looks back on the past and reposes in the present. If, on the
contrary, you descend from prosperity to tears, as in Milton s im
mortal poem, you will be more sad, more sensitive, because the
heart scarcely pauses on the present, and already anticipates the
calamities with which it is threatened. We ought, therefore, in
our pictures, invariably to combine felicity and adversity, and to
make the pains rather more than counterbalance the pleasures, aa
in nature. Two liquids, the one sweet and the other bitter, are
mingled together in the cup of life; but, in addition to the bit
terness of the latter, there is the sediment which both liquids
alike deposit at the bottom of the chalice.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FATHER.

Priam.

FROM the conjugal character let us proceed to that of the
father. Let us consider paternity in the most sublime and affect
ing situations of life old age and misfortune. Priam, that
monarch whose favor was sought by the mighty of the earth, dum
fortuna fuit, but now fallen from the height of glory Priam,
his venerable locks sullied with ashes, his cheeks bedewed with
tears, his penetrated alone at midnight into the camp of the
Greeks. Low bowed at the knees of the merciless Achilles, kiss
ing those terrible, those devouring 1 hands yet reeking with the
blood of his sons, he humbly begs the body of his Hector:

Trorpof OTIO,

t/j, men -devouring. 2 Iliad, b. xxiv.

PRIAM. 243

&lt; Remember thy father, godlike Achilles ! He is bowed down
with years, and, like me, approaches the termination of his career.
Perhaps at this very moment he is overwhelmed by powerful
neighbors, and has no one at hand to defend him ; and yet, when
he is informed that thou livest, he rejoices in his heart. Each
day he hopes to see his son return from Troy. But I, the most
unfortunate of fathers, of all the sons that I numbered in spacious
Ilion scarcely one is left me. I had fifty when the Greeks landed
on these shores. Nineteen were the offspring of the same mother.
Different captives bore me the others. Most of them have fallen
beneath the strokes of cruel Mars. Yet one there was who singly
defended his brothers and the walls of Troy. Him thou hast
slain, fighting for his country Hector! For his sake I have
repaired to the Grecian fieet. 1 am come to redeem his body,
and have brought thee an immense ransom. Respect the gods,
Achilles ! Have compassion upon me. Remember thy father.
Oh ! how wretched am I ! No mortal was ever reduced to such
excess of misery. I kiss the hands that have killed my sons!"

What beauties in this address ! what a scene unfolded to the
view of the reader! Night the tent of Achilles that hero,
seated beside the faithful Automedon, deploring the loss of Patro-
c l us Priam abruptly appearing amid the obscurity and throwing
himself at the feet of Pelides. There in the dark stand the cars
and the mules which have brought the presents of the venerable
sovereign of Troy, and at some distance the mangled remains
of the generous Hector are left unhonored on the shore of the
Hellespont.

Examine Priam s address: you will find that the second word
pronounced by the unfortunate monarch, is xarpos, father ; the
second thought in the same verse is a panegyric on the haughty
chieftain, foots erreueA A^Uso, godlike Achilles. Priam must
do great violence to his feelings to speak in such terms to the
murderer of Hector. All these traits discover a profound know
ledge of the human heart.

The most affecting image that the unfortunate monarch could
present to the violent son of Peleus, after reminding him of his
father, was, without doubt, the age of that father. So far, Priam
has not ventured to utter a word concerning himself, but suddenly
an opportunity occurs, and he seizes it with the most moving

244 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

simplicity. Like me, he says, he approaches the termination of hf*
career. Thus Priam still avoids mentioning himself except in
conjunction with Peleus, and he forces Achilles to view only his
own father in the person of a suppliant and unfortunate king.
The image of the forlorn situation of the aged monarch, perhap*
overwhelmed by powerful neighbors during the absence of his son,
the picture of his affliction suddenly forgotten when he learns
that his son is full of life, finally, the transient sorrows of Peleus
contrasted with the irreparable misfortunes of Priam, all this
displays an admirable mixture of grief, address, propriety, and
dignity.

With what respectable and sacred skill does the venerable sove
reign of Ilium afterward lead the haughty Achilles to listen,
even with composure, to the praise of Hector himself ! At first
he takes care not to name the Trojan hero. Yet one there was,
says he, without mentioning the name of Hector to his conqueror,
till he has told him that by his hand he fell while fighting for
his country!

Toy ffv Trpwqv KTCivas, dnvv6ptvov Ttcpi Trurprjj :

And then he adds the single word " Exropa, Hector. It is very
remarkable that this insulated name is not comprehended in the
poetical period; it is introduced at the commencement of a verse,
where it breaks the measure, surprises the eye and ear, forms a
complete sense, antl is wholly unconnected with what follows:

Ton ai) TTpwrjj ncmvaj, dpvvdpcvov irtpl Tarp^j,
"Eirropa.

Thus the son of Peleus is reminded of his vengeance before he
recollects his enemy. Had Priam named Hector first, Achilles
would at once have thought of Patroclus; but tis no longer
Hector who is presented to his view, tis a mangled body, a dis
figured corpse, consigned to the dogs and vultures; and even this
is not shown to him without an excuse d/jtuvo/isvov xsp} rrfr^Tj?
he fought for his country. The pride of Achilles is gratified
with having triumphed over one who had alone defended his bro
thers and the walls of Troy.

Lastly, Priam, after speaking of men to the son of Thetis, re
minds him of the just gods, and once more leads him back to the
recollection of Peleus. The trait which concludes the address
of the Trojan monarch is most sublimely pathetic.

LUSIGNAN. 245

CHAPTER V.

CONTINUATION OF THE FATHER.

Lusignan.

WE shall find in the tragedy of Zara a father to contrast with
Priam. The two scenes, indeed, cannot be compared, either in
point of arrangement, strength of design, or beauty of poetry;
but the triumph of Christianity will on that account be only the
more complete, since that religion is enabled by the charm of its
recollections singly to sustain a competition with the mighty
genius of Homer. Voltaire himself does not deny that he sought
success in the power of this charm ; since he thus writes in allu
sion to Zara: "I shall endeavor to introduce into this piece
whatever appears most pathetic and most interesting in the Chris
tian religion." 1 This venerable Crusader, covered with glory,
and bowed down with misfortune, steadfastly adhering to his reli
gion in the solitude of a dungeon, this Lusignan imploring a
young enamored female to hearken to the voice of the God of her
fathers, presents a striking scene, the force of which lies entirely
in its evangelical morality and Christian sentiments.

For thee, God, and in thy glorious cause,
These threescore years old Lusignan hath fought,
But fought in vain; hath seen thy temple fall,
Thy goodness spurned, thy sacred right profaned.
For twenty summers in a dungeon hid,
With tears have I implored thee to protect
My children ; thou hast given them to my wishes
And in my d lughter now I find thy foe.
I am myself, alas ! the fatal cause
Of thy lost faith ; had I not been a slave ...
But, my daughter! thou dear, lovely object
Of all my cares, think on the pure blood
Within thy veins, the blood of twenty kings,
All Christians like myself, the blood of heroes,
Defenders of the faith, the blood of martyrs.

(Euvr. CompUt. de Volt., tome 78 ; Corresp. gen., Lett. 57, p. 1 19 ; edit. 1785.
21*

246 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Thou art a stranger to thy mother s fate ;

Thou dost not know that, in the very moment

She gave thee birth, I saw her massacred

By those barbarians whose detested faith

Thou hast embraced : thy brothers, the dear martyrs,

Stretch forth their hands from heaven, and wish to embrace

A sister: remember them ! That God

Whom thou betrayest, for us and for mankind

Even in this place expired; where I so oft

Have fought for him, where now his blood by me

Calls loudly on thee. See yon temple, see

These walls: behold the sacred mountain where

Thy Saviour bled; the tomb whence he arose

Victorious; in each path, where er thou tread st

Shalt thou behold the footsteps of thy God.

Wilt thou renounce thy honor and thy father?

Wilt thou renounce thy Maker? 1

A religion which furnishes its enemy with such beauties de
serves at least to be heard before it be condemned. Antiquity
affords nothing so interesting, because it had not such a religion.
Polytheism, laying no restraint upon the passions, could not oc
casion those inward conflicts of the soul which are so common
under the gospel dispensation, and produce the most affecting
situations. The pathetic character of Christianity also strongly
tends to heighten the charms of Zara. Were Lusignan to remind
his daughter of nothing but the happy deities, the banquets and
the joys of Olympus, all this would have but a very slight interest
for her, and would only form a harsh contradiction to the tender
emotions which the poet aims to excite. But the misfortunes of
Lusignan, his blood, his sufferings, are blended with the misfor
tunes, the blood, and the sufferings, of Jesus Christ. Could
Zara deny her Redeemer on the very spot where he gave himself
a sacrifice for her? The cause of a father and the cause of God
are mingled together; the venerable age of Lusignan and the
blood of the martyrs exert the authority of religion; the moun
tain and the tomb both cry out. The place, the man, the divinity,
every thing is tragic in this picture.

1 Voltaire s Dramatic Works, translated by Franklin, vol. v. p. 36-3 *.

ANDROMACHE. 247

CHAPTER VI.

THE MOTHER.

Andromache.

" A VOICE was heard on high," says Jeremias, 1 "cf lamenta
tion, of mourning, and weeping, of Rachel weeping for her
children, and refusing to be comforted because they are not."
How beautiful is this expression because they are not! It-
breathes all the tenderness of the mother. 3 Most assuredly, the
religion which has consecrated such an expression must be
thoroughly acquainted with the maternal heart.

Our veneration for the Virgin Mary, and the love of Jesus
Christ for children, likewise prove that the spirit of Christianity
has a tender sympathy with the character of mother. We here
propose to open a new path for criticism, by seeking in the senti
ments of a pagan mother, delineated by a modern author, those
Christian traits which that author may have introduced into his
picture without being aware of it himself. In order to demon
strate the influence of a moral or religious institution on the heart
of man, it is not necessary that the instance adduced for this pur
pose should be selected from the more visible effects of that
institution. Tis sufficient if it breathe its spirit; and thus it is
that the Elysium of Telemachus is evidently a Christian paradise.

Now the most affecting sentiments of Racine s Andromache
emanate for the most part from a Christian poet. The Andro
mache of the Iliad is the wife rather than the mother; that of
Euripides is of a disposition at once servile and ambitious, which
destroys the maternal character; that of Virgil is tender and
melancholy, but has less of the mother than of the wife : the
widow of Hector says not, Astyanax ubi est, but Hector ubi est.

1 Jer. xxxi. 15.

- We know not why Sacy, in his French translation, has rendered Rama, by
Rama, a town. The Hebrew Rama (whence comes the pa&lt;5a/^o? of the Greeks)
is applied to a branch of a tree, an arm of the sea, a chain of mountains. The
latter is the signification of the Hebrew in this place, and the Vulgate, as seen
in the context, has vox in excelso.

248 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Racine s Andromache has greater sensibility, is more interest-
ing in every respect, than the ancient Andromache. That verse
which is so simple, yet so full of love,

Je ne 1 ai point encore embrasse d aujourd hui,
I ve not yet kissed my child to-day,

is the language of a Christian mother, and is not in accordance
with the Grecian taste, still less that of the Romans.

Homer s Andromache deplores the future misery of Astyanax,
but scarcely bestows a thought on his present condition. The
mother, under the Christian dispensation, more tender without
being less provident, sometimes forgets her sorrows while em
bracing her son. The ancients bestowed upon infancy no great
portion of their attention ; they seem to have considered swad
dling-clothes and a cradle as too simple for their notice. The
God of the gospel alone was not ashamed to speak of the little
children, 1 and to hold them up as an example to men. "And,
taking a child, he set him in the midst of them. Whom when
he had embraced, he saith unto them : Whosoever shall receive
one such child in my name, receiveth me." 3

When Hector s widow says to Cephisus, in Racine,

Qu il ait de ses aieux un souvenir modeste ;
II est du sang d Hector, mais il en est le reste.
Teach him with modesty to bear in mind
His great forefathers : he s of Hector s blood,
But all of Hector s self that now survives ;

who does not perceive the Christian ? Tis the deposuit potentes
de sede " He hath put down the mighty from their seat." An
tiquity never speaks in this manner, for it imitates no sentiments
but those of nature ; but the sentiments expressed in these verses
of Racine are not derived purely from nature ; so far from this,
they contradict the voice of the heart. Hector, in the Iliad,
exhorts not his son to retain a modest remembrance of his fore
fathers. Holding up Astyanax toward heaven, he exclaims :

Zcv a\\oi re Qeol, Sore fa xdi r6v6e ycvcaOai,
n&lt;u&lt;5 Cfidv, w{ KOI eyo&gt; irep, aptirpe^ea Tpiocaaiv,
SL5e fiirjv, T ayaSov, KOI lAtou itpi dvaoociv.
Kat TTOTE rij eiTnjffi, llarpog 6 oyt TroAAw
dvi6vra.

Matt, xviii. 3. 2 Mark ix. 36-37.

ANDROMACHE. 249

thou ! whose glory fills th ethereal throne,
And all ye deathless powers, protect my son !
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown,
Against his country s foes the war to wage,
And rise the Hector of the future age !
So, when triumphant from successful toils
Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,
I And say, This chief transcends his father s fame. 1

J&ue-as says to ^iscanius :

Et te aiiimo repetentem exempla tuorum,
Et pater ^Eneas, et avunculus excitet Hector.

Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth
To toils of war, be mindful of my worth :
Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known
For Hector s nephew, and ^Eneas son. 2

The modern Andromache, indeed, expresses herself nearly in
the same manner respecting the ancestors of Astyanax. But
after this line,

Tell by what feats they dignified their names,

she adds,

Tell what they did, rather than what they were.

Now, such precepts are in direct opposition to the suggestions
of pride. We here behold amended nature improved evangelical
nature. This humility, which the Christian religion has intro
duced into the sentiments, and which, as we shall presently have
occasion to observe, has changed the relation of the passions, runs
through the whole character of the modern Andromache. When
Hector s widow, in the Iliad, figures to herself the destiny that
awaits her son, there is something mean in the picture which she
draws of his future wretchedness. Humility in our religion speaks
no such language ; it is not less dignified than affecting. The
Christian submits to the severest vicissitudes of life ; but his
resignation evidently springs from a principle of virtue, for he
abases himself under the hand of God alone, and not under the
hand of man. In fetters he retains his dignity; with a fidelity
unmixed with fear, he despises the chains which he is to ^ear but
for a moment, and from which Providence will soon release him;

1 Iliad, b. vi., Pope s translation. 2 ^Eneid, b. xii., Dryden s translation.

250 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

he looks upon the things of this life as naught but dreams, and
endures his condition without repining, because there is little dif
erence in his eyes between liberty and servitude, prosperity and
adversity, the diadem of the monarch and the livery of the slave.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SON.

Gusmctn.

THE dramatic works of Voltaire furnish us with the example
of another Christian character the character of the son. This
is neither the docile Telemachus with Ulysses, nor the fiery
Achilles with Peleus ; it is a young man with strong passions,
but who combats and subdues them by religion.

There is something very attractive in the tragedy of Alzire,
though consistency of manners is not much observed. You here
soar into those lovely regions of Christian morality, which, rising
far above the morality of the vulgar, is of itself a divine poetry.
The peace that reigns in the bosom of Alvarez is not the mere
peace of nature. Let us figure to ourselves Nestor striving to
moderate the passions of Antilochus. He would adduce examples
of young men who have been undone because they would not
listen to the counsels of their parents ; then, following up these
examples with a few trite maxims on the indocility of youth and
the experience of age, he would crown his remonstrances with a
panegyric on himself, and look back with regret on the days that
are past.

The authority employed by Alvarez is of a very different kind.
He makes no mention of his age and his paternal authority, that
he may speak in the name of religion alone. He seeks not to
dissuade Gusman from the commission of a particular crime ;
he preaches to him a general virtue, charity, a kind of celestial
humanity which the Son of man brought down with him to
earth, where it was a stranger before his coming. 1 Finally,

1 The ancients themselves owed to their religion the little humanity that is to
be found among them. Hospitality, respect lor the suppliant and the unf or-

GUSMAN. 251

Alvarez commanding his son as a father, and obeying him as a
subject, is one of those traits of exalted morality as far superior
to the morality of the ancients as the gospel surpasses the dia
logues of Plato for the inculcation of the virtues.

Achilles mangles the body of his enemy and insults him when
vanquished. Grusman is as proud as that hero; but, sinking
beneath Zamor s dagger, expiring in the flower of youth, cut off
at once from an adored wife and the command of a mighty em
pire, hear the sentence which he pronounces upon his rival and
his murderer ! behold the admirable triumph of religion and of
paternal example over a Christian son !

[To Alvarez.] My soul is on the wing,

And here she takes her flight, but waits to see
And imitate Alvarez. my father !
The mask is off; death has at last unveiled
The hideous scene, and shown me to myself;
New light breaks in on my astonished soul :
Oh ! I have been a proud, ungrateful being,
And trampled on my fellow-creatures ! Heaven
Avenges earth : my life can ne er atone
For half the blood I ve shed. Prosperity
Had blinded Gusman ; death s benignant hand
Restores my sight; I thank the instrument
Employed by heaven to make me what I am,
A penitent. I yet am master here,
And yet can pardon: Zamor, I forgive thee;
Live and be free, but oh ! remember how
A Christian acted, how a Christian died.

[To Montezuma, who kneels to him.]

Thou, Montezuma, and ye hapless victims

Of my ambition, say, my clemency

Surpassed my guilt, and let your sovereigns know

That we were born your conquerors.

[To Zamor.]

Observe the difference twixt thy gcds and mine;
Thine teach thee to revenge an injury,
Mine bids me pity and forgive thee, Zamor. 1

To what religion belongs this morality and this death ? Here
reigns an ideal of truth superior to every poetic ideal. When we

tunate, were the offspring of religious ideas. That the wretche^vrf{)h*i-^ncl
.some pity upon earth, it was necessary that Jupiter should decl r o f "Roui 1ae r
protector. Such is the ferocity of man without religion !

: Voltaire s Works, translated by Franklin, vol. vi. pp. 260, 261.

252 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

say an ideal of truth, it is no exaggeration; every reader knows
that the concluding verses

Observe the difference twixt thy gods and mine, Ac.

are the very expressions of Fran9ois de Guise. 1 As for the rest
of this passage, it comprehends the whole substance of the mo
rality of the gospel :

Death has at last unveiled

The hideous scene, and shown me to myself. . . .

Oh! I have been a proud, ungrateful being,

And trampled on my fellow-creatures !

One trait alone in this piece has not the stamp of Christianity

It is this :

Let your sovereigns know
That we were born your conquerors.

Here Voltaire meant to make nature and Gusman s haughty
character burst forth again. The dramatic intention is happy,
but, taken as an abstract beauty, the idea expressed in these lines
is very low amid the lofty sentiments with which it is surrounded.
Such is invariably the appearance of mere nature by the side of
Christian nature. Voltaire is very ungrateful for calumniating
that religion which furnished him with such pathetic scenes and
with his fairest claims to immortality. He ought constantly tc
have borne in mind these lines, composed, no doubt, under an
involuntary impulse of admiration :

Can Christians boast
Of such exalted virtue ? twas inspired
By heaven. The Christian law must be divine.

Can they, we may add, boast of so much genius, of so many
poetic beauties f

1 It is not so generally known that Voltaire, in making use of the expres
sion of Francois de Guise, has borrowed the words from another poet. Rowe
had previously availed himself of this incident in his Tamerlane, and the author
of Alzira has been content to translate the passage verbatim from the English
dramatist :

Now learn the difference twixt thy faith and mine. . . .
Thine bids thee lift thy dagger to my throat;
jhifV j jijffi nft can forgive the wrong, and bid thee live.

-ancients *
f

IPHIGENIA AND ZARA. 253

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAUGHTER.

Iphigenia and Zara.

FOR the character of the Daughter, Iphigenia and Zara will
supply us with an interesting parallel. Both, under the constraint
of paternal authority, devote themselves to the religion of their
country. Agamemnon, it is true, requires of Iphigenia the two
fold sacrifice of her love and of her life, and Lusignan requires
Zara to forget the former alone ; but for a female passionately in
love to live and renounce the object of her affections is perhaps
a harder task than to submit to death itself. The two situations,
therefore, may possess nearly an equal degree of natural interest.
Let us see whether they are the same in regard to religious in
terest.

Agamemnon, in paying obedience to the gods, does no more,
after all, than immolate his daughter to his ambition. Why
should the Greek virgin bow submissive to Jupiter? Is he not
a tyrant whom she must detest? The spectator sides with Iphi
genia against Heaven. Pity and terror, therefore, spring solely
from natural considerations; and if you could retrench religion
from the piece, it is evident that the theatrical effect would re
main the same.

In Zara, on the contrary, if you meddle with the religion you
destroy the whole. Jesus Christ is not bloodthirsty. He re
quires no more than the sacrifice of a passion. Has he a right
tc demand this sacrifice ? Ah ! who can doubt it ? Was it not
to redeem Zara that he was nailed to the cross, that he endured
insult, scorn, and the injustice of men, that he drank the cup of
bitterness to the very dregs? Yet was Zara about to give her
heart and her hand to those who persecuted this God of charity !
tc those who daily sacrificed the professors of his religion ! to
those who detained in fetters that venerable successor of Bouillon,
that defen ier of the faith, the father of Zara ! Certainly reli-
22

254 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

gion is not useless here, and he who would suppress that would
annihilate the piece.

Zara, as a tragedy, is, in our opinion, more interesting than
Iphigenia, for a reason which we shall endeavor to explain. This
obliges us to recur to the principles of the art.

It is certain that the characters of tragedy ought to be taken
from the upper ranks alone of society. This rule is the result of
certain proprieties which are known to the fine arts as well as to
the human heart, The picture of the sorrows which we ourselves
experience pains without interesting or instructing us We
need not go to the theatre to learn the secrets of our own family.
Can fiction please us when sad reality dwells beneath our roof?
No moral is attached to such an imitation. On the contrary,
when we behold the picture of our condition, we sink into
despair, or we envy a state that is not our own, and in which we
imagine that happiness exclusively resides. Take the lower classes
to the theatre. They seek not there men of straw or repre
sentations of their own indigence, but persons of distinguished
rank, invested with the purple. Their ears would fain be filled
with illustrious names, and their eyes engaged with the misfor
tunes of kings.

Morality, curiosity, the dignity of art, refined taste, and perhaps
nature, envious of man, impose the necessity, therefore, of select
ing the characters for tragedy from the more elevated ranks of
society. But, though the person should be distinguished, his
distresses ought to be common; that is to say, of such a nature
as to be felt by all. Now it is in this point that Zara seems to
us more affecting than Iphigenia.

When the daughter of Agamemnon is doomed to die to facili
tate the departure of a fleet, the spectator can scarcely feel inte
rested by such a motive; but in Zara the reason is brought home
to the heart, and every one can appreciate the struggle between
a passion and a duty. Hence is derived that grand rule of the
drama, that the interest of tragedy must be founded, not upon a
thing, but upon a sentiment, and that the character should be
remote from the spectator by his rank, but near to him by his
misfortune.

We might now examine the subject of Iphigenia, as it has been
handled by the Christian pen of Racine; but the reader can

IPHIGENIA AND ZARA. 255

pursue this consideration at his discretion. We shall make only
one observation.

Father Brumoy remarks that Euripides, in ascribing to Iphi-
genia a horror of death and a desire to escape it, has adhered
more closely to nature than Racine, whose Iphigenia seems too
resigned. The observation is good in itself, but Brumoy over
looked the circumstance that the modern Iphigenia is the Chris
tian daughter. Her father and Heaven have commanded, and
nothing now remains but to obey. Racine has given this courage
to his heroine merely from the secret influence of a religious in
stitution, which has changed the groundwork of ideas and of
morals. Here Christianity goes farther than nature, and conse
quently harmonizes better with poetry, which aggrandizes objects
and is fond of exaggeration. The daughter of Agamemnon
banishing her fears and attachment to life is a much more inte
resting character than Iphigenia deploring her fate. We are not
affected only by what is natural. The fear of death is natural to
man; yet he who laments his own approaching death excites no
great compassion around him. The human heart desires more
than it accomplishes. It is chiefly prone to admiration, and feels
a secret impetus toward that unknown beauty for which it was
originally formed.

Such is the constitution of the Christian religion that it is it
self a kind of poetry, viewing, as it does, every character in its
beau-ideal. Witness, for instance, the representation of martyrs
by our painters, of knights by our poets, &c. The portraiture of
vice is susceptible of as much strength and vividness from the
Christian pen as that of virtue; because the heinousness of crime
is in proportion to the number of bonds which the guilty man has
broken asunder. The Muses, therefore, who are averse to medio
crity, find ample resources in that religion which always exhibits
its characters above or below the ordinary standard of humanity.

To complete the circle of the natural characters, we should
treat of fraternal affection ; but all that we have said concerning
the son and the daughter is equally applicable to two brothers,
or to brother and sister. For the rest, we find in the Bible the
history of Cain and Abel, the great and first tragedy that the
world beheld ; and we shall speak in another place of Joseph and
ms brethren.

256 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Finally, the Christian religion, while it deprives the poet of
none of the advantages enjoyed by antiquity for the delineation
of the natural characters, offers him, in addition, all its influence
in those same characters, necessarily augments his power by in
creasing his means, and multiplies the beauties of the drama by
multiplying the sources from which they spring.

CHAPTER IX.

SOCIAL CHARACTERS.
The Priest.

THOSE characters which we have denominated social are re
duced by the poet to two the priest and the soldier. Had we
not set apart the fourth division of our work for the history of
the clergy and the benefits which they confer, it would be an easy
task to show here how far superior, in point of variety and gran
deur, is the character of the Christian priest to that of the priest
of polytheism. What exquisite pictures might be drawn, from
the pastor of the rustic hamlet to the pontiff whose brows are en
circled with the papal tiara ; from the parish priest of the city to
the anchoret of the rock ; from the Carthusian and the inmate of
La Trappe to the learned Benedictine; from the missionary, and
the multitude of religious devoted to the alleviation of all the ills
that afflict humanity, to the inspired prophet of ancient Sion !
The order of virgins is not less varied or numerous, nor less varied
in its pursuits. Those daughters of charity who consecrate their
youth and their charms to the service of the afflicted, those inha
bitants of the cloister who, under the protection of the altar, edu
cate the future wives of men, while they congratulate themselves
on their own union with a heavenly spouse, this whole inno
cent family is in admirable correspondence with the nine sisters
of fable. Antiquity presented nothing more to the poet than a
high-priest, a sorcerer, a vestal, a sibyl. These characters, more-

VIRGIL AND RACINE COMPARED. 257

over, were but accidentally introduced; whereas the Christian priest
is calculated to act one of the most important parts in the epic.

M. de la Harpe has shown in his Melanie what effects may be
produced with the character of a village curate when delineated
by an able hand. Shakspeare, Richardson, Goldsmith, have
brought the priest upon the stage with more or less felicity. As
to external pomp, what religion was ever accompanied with cere
monies so magnificent as ours? Corpus Christi day, Christmas,
Holy-week, Easter, All-souls, the funeral ceremony, the Mass, and
a thousand other rites, furnish an inexhaustible subject for splen
did or pathetic descriptions. 1 The modern muse that complains
of Christianity cannot certainly be acquainted with its riches.
Tasso has described a procession in the Jerusalem, and it is one
of the finest passages in his poem. In short, the ancient sacrifice
itself is not banished from the Christian subject; for nothing is
more easy than, by means of an episode, a comparison, or a retro
spective view, to introduce a sacrifice of the ancient covenant.

CHAPTER X.

CONTINUATION OF THE PRIEST.
The Sibyl Joiada Parallel between Virgil and Racine.

goes to consult the Sibyl. Having reached the aper
ture of the cavern, he awaits the awful words of the prophetess.
He soothes her with a prayer. The Sibyl still struggles. At
length the god overpowers her. The hundred doors of the cavern
open with a tremendous noise, and these words float in the air :
" Oh thou who hast at last completed thy mighty dangers upon
the ocean !"

What vehemence, when the god begins to agitate the Sibyl !
Take notice of the rapidity of these turns : Deus ! ecce Deus !
She touches ste grapples with the spirit. The God! behold

1 We shall treat of all these ceremonies in another part of our work.
22* R

258 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

the God! is her exclamation. These expressions non vultus,
non color unus admirably delineate the agitation of the pro
phetess. Virgil is remarkable for his negative turns of expres
sion ; and it may be observed in general that they are very nu
merous in writers of a pensive genius. May it not be that souls
endowed with the finer sensibilities are naturally inclined to com
plain, to desire, to doubt, to express themselves with a kind of
timidity; and that complaint, desire, doubt, and timidity, are pri
vations of something? The feeling mind does not positively say,
lam familiar with adversity; but characterizes itself, like Dido,
as non iynara mali, not unacquainted with evil. In short, the fa
vorite images of the pensive poets are almost always borrowed
from negative objects, as the silence of night, the shade of the
forests, the solitude of the mountains, the peace of the tombs,
which are nothing but the absence of noise, of light, of men, and
of the tumults and storms of life. 1

However exquisite the beauty of Virgil s verse may be, Chris
tian poetry exhibits something superior. The high-priest of the
Hebrews, ready to crown Joas, is seized with the divine spirit in
the temple of Jerusalem :

Behold, Eternal Wisdom ! in thy cause
What champions arm themselves, children and priests !
But if the Almighty smile, who can resist them ?
When he commands, the grave resigns its tenants;

1 Thus, Euryalus, speaking of his mother, says

Oenetrix

Quam miseram tenuit non Ilia telhu,

Mecum excedentem non mcenia regie Acettte.

"My unfortunate mother, who determined to accompany me, and whom
neither her native soil nor the walls of the king of Acesta had the power to
detain."

A moment afterward he adds

Nequeam lacrymas perferre parentis.
"I could not resist the tears of my mother."

Volsoens is preparing to despatch Euryalus when Nisus exclaims
Me, me, (adsum qni fed,)

Mea fraw omnis. Nihil iste nee auw,

Nee potuit.

"Mine, mine is all the fault: nothing durst he, nor could he, do."
The conclusion of this admirable episode is also of a negative character.

VIRGIL AND RACINE COMPARED. 259

Tis he who wounds and heals, destroys and saves !
They trust not, as thou seest, in their own merits,
But in thy name so oft by them invoked,
In oaths sworn by thee to their holiest king,
And in this temple, with thy presence crowned,
Which, like the sun, from age to age shall last.
What holy awe is this that thrills my heart?
Is it the Spirit Divine that seizes on me?
Tis He himself! He fires uiy breast, he speaks;
My eyes are opened, and dark, distant ages

Spring forth to view !

Hearken, Heavens! thou Earth, attention keep!
Jacob, say no more thy God doth sleep.
Vanish, ye sinners, and with terror fly,
The Lord awakes, arrayed in majesty !

How into drossy lead is changed the gold!
Who is that bleeding priest I there behold?
Jerusalem, thou faithless city, weep,
Who in thy prophet s blood thy sword dost steep.
Thy God hath banished all his former love,
And odious now thy fuming odors prove.
Ah! whither are those youths and women driven?
The Queen of cities is destroyed by Heaven;
Her captive priests and kings to strangers bow,
And God her solemn pomp no longer will allow.
Ye towering cedars, burn ; thou temple, fall,
And in one common ruin mingle all.

Jerusalem, dear object of my grief,
What daring hand thy strength disarms
And in one day has ravished all thy charms?

Oh that, to give me some relief,
Mine eyes could like two fountains flow,
With never-ceasing streams to weep thy wo I 1

This passage requires no comment.

As Virgil and Racine recur so frequently in our criticisms, let
us endeavor to form a just idea of their talents and their genius.
These two great poets so nearly resemble each other, that they
might deceive the eyes of the Muse herself, like those twins men
tioned in the ^neid, who occasioned their own mother agreeable
mistakes.

Both of them carefully polish their works; they are both full
of taste, bold, yet natural in expression; sublime in the por
trayal of love, and, as if one had followed the other step by s&gt;tep,

1 Athalie, act iii. scene vii. From Duncombe s translation.

260 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Racine has introduced into his Esther a certain sweetness of
melody, with which Virgil has, in like manner, filled his second
eclogue. The difference, however, in their respective strains is
that which exists between the voice of a tender maiden and that
of a youth, between the sighs of innocence and those of sinful
love.

These are, perhaps, the points in which Virgil and Racine re
semble each other; the following are, perhaps, those in which
they differ.

The latter is in general superior to the former in the invention
of character. Agamemnon, Achilles, Orestes, M ithridates, Aco-
mates, are far superior to all the heroes of the jEneid. ^Eueas
and Turnus are not finely drawn, except in two or three passages.
Mezentius alone is boldly delineated.

In the soft and tender scenes, however, Virgil bursts forth in
all his genius. Evander, the venerable monarch of Arcadia,
living beneath a roof of thatch, and defended by two shepherds
dogs on the very spot where, at a future period, will rise the
magnificent residence of the Caesars, surrounded by the Praetorian
guard ; the youthful Pallas ; the comely Lausus, the virtuous son
of a guilty father; and, lastly, Nisus and Euryalus, are characters
perfectly divine.

In the delineation of females Racine resumes the superiority.
Agrippina is more ambitious than Amata, and Phaedra more im
passioned than Dido.

We shall say nothing of Athalie, because in this piece Racine
stands unrivalled; it is the most perfect production of genius in
spired by religion.

In another particular, however, Virgil has the advantage over
Racine; he is more pensive, more melancholy. Not that the
author of Phaedra would have been incapable of producing this
melody of sighs. The role of Andromache, Berenice throughout,
some stanzas of hymns in imitation of the Bible, several strophes
of the choruses in Esther and Athalie, exhibit the powers which
he possessed in this way. But he lived too much in society, and
too little in solitude. The court of Louis XIV., though it refined
his taste and gave him the majesty of forms, was, perhaps, detri
mental to him in other respects ; it placed him at too great a dis
tance from nature and rural simplicity.

VIRGIL AND RACINE COMPARED. 261

We have already remarked 1 that one of the principal causes
of Virgil s melancholy was, doubtless, the sense of the hardships
which he had undergone in his youth. Though driven from his
home, the memory of his Mantua was never to be eifaced. But
he was no longer the Roman of the republic, loving his country
in the harsh and rugged manner of a Brutus; he was the Roman
of the monarchy of Augustus, the rival of Homer, and the nurs
ling of the Muses.

Virgil cultivated this germ of melancholy by living in solitude.
To this circumstance must, perhaps, be added some others of a
personal nature. Our moral or physical defects have a powerful
influence upon our temper, and are frequently the secret origin
of the predominant feature of our character. Virgil had a diffi
culty in pronunciation, 2 a weakly constitution, and rustic appear
ance. He seems in his youth to have had strong passions ; and
these natural imperfections, perhaps, proved obstacles to their
indulgence. Thus, family troubles, the love of a country life,
wounded self-love, and passions debarred of gratification, con
curred in giving him that tincture of melancholy which charms
us in his productions.

We meet with no such thing in Racine as the Diis aliter visum
the Dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos the Disce puer vir-
tutem ex me, fortunam ex aliis the Lyrnessi damns alta : sola
Laurente sepulchrum. It may not, perhaps, be superfluous to
observe that almost all these expressions fraught with melan
choly occur in the last six books of the ^Eneid, as well as the
episodes of Evander and Pallas, Mezentius and Lausus, and Nisus
and Euryalus. It would seem that as he approached the tomb
the Mantuan bard transfused something more divine than ever
into his strains; like those swans of the Eurotas, consecrated to
the Muses, which just before they expired were favored, accord
ing to Pythagoras, with an inward view of Olympus, and mani
fested their pleasure by strains of melody.

Virgil is the friend of the solitary, the companion of the pri
vate hours of life. Racine is, perhaps, superior to the Latin
poet, because he was the author of Atlialiej but in the latter

1 Part I., book v., chap. 14.

2 Sermone tardissimitm, ac pene indocto similem facie rusticanA, &lt;tc.

Donat., de P. Yirg. vit.

262 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

there is something that excites softer emotions in the heart. We
feel greater admiration for the one, greater love for the other
The sorrows depicted by the first are too royal ; the second ad
dresses himself more to all ranks of society. On surveying the
pictures of human vicissitudes delineated by Racine, we may
imagine ourselves wandering in the deserted parks of Versailles ;
they are vast and dull, but amid the growing solitude we perceive
the regular hand of art and the vestiges of former grandeur :

Naught meets the eye but towers reduced to ashes,
A river tinged with blood, and desert plains.

The pictures of Virgil, without possessing less dignity, are not
confined to certain prospects of life. They represent all nature ;
they embrace the solitudes of the forests, the aspect of the moun
tains, the shores of ocean, where exiled females fix their weeping
eyes on its boundless billows :

Cunctaeque profunduin
Pontum adspectabant flentes.

CHAPTER XL

THE WARRIOR DEFINITION OF THE BEAUTIFUL IDEAL.

THE heroic ages are favorable to poetry, because they have
that antiquity and that uncertainty of tradition which are required
by the Muses, naturally somewhat addicted to fiction. We daily
behold extraordinary events without taking any interest in them ;
but we listen with delight to the relation of the obscure facts of
a distant period. The truth is, that the greatest events in this
world are extremely little in themselves : the mind, sensible of
this defect in human affairs, and tending incessantly toward im
mensity, wishes to behold them only through an indistinct me
dium, that it may magnify their importance.

Now, the spirit of the heroic ages is formed by the union of an
imperfect civilization with a religious system at the highest point
of its influence. Barbarism and polytheism produced the heroea

THE WARRIOR. 263

of Homer ; from barbarism and Christianity arose the knights of
Tasso.

Which of the two the heroes or the knights deserve the pre
ference either in morals or in poetry ? This is a question that it
may not be amiss to examine.

Setting aside the particular genius of the two poets, and com
paring only man with man, the characters of the Jerusalem ap
pear to us superior to those of the Iliad.

Wha,t a vast difference, in fact, between those knights so in
genuous, so disinterested, so humane, and those perfidious, ava
ricious, ferocious warriors of antiquity, who insulted the lifeless
remains of their enemies, as poetical by their vices as the for
mer were by their virtues !

If by heroism is meant an effort against the passions in favor
of virtue, then, most assuredly, Godfrey is the genuine hero, not
Agamemnon. Now, we would ask how it happens that Tasso, in
delineating his characters, has exhibited the pattern of the per
fect soldier, while Homer, in representing the men of the heroic
ages, has produced but a species of monsters ? The reason is,
that Christianity, ever since its first institution, has furnished the
Deau-ideal in morals, or the beau-ideal of character, while poly
theism was incapable of bestowing this important advantage on
the Grecian bard. We request the reader s attention for a mo
ment to this subject; it is of too much consequence to the main
design of our work not to be placed in its clearest light.

There are two kinds of the beautiful ideal, the moral and the
physical, both of which are the offspring of society, and to both
such people as are bit little removed from the state of nature
the savages, for instance are utter strangers. They merely aim
in their songs at giving a faithful representation of what they
see. As they live in the midst of deserts, their pictures are
noble and simple j you find in them no marks of bad taste, but
then they are monotonous, and the sentiments which they express
never rise to heroism.

The age of Homer was already remote from those early times.
When a savage pierces a roebuck with his arrows, strips off the
skin in the recess of the forest, lays his victim upon the coals of
a burning oak, every circumstance in this action is poetic. But
in the tent of Achilles there are already bowls, spits, vessels A

264 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

few more details, and Homer would have sunk into meanness in
his descriptions, or he must have entered the path of the beauti
ful ideal by beginning to conceal.

Thus, in proportion as society multiplied the wants of life, poets
learned that they ought not, as in past times, to exhibit every
circumstance to the eye, but to throw a veil over certain parts of
the picture.

Having advanced this first step, they perceived that it was
likewise necessary to select; and then that the object selected
was susceptible of a more beautiful form, or produced a more
agreeable effect in this or in that position.

Continuing thus to hide and to select, to add and to retrench,
they gradually attained to forms which ceased to be natural, but
which were more perfect than nature; by artiste these forms
were denominated the beautiful ideal.

The beautiful ideal may, therefore, be defined the art of select
ing and concealing.

This definition is equally applicable to the beautiful ideal in the
moral and to that in the physical order. The latter consists in
the dexterous concealment of the weak part of objects; the
former in hiding certain foibles of the soul for the soul has its
low wants and blemishes as well as the body.

Here we cannot forbear remarking that naught but man is sus
ceptible of being represented more perfect than nature, and, as it
were, approaching to the Divinity. Who ever thought of delineat
ing the bea utiful ideal of a horse, an eagle, or a lion ? We be
hold here an admirable proof of the grandeur of our destiny and
the immortality of the soul.

That society in which morals first reached their complete de
velopment must have been the first to attain the beautiful moral
ideal, or, what amounts to the same thing, the beautiful ideal of
character. Now, such was eminently the case with that portion
of mankind who were formed under the Christian dispensation.
It is not more strange than true that, while our forefathers were
barbarous in every other respect, morals had, by means of the
gospel, been raised to the highest degree of perfection among
them ; so that there existed men who, if we may be allowed the
expression, were at the same time savages in body and civilized
in mind.

THE WARRIOR. 265

This circumstance constitutes the beauty of the ages of chi
valry, and gives them a superiority over the heroic as well as over
modern times.

If you undertake to delineate the early ages of Greece, you
will be as much shocked by their rudeness of character as you
will be pleased with the simplicity of their manners. Polytheism
furnishes no means of correcting barbarous nature and supply
ing the deficiencies of the primitive virtues.

If, on the other hand, you wish to sketch a modern age, you will
be obliged to banish all truth from your work, and to adopt both
the beautiful moral ideal and the beautiful physical ideal. Too
remote from nature and from religion in every respect, you could
not faithfully depict the interior of our families, and still less the
secret of our hearts.

Chivalry alone presents the charming mixture of truth and
fiction.

In the first place, you may exhibit a picture of manners accu
rately copied from nature. An ancient castle, a spacious hall, a
blazing fire, jousts, tournaments, hunting parties, the sound of the
horn, and the clangor of arms, have nothing that offends against
taste, nothing that ought to be either selected or concealed.

In the next place, the Christian poet, more fortunate than
Homer, is not compelled to tarnish his picture by introducing
into it the barbarous or the natural man ; Christianity offers him
the perfect hero.

Thus, while we see Tasso merged in nature for the description
of physical objects, he rises above nature for the perfection of
those in the moral order.

Now, nature and the ideal are the two great sources of all
poetic interest the pathetic and the marvellous.

260 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

CHAPTER XII.

THE WARRIOR, (CONTINUED.)

WE shall now show that the virtues of the knights which exalt
their character to the beautiful ideal are truly Christian virtues.

If they were but mere moral virtues, invented by the poet,
they would have neither action nor elasticity. We have an
instance of this kind in ./Eneas, whom Virgil has made a philo
sophic hero.

The purely moral virtues are essentially frigid ; they imply not
something added to the soul, but something retrenched from it ;
it is the absence of vice rather than the presence of virtue. 1

The religious virtues have wings ; they are highly impassioned.
Not content with abstaining from evil, they are anxious to do
good. They possess the activity of love; they reside in a superioi
region, the objects in which appear somewhat magnified. Such
were the virtues of chivalry.

Faith or fidelity was the first virtue of the knights; faith is, in
like manner, the first virtue of Christianity.

The knight never told a lie. Here is the Christian.

The knight was poor, and the most disinterested of men. Here
you see the disciple of the gospel.

The knight travelled through the world, assisting the widow
and the orphan. Here you behold the charity of Jesus Christ.

The knight possessed sensibility and delicacy. What could
have given him these amiable qualities but a humane religion
which invariably inculcates respect for the weak ? With what
benignity does Christ himself address the women in the gospel !

Agamemnon brutally declares that he loves Briseis as dearly aa
his wife, because she is not less skilful in ornamental works.
Such is not the language of a knight.

Finally, Christianity has produced that valor of modern heroes
which is so far superior to that of the heroes of antiquity.

1 The distinction between moral and religious virtues is not exact The
author would have written more correctly on this point by using the word
natural instead of n oral. T.

THE WARRICE. 267

The true religion teaches us that the merit of a man should
be measured not by bodily strength, but by greatness of soul.
Hence the weakest of the knights never quakes in presence of
an enemy; and, though certain to meet death, he has not even a
thought of flight.

This exalted valor is become so common that the lowest of our
private soldiers is more courageous than an Ajax, who fled before
Hector, who in his turn ran away from Achilles. As to the cle
mency of the Christian knight toward the vanquished, who can
deny that it springs from Christianity?

Modern poets have borrowed a multitude of new characters
from the chivalrous age. In tragedy, it will be sufficient to men
tion Tancred, Nemours, Couci, and that Nerestan who brings
the ransom of his brethren in arms at a moment when all hope
of his return has fled, and surrenders himself a prisoner because
he cannot pay the sum required for his own redemption. How
beautiful these Christian morals ! Let it not be said that this is
a purely poetical invention; there are a hundred instances of
Christians who have resigned themselves into the hands of infi
dels, either to deliver other Christians, or because they were un
able to raise the sum which they had promised.

Everybody knows how favorable chivalry is to the epic poem.
How admirable are all the knights of the Jerusalem Delivered!
Kinaldo so brilliant, Tancred so generous, the venerable Raymond
de Toulouse, always dejected and always cheered again ! You
are among them beneath the walls of Solyma; you hear the
young Bouillon, speaking of Armida, exclaim, " What will they
say a^ the court of France when it is known that we have refused
our aid to beauty?" To be convinced at once of the immense
difference between Homer s heroes and those of Tasso, cast your
eyes upon Godfrey s camp and the ramparts of Jerusalem.
Here are the knights, there the heroes of antiquity. Solyman
himself appears to advantage only because the poet has given him
some traits of the generosity of the chevalier ; so that even the
principal hero of the infidels borrows his majesty from Christianity.
But in Godfrey we admire the perfection of the heroic cha
racter. When jJEneas would escape the seduction of a female, he
fixed his eyes on the ground, immota tenebat lumina ; he con
cealed his agitation, and gave vague replies : " queen, I deny

260 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

CHAPTER XII.

THE WARRIOR, (CONTINUED.)

WE shall now show that the virtues of the knights which exalt
their character to the beautiful ideal are truly Christian virtues.

If they were but mere moral virtues, invented by the poet,
they would have neither action nor elasticity. We have an
instance of this kind in ./Eneas, whom Virgil has made a philo
sophic hero.

The purely moral virtues are essentially frigid ; they imply not
something added to the soul, but something retrenched from it ;
it is the absence of vice rather than the presence of virtue. 1

The religious virtues have wings ; they are highly impassioned.
Not content with abstaining from evil, they are anxious to do
good. They possess the activity of love ; they reside in a superioi
region, the objects in which appear somewhat magnified. Such
were the virtues of chivalry.

Faith or fidelity was the first virtue of the knights; faith is, in
like manner, the first virtue of Christianity.

The knight never told a lie. Here is the Christian.

The knight was poor, and the most disinterested of men. Here
you see the disciple of the gospel.

The knight travelled through the world, assisting the widow
and the orphan. Here you behold the charity of Jesus Christ.

Agamemnon brutally declares that he loves Briseis as dearly aa
his wife, because she is not less skilful in ornamental works.
Such is not the language of a knight.

Finally, Christianity has produced that valor of modern heroes
which is so far superior to that of the heroes of antiquity.

1 The distinction between moral and religious virtues is not exact The
author would have written more correctly on this point by using the word
natural instead of ti oral. T.

THE WARRILE. 267

Modern poets have borrowed a multitude of new characters
from the chivalrous age. In tragedy, it will be sufficient to men
tion Tancred, Nemours, Couci, and that Nerestan who brings
the ransom of his brethren in arms at a moment when all hope
of his return has fled, and surrenders himself a prisoner because
he cannot pay the sum required for his own redemption. How
beautiful these Christian morals ! Let it not be said that this is
a purely poetical invention ; there are a hundred instances of
Christians who have resigned themselves into the hands of infi
dels, either to deliver other Christians, or because they were un
able to raise the sum which they had promised.

Everybody knows how favorable chivalry is to the epic poem.
How admirable are all the knights of the Jerusalem Delivered!
Rinaldo so brilliant, Tancred so generous, the venerable Raymond
de Toulouse, always dejected and always cheered again ! You
are among them beneath the walls of Solyma; you hear the
young Bouillon, speaking of Armida, exclaim, " What will they
say at the court of France when it is known that we have refused
our aid to beauty?" To be convinced at once of the immense
difference between Homer s heroes and those of Tasso, cast your
eyes upon Godfrey s camp and the ramparts of Jerusalem.
Here are the knights, there the heroes of antiquity. Solyman
himself appears to advantage only because the poet has given him
some traits of the generosity of the chevalier ; so that even the
principal hero of the infidels borrows his majesty from Christianity.
But in Godfrey we admire the perfection of the heroic cha
racter. When JEneas would escape the seduction of a female, he
fixed his eyes on the ground, immota tenebat lumina ; he con
cealed his agitation, and gave vague replies: "0 queen, I deny

268 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

not thy favors; I shall ever remember Elisa." Not thus does the
Christian chieftain listen to the addresses of Armida. He resists,
for too well is he acquainted with the frail allurements of this
world ; he pursues his flight toward heaven, like the glutted bird,
heedless of the specious food which invites him.

Qual saturo augel, che non si cali,

Ove il cibo mostrando, altri Pinvita.

In combat, in deliberation, in appeasing a sedition, in every
situation, Bouillon is great, is august. Ulysses strikes Thersites
with his sceptre, and stops the Greeks when running to their
ships. This is natural and picturesque. But behold Godfrey
singly showing himself to an enraged army, which accuses him
of having caused the assassination of a hero ! What noble and
impressive beauty in the prayer of this captain, so proudly con
scious of his virtue ! and how this prayer afterward heightens
the intrepidity of the warrior, who, unarmed and bareheaded,
meets a mutinous soldiery !

In battle, a sacred and majestic valor, unknown to the war
riors of Homer and Virgil, animates the Christian hero. ^Eneas,
protected by his divine armor, and standing on the stern of his
galley as it approaches the Rutulian shore, is in a fine epic atti
tude; Agamemnon, like the thundering Jupiter, displays an
image replete with grandeur; but in the last canto of % Jeru
salem, Godfrey is described in a manner not inferior either to the
progenitor of the Caesars or to the leader of the Atrides.

The sun has just risen, and the armies have taken their posi
tion. The banners wave in the wind, the plumes float on the
helmets; the rich caparisons of the horses, and the steel and
gold armor of the knights, glisten in the first rays of the orb of
day. Mounted on a swift charger, Godfrey rides through the
ranks of his army; he harangues his followers, and his address
s a model of military eloquence. A glory surrounds his head;
his face beams with unusual splendor; the angel of victory covera
him with his wings. Profound silence ensues. The prostrate
legions adore that Almighty who caused the great Goliah to fall
by the hand of a youthful shepherd. The trumpets suddenly
sound the charge; the Christian soldiers rise, and, invigorated by
the strength of the God of Hosts, rush, undaunted, and confident
of victory, upon the hostile battalions of the Saracens.

BOOK III

OF POETRY CONSIDERED IN ITS RELATIONS TO MAN-
TEE SUBJECT CONTINUED.

CHAPTER I.

CHRISTIANITY HAS CHANGED THE RELATIONS OP THE PAS
SIONS, BY CHANGING THE BASIS OF VICE AND VIRTUE.

FROM the examination of characters, we come to that of the
passions. It is obvious that in treating of the former it was
impossible to avoid touching a little upon the latter, but here we
purpose to enter more largely into the subject. If there existed
a religion whose essential quality it was to oppose a barrier to
the passions of man, it would of necessity increase the operation
of those passions in the drama and the epopee ; it would, from its
very nature, be more favorable to the delineation of sentiment
than any other religious institution, which, unacquainted with
the errors of the heart, would act upon us only by means of ex
ternal objects. Now, here lies the great advantage which Chris
tianity possesses over the religions of antiquity : it is a heavenly
wind which fills the sails of virtue and multiplies the storms of
conscience in opposition to vice.

Since the proclamation of the gospel, the foundations of morals
have changed among men, at least among Christians. Among
the ancients, for example, humility was considered as meanness
and pride as magnanimity; among Christians, on the contrary,
pride is the first of vices and humility the chief of virtues. This
single change of principles displays human nature in a new fight,
and we cannot help discovering in the passions shades that were
not perceived in them by the ancients.

2&lt;5* 269

270 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

With us, then, vanity is the root of evil, and charity the feourcc
of good; so that the vicious passions are invariably a compound
of pride, and the virtuous passions a compound of love.

Apply this principle, and you will be convinced of its truth.
Why are all the passions allied to courage more pleasing among
the moderns than among the ancients? Why have we given
another character to valor, and transformed a brutal impulse into
a virtue? Because with this impulse has been associated hu
mility. From this combination has arisen magnanimity or poetic
generosity, a species of passion (for to that length it was carried
by the knights) to which the ancients were utter strangers.

One of our most delightful sentiments, and perhaps the only
one that absolutely belongs to the soul, (for all the others have
some admixture of sense in their nature or their object,) is friend
ship. How wonderfully has Christianity heightened the charms
of this celestial passion, by giving it charity for its foundation!
St. John was the disciple whom Jesus loved, and, before he ex
pired on the cross, friendship heard him pronounce those words
truly worthy of a God : " Woman, behold thy son!" said he to
his mother, and to the disciple, "Behold thy mother!"

Christianity, which has revealed our twofold nature and laid
open the contradictions of our being and the good and bad of our
heart, which, like ourselves, is full of contrasts, exhibiting to us
an incarnate God, an infant who is at the same time the ruler of
the spheres, the Creator of the universe receiving life from a
creature, Christianity, we say, viewed in this light of contrasts,
is super-eminently the religion of friendship. This sentiment is
strengthened as much by oppositions as by resemblances. That
two men may be perfect friends, they must incessantly, in some
way, attract and repel one another; they must have genius of
equal power, but of a different kind ; contrary opinions, but simi
lar principles ; different antipathies and partialities, but at the
bottom the same sensibility ; opposite tempers, and yet like tastes :
in a word, great contrasts of character and great harmonies of
heart.

This genial warmth which charity communicates to the virtuous
passions imparts to them a divine character. Among the an
cients, the reign of the affections terminated with the grave :
here every thing suffered shipwreck. Friends, brothers, husband

THE PASSIONS. 271

and wife, parted at the gates of death, and felt that their separa
tion was eternal. The height of their felicity consisted in ming
ling their ashes together; but how mournful must have been an
urn containing naught but recollections ! Polytheism had fixed
man in the regions of the past; Christianity has placed him in
the domain of hope. The joys derived from virtuous sentiments
on earth are but a foretaste of the bliss that is reserved for us.
The principle of our friendships is not in this world : two beings
who mutually love each other here befow are only on the road to
heaven, where they will arrive together if virtue be their guide ;
so that this strong expression employed by the poets to transfuse
your soul into that of your friend is literally true in respect
of two Christians. In quitting their bodies, they merely disen
cumber themselves of an obstacle which prevented their more
intimate union, and their souls fly to be commingled in the bosom
of the Almighty.

It must not be supposed, however, that Christianity, in reveal
ing to us the foundations upon which rest the passions of men,
has stripped life of its enchantments. Far from sullying the
imagination by allowing it to indulge in unbounded curiosity, it
has drawn the veil of doubt and obscurity over things which it is
useless for us to know ; and in this it has shown its superiority
over that false philosophy which is too eager to penetrate into
the nature of man and to fathom the bottom of every thing. We
should not be continually sounding the abysses of the heart ; the
truths which it contains belong to the number of those that re
quire half light and perspective. It is highly imprudent to be
incessantly applying our judgment to the loving part of our
being, to transfer the reasoning spirit to the passions. This
curiosity gradually leads us to doubt of every thing generous and
noble ; it extinguishes the sensibilities, and, as it were, murders
the soul. The mysteries of the heart are like those of ancient
Egypt; every profane person who strives to penetrate into their
secrets without being initiated by religion, as a just punishment
for his audacity is suddenly struck dead.

272 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER II.

IMPASSIONED LOVE.

Dido.

WHAT in our times we properly call love is a sentiment the
very name of which was unknown to remote antiquity. That
mixture of the senses and of the soul, that species of love of
which friendship is the moral element, is the growth of modern
ages. To Christianity also we are indebted for this sentiment in
its refined state ; for Christianity, invariably tending to purify
the heart, has found means to transfuse spirituality even into the
passion that seemed least susceptible of it. Here, then, is a new
source of poetic description, with which this much reviled reli
gion has furnished the very authors who insult it. In numberless
novels may be seen the beauties that have been elicited from this
demi-christian passion. The character of Clementina in Sir
Charles Grandison, for instance, is one of those master-pieces of
composition of which antiquity affords no example. Lut let us
penetrate into this subject: let us first consider impassioned love,
and afterward take a view of rural love.

The first kind of love is neither as pure as conjugal affection
nor as graceful as the sentiment of the shepherd, but fiercer than
either ; it ravages the soul in which it reigns. Resting neither
upon the gravity of marriage nor upon the innocence of rural
manners, and blending no other spells with its own, it becomes
its own illusion, its own insanity, its own substance. Unknown
by the too busy mechanic and the too simple husbandman, this
passion exists only in those ranks of society where want of em
ployment leaves us oppressed with the whole weight of our heart,
together with its immense self-love and its everlasting inquietudes.

So true is it that Christianity sheds a brilliant light into the
abyss of our passions, that the orators of the pulpit have been
most successful in delineating the excesses of the human heart
and painting them in the strongest and most impressive colors.
What a picture has BourdaJoue drawn of ambition ! How Mas-

DIDO. 273

sillon has penetrated into the inmost recesses of our souls, and
drawn forth our passions and our vices into open day ! " It is the
character of this passion/ observes that eloquent preacher, when
speaking of love, " to fill the whole heart : we can think of
nothing else ; it absorbs, it intoxicates us ; we find it wherever
we are ; there is nothing but what revives its fatal images, but
what awakens its unjust desires. Society and solitude, presence
and absence, the most indifferent objects and the most serious
occupations, the holy temple itself, the sacred altars, the awful
mysteries of religion, renew its recollections." 1

"It is culpable," says the same preacher in another place, 2
" to love for its own sake what cannot tend to our felicity, our
perfection, or consequently to our peace: for in love we seek
happiness in what we love; we desire to find in the beloved
object all that the heart stands in need of; we call upon it as a
remedy for the dreadful void which we feel within us, arid flatter
ourselves that it will be capable of filling it ; we consider it as
a resource for all our wants, the cure for all our sorrows, the
author of all our happiness But this love of the crea
ture is attended with the keenest anxiety; we always doubt
whether we are beloved with a warmth of affection equal to our
own; we are ingenious in tormenting ourselves, assiduous in
accumulating fears, suspicions, and jealousies; the more sincere
our passion, the more acutely we suffer ; we become the victims
of our own distrust. All this you know, and it is not for me to
come hither to address you in the language of your insensate
passions/

This great disease of the soul bursts forth in all its fury on the
appearance of the object which is destined to develop the seeds
of it. Dido is still engaged with the works of her infant city; a
tempest arises, and a hero is cast upon her shores. The queen is
agitated; a secret fire circulates in her veins, indiscretions begin,
pleasures follow, disappointment and remorse succeed. Dido is
soon forsaken; she. looks round her with horror, and perceives
naught but precipices. How has that structure cf happiness
fallen, of which an exalted imagination had been the amorous

Massillon s Sermon on the Prodigal Son, part i.
2 Sermon on the Adulteress, part i.

274 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

architect, like those palaces of clouds tinged for a few moments
with the roseate hues of the setting sun ? Dido flies in quest of
her lover ; she calls the faithless ^Eneas :

" Perfidious man, hopest thou to conceal from me thy de&igns
and escape clandestinely from this country? Can neither our
love, nor this hand which I have given to thee, nor Dido ready
to ascend the fatal pile can nothing stay thy treacherous steps?" 1

What anguish, what passion, what truth, in the eloquence of
this betrayed woman ! Her feelings so throng in her heart that
she produces them in confusion, incoherent, and separate, just as
they accumulate on her lips. Take notice of the authorities
which she employs in her prayers. Is it in the name of the
gods, in the name of a vain sovereignty, that she speaks ? No ;
she does not even insist upon Dido forsaken ; but, more humble
and more affectionate, she implores the son of Venus only by
tears, only by the very hand of the traitor. If to this she adds
the idea of love, it is only to extend it to ^Eneas : " By our nup
tials, by our union already begun." Per connubia nostra, per
inceptos hi/mcnccos. She also appeals to the places that had
witnessed her transports j for the unfortunate are accustomed to
associate surrounding objects with their sentiments. When for
saken by men, they strive to create a support for themselves by
animating the insensible objects around them with their sorrows.
That roof, that hospitable hearth, to which she once welcomed
the ungrateful chieftain, are therefore the real deities of Dido.
Afterward, with the address of a woman, and of a woman in love,
she successively calls to mind Pygmalion and larbas, in order to
awaken the generosity or the jealousy of the Trojan hero. As
the finishing stroke of her passion and her distress, the haughty
queen of Carthage goes so far as to wish that "a little ^Eneas,"
parvulus jEneas, may be left behind at her court to soothe her
grief, even while attesting her shame. She imagines that so
many tears, so many imprecations, so many entreaties, are argu
ments which it is impossible for ^Eneas to withstand ; for in these
moments of insanity, the passions, incapable of pleading their
cause, conceive that they are availing themselves of all their re
sources when they are only putting forth a turbulent clamor.

, b. iv.

THE PHJEDRA OF RACINE. 275

CHAPTER III.

CONTINUATION OF THE PRECEDING SUBJECT.
The Phaedra of Racine.

^ E might be content with opposing to Dido the Phaedra of
Racine. More impassioned than the queen of Carthage, she is a
Christian wife. The fear of the avenging flames and the awful
eternity of hell is manifest throughout the whole part of this
guilty woman, 1 and particularly in the celebrated scene of jea
lousy, which, as everybody knows, is the invention of the modern
poet. Incest was not so rare and monstrous a crime among the
ancients as to excite such apprehensions in the heart of the cul
prit. Sophocles, it is true, represents Jocasta as expiring the
moment she is made acquainted with her guilt, but Euripides
makes her live a considerable time afterward. If we may believe
Tertullian, 3 the sorrows of OEdipus excited nothing but the ridi
cule of the spectators in Macedonia. Virgil has not placed
Phaedra in the infernal regions, but only in those myrtle groves,
" those mournful regions" where wander lovers "whom death
itself has not relieved from their pains." 3

Thus the Phaedra of Euripides, as well as the Phaedra of Se
neca, is more afraid of Theseus than of Tartarus. Neither the
one nor the other expresses herself like the Phaedra of Racine :

What! Phaedra jealous! and doth she implore

Thy pity, Theseus ? and while Theseus lives

Doth her lewd breast burn with unhallowed fire ?

And ah ! whose love doth she aspire to gain?

At that dread thought what horrors rend my soul!

The measure of my crimes is surely full,

Swelled as it is with incest and imposture ;

My murderous hand?, athirst with vengeance, burn

To bathe them in the blood of innocence.

Still, miscreant, canst thou live? canst thou support

The light of his pure beams from whom thou rt sprung?

This fear of Tartarus is slightly alluded to in Euripides.

2 Tertu ., Apolog. 3 ^Eneid, lib. vi. 444.

276 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Where shall I hide? The awful T5ire and sovereign
Of all the gods is my forefather too,
And heaven and earth teem with my ancestors.
What if I hasten to the realms of night
Infernal, there iny father holds the urn,
Which Fate, tis said, gave to his rigid hands;
There Minos sits in judgment on mankind.
How will his venerable shade, aghast,
Behold his daughter, when at his tribunal
Constrained to avow her manifold misdeeds
And crimes perhaps unheard-of even in hell ?
How, my parent, how wilt thou endure
This racking spectacle? Methinks I see
The fateful urn drop from thy trembling hand;
Methinks, with brow austere, I see thee-sit,
Devising gome new penalty for guilt
Without a parallel. But ah ! relent !
- Have mercy on thine offspring, whom the rage
Of an incensed deity hath plunged
In nameless woes. Alas ! my tortured heart
Hath reaped no harvest from the damning crime
That steeps my name in lasting infamy !

This incomparable passage exhibits a gradation of feeling, a
knowledge of the sorrows, the anguish, and the transports of the
soul, which the ancients never approached. Among them we
meet with fragments, as it were, of sentiments, but rarely with a
complete sentiment; here, on the contrary, the whole heart is
poured forth. The most energetic exclamation, perhaps, that
passion ever dictated, is contained in the concluding lines :

Alas ! my tortured heart

Hath reaped no harvest from the damning crime
That steeps my name in lasting infamy.

In this there is a mixture of sensuality and soul, of despair
and amorous fury, that surpasses all expression. This woman
who would console herself for an eternity of pain had she but
enjoyed a single moment of happiness this woman is not repre
sented in the antique character ; she is the reprobate Christian;
the sinner fallen alive into the hands of God ; her words are the
words of the self-cordenmed to everlasting tortures.

JULIA D ETANGE CLEMENTINA. 277

CHAPTER IV.

CONTINUATION OF THE PRECEDING SUBJECT.
Julia d Etange Clementina.

BUT now the scene will change : we shall hear that impas
sioned love, so terrible in the Christian Phasdra, eliciting only
tender sighs from the bosom of the pious Julia ; hers is the voice
of melancholy, issuing from the sanctuary of peace. Hers are
the accents of love, softened and prolonged by the religious echo
of the holy place.

" The region of chimeras is the only one in this world that is
worth living in ; and such is the vanity of all human things, that,
except the Supreme Being, there is nothing excellent but what

has no existence A secret languor steals through the

recesses of my heart ; it feels empty and unsatisfied, as you told
me yours formerly did ; my attachment to whatever is dear to me
is not sufficient to engage it ; a useless strength is left which it
knows not what to do with. This pain is extraordinary, I allow,
but it is not the less real. My friend, I am too happy; I am
weary of felicity

"Finding, therefore, nothing here below to satisfy its craving,
my eager soul elsewhere seeks wherewith to fill itself. Soaring
aloft to the source of feeling and existence, it there recovers from
its languor and its apathy. It is there regenerated and revived.
It there receives new vigor and new life. It acquires a new ex
istence which is independent of the passions of the body; or
rather, it is no longer attached to the latter, but is wholly absorbed
in the immense Being whom it contemplates; and, released for a
moment from its shackles, it returns to them with the less regret
after this experience of a more sublime state which it hopes at
some future period to eujoy

"When reflecting on all the blessings of Providence I am
ashamed of taking to heart such petty troubles and forgetting
euch important favors When, in spite of myself, my

278 CKNIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

melancholy pursues me, a few tears shed before Him who can dis
pense comfort instantly soothe my heart. My reflections are
never bitter or painful. My repentance itself is devoid of ap
prehensions. My faults excite in me less fear than shame. I
am acquainted with regret, but not with remorse.

" The God whom I serve is a God of clemency, a Father of mer
cies. What most deeply affects me is his goodness, which, in my
eyes, eclipses all his other attributes. It is the only one of which
I have a conception. His power astonishes; his immensity con
founds; his justice He has made man feeble, and

he is merciful because he is just. The God of vengeance is the
God of the wicked I can neither fear him for myself nor in
voke him against another. Oh, God of peace ! God of goodness !
thee I adore! Thy work, full well I know it, I am; and I hope
at the day of judgment to find thee such as thou speakest in this
life to my troubled heart."

How happily are love and religion blended in this picture!
This style, these sentiments, have no parallel in antiquity. 1
What folly to reject a religion which dictates to the heart such
tender accents, and which has added, as it were, new powers to
the soul !

Would you have another example of this new language of the
passions, unknown under the system of polytheism ? Listen to
Clementina. Her expressions are still more unaffected, more pa
thetic, and more sublimely natural, than Julia s :

" This one thing I have to say but turn your face another way ;
I find my blushes come already. Why, Chevalier, I did intend
to say but stay; I have wrote it down somewhere [She pulled
out her pocket-book] Here it is. [She read :] Let me beseech
you, sir, I was very earnest, you see, to hate, to despise, to de
test now don t look this way the unhappy Clementina with all
your heart; but, for the sake of your immortal soul, let me con
jure you to be reconciled to our Holy Mother Church ! Will
you, sir? [following my averted face with her sweet face; for I
could not look toward her.] Say you will. Tender- hearted man !
I always thought you had sensibility. Say you will, not for my

1 The mixture, however, of metapbjsicaland natural language in this extract
is not in good taste. The Almighty, the Lord, would be better than source of
existence, &G.

JULIA D ETANGE CLEMENTINA. 279

sake. I told you that I would content myself to be still despised.
It shall not be said that you did this for a wife! No, sir; your
conscience shall have all the merit of it! and, I ll tell you what,
I will lay me down in peace, [She stood up with a dignity that
was augmented by her piety;] and I will say, Now do thou,
beckoning angel I for an angel will be on the other side of the-
river; the river shall be death, sir, now do thou reach out thy
divine hand, minister of peace! I will wade through these
separating waters, and I will bespeak a place for the man who,
many, many years hence, may fill it! and I will sit next you for
ever and ever; and this, sir, shall satisfy the poor Clementina,
who will then be richer than the richest." 1

Christianity proves a real balm for our wounds, particularly
at those times when the passions, after furiously raging in our
bosoms, begin to subside, either from misfortune or from the
length of their duration. It lulls our woes, it strengthens our

1 It would have been much to our author s purpose to have expatiated more
at large upon the works of Richardson, as he has founded the excellence of his
good characters entirely upon a Christian basis. He h;is exemplified the beau
tiful ideal of human nature. The characters of Clementina, Sir Charles Grandi-
son, and Clarissa Harlowe, are the most virtuous, amiable, accomplished, and
noble that can well be imagined. They are supported with strict propriety.
are elevatad by uncommon dignity, and charm the reader while they com
mand his admiration. They show that mankind are truly happy only in pro
portion as they listen to the dictates of conscience and follow the path of duty.
Where could Richardson, a bookseller and a printer, immersed in the occupa
tion of his shop and his press, acquire such a correct acquaintance with high
life and refined society, such exalted sentiments of religion, honor, love, friend
ship, and philanthropy, as he has displayed in his works? Where did he ac
quire such a command over our feelings, such a power "to ope the sacred
source of sympathetic tears"?

The best answer to these questions is that he derived these treasures from
the rich resources of his own mind, from the study of the BIBLE, and a quick
insight into human nature and human character. He has been justly styled
"the great master of the human heart," "the Shakspeare of Romance." (H,-
riasa Harlowe and Sir Charles Grandison are long works, because they are de
signed to develop the springs of human action, and to give a distinct view of
the progressive, various, and complex movements of the human mind. Pro
lixity is made the oretext of the frivolous novel-readers of the present age to
neglect these invaluable works ; although, if they be weighed in the balance
of literary justice, they will be found to comprise as much, if not more,
sterling excellence than half the novels that have been written since their
publication.

280 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

wavering resolution, it prevents relapses by combating the dan-
gerous power of memory in a soul scarcely yet cured. It sheds
around us peace, fragrance, and light. It restores to us that
harmony of the spheres which was heard by Pythagoras during
the silence of his passions. As it promises a recompense for
every sacrifice, we seem to be giving up nothing for it when we
are giving up every thing. As it presents, at each successive
step, a still more lovely object to our desires, it gratifies the na
tural inconstancy of our hearts. It fills us with the ecstasies of
a love which is always beginning, and this love is ineffable, be
cause its mysteries are those of purity and innocence.

CHAPTER V.

CONTINUATION OF THE PRECEDING SUBJECT.

Eloisa.

JULIA was brought to a sense of religion by ordinary disap
pointments. She continued in the world, and, being constrained
to conceal from it the passion of her heart, she betook "herself in
secret to God, certain of finding in this indulgent Father a pity
which her fellow-creatures would have refused her. She delights
to pour forth her confessions before the Supreme Judge, because
he alone has the power to absolve her, and perhaps also involun
tary relic of her weakness ! because it affords her an opportunity
of calling to mind her love.

If we find such relief from the communication of our sorrows
to some superior mind, to some peaceful conscience, which
strengthens and enables us to share the tranquillity which itself
enjoys, how soothing must it be to address ourselves on the sub
ject of our passions to that impassible Being whom our secrets
cannot disturb, and to complain of our frailty to that Omnipotent
Deity who can impart to us some of his strength ! We may form
some conception of the transports of those holy men who, retiring
to the summits of mountains, placed their whole life at the feet

ELOISA. 281

of God, penetrated by means of love into the region of eternity,
and at length soared to the contemplation of primitive light.
Julia s end, unknown to herself, approaches; but when she first
perceives the shadows of the tomb that begin to involve her, a
ray of divine excellence beams from her eyes. The voice of this
dying female is soft and plaintive. It is like the last rustling
of the winds sweeping over the forests, the last murmurs of a
sea forsaking its shores.

The accents of Eloisa are stronger. The wife of Abelard, she
lives and lives for God. 1 Her afflictions have been equally unex
pected and severe. Cut off from the world and plunged into soli
tude, she has been ushered suddenly, and with all her fire, into
the privacy of the cloister. Religion and love at once sway her
heart. It is rebellious nature seized, while full of energy, by grace,
and vainly struggling in the embraces of heaven. Give Racine
to Eloisa for an interpreter, and the picture of her woes will bo
a thousand times more impressive than that of Dido s misfor
tunes, from the tragical effect, the place of the scene, and a cer
tain awfulness which Christianity throws around objects to which
it communicates its grandeur.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns,
What means this tumult in a vestal s veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Yet, yet I love !

Ah, wretch ! believed the spouse of God in vain
Confessed within the slave of love and man.

1 Abelard, a distinguished dialectician of France in the twelfth century, has
acquired more renown by his amours with Eloisa than by his subtlety and
learning. The author calls Eloisa his wife; for, although their intercourse at
"first was only that of lovers, they were afterward secretly married. This cir
cumstance, however, did not suffice to appease Eloisa s uncle, who, indignant
at the seduction of his neice, caused a serious injury to be inflicted upon the
body of Abelard. The latter, to conceal his disgrace, retired into the monastery
of St. Denys, and subsequently gathered around him an immense number of
students. His teaching, however, was infected with various errors, which were
condemned in his own country and at Home. Abelard repented both of his errors
and his pleasures before his death, which took place iu 1142. After the dis
grace of her consort, Eloisa also retired into a convent, where she led a holy life. T.
24*

282 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Assist rue, heaven ! but whence arose that prayer

Sprung it from piety, or from despair?

Even here, where frozen chastity retires,

Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.

I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;

I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;

I view my crime, but kindle at the view,

Repent old pleasures, ancf solicit new;

Now, turned to heaven, I weep my past offence,

Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.

Oh come ! Oh teach me nature to subdue
Renounce my love, my life, myself, and you;
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival can succeed to thee. 1

It would be impossible for antiquity to furnish such a scene,
because it had not such a religion. You may take for your
heroine a Greek or Roman vestal; but never will you be able to
produce that conflict between the flesh and the spirit which con
stitutes all the charm in the situation of Eloisa, and which be
longs to the Christian doctrine and morality. Recollect that you
here find united the most impetuous of the passions and a com
manding religion which never submits to any compromise with
carnal appetites. Eloisa loves; Eloisa burns; but within the
convent walls every thing calls upon her to quench her earthly
fires, and she knows that everlasting torments or endless rewards
await her fall or her triumph. No accommodation is to be ex
pected. The creature and the Creator cannot dwell together in
the same soul. Dido loses only an ungrateful lover. How
different the anguish that rends the heart of Eloisa! She is
compelled to choose between God and a faithful lover whom she
has involved in misfortunes. Neither must she flatter herself
that she shall be able to devote the smallest portion of her heart
to Abelard. The God of Sinai is a jealous God a God who in
sists on being loved in preference who punishes the very shadow
of a thought, nay, even the dream, that is occupied with any other
object than himself.

We shall here take the liberty of remarking an error into
which Colardeau has fallen, because it is tinctured with the
spirit of his age, and strongly tends to illustrate the subject
of which we are treating. His translation of the epistle from

1 Pope s Eloisa.

ELOISA. 283

Eloisa has a philosophic cast, which is far different from the truly
poetical spirit of Pope. After the passage quoted above, we find
these lines :

Dear sisters, guiltless partners of my chains,

Who know not Eloisa s amorous pains;

Ye captive doves, within these hallowed walls,

To none obedient but Religion s calls :

In whom her feeble virtues only shine,

Those virtues, now, alas ! no lunger mine:

Who ne er amid the convent s languors prove

The almighty empire of tyrannic love;

Who with a heavenly spouse alone content,

Love but from habit, not from sentiment;

How smoothly glide your days, your nights how free

From all the pangs of sensibility !

By storms of passion as unvexed they roll,

Ah ! with what envy do they fill the soul! 1

These lines, it is true, are not deficient either in ease or tender
ness j but they are not to be found in the English poet. Faint
indeed are the traces of them discoverable in the following
passage :

How happy is the blameless vestal s lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot !
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,
Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned ;
Labor and rest, that equal periods keep;
Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep;
Desires composed, affections ever even,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams;
For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes ;
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day. 2

It is difficult to conceive how a poet could have prevailed upon
himself to substitute a wretched commonplace on monastic lan
guors for this exquisite description. Who is so blind as not to
see how beautiful, how dramatic, is the contrast which Pope in
tended to produce between the pains of Eloisa s love and the
serenity and chastity of a religious life ? Who is so dull as not

1 Translation of F. Shoberl. 2 Pope s Eloisa.

284 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

to perceive how sweetly this transition soothes the soul agitated
by the passions, and what heightened interest it afterward gives
to the renewed operations of these same passions? Whatever
may be the value of philosophy, it certainly does not become it
to act a part in the troubles of the heart, because its object should
be to appease them. Eloisa, philosophizing on the feeble virtues
of religion, neither speaks the language of truth nor of her age,
neither of a woman nor of love We here discover nothing but
the poet, and, what is still worse, the era of sophistry and decla
mation.

Thus it is that the spirit of irreligion invariably subverts truth
and spoils the movements of nature. Pope, who lived in better
times, has not fallen into the same error as Colardeau. 1 He
retained the worthy spirit of the age of Louis XIV., of which the
age of Queen Anne was a kind of prolongation or reflection. We
must go back to religious ideas, if we attach any value to works
of genius; religion is the genuine philosophy of the fine arts,
because, unlike human wisdom, it separates not poetry from
morality or tenderness from virtue.

On the subject of Eloisa many other interesting observations
might be made in regard to the solitary convent in which the
scene is laid. The cloisters, the vaults, the tombs, the austere
manners, contrasted with all the circumstances of love, must
augment its force and heighten its melancholy. What a vast
difference between the Queen of Carthage seeking a speedy death
on the funeral pile, and Eloisa slowly consuming herself on the
altar of religion ! But we shall speak at length on the subject
of convents in another part of our work.

1 Pope, moreover, being a Catholic, could not have drawn the false picture
ol conventual life which fell from the pen of the infidel Colardeau. T.

THE CYCLOP AND GALATEA. 285

CHAPTER VI.

RURAL LOVE.

The Cyclop and Galatea of Theocritus.

As a subject of comparison among the ancients under the
head of rural love, we shall select the idyl of the Cyclop and
Galatea. This little poem is one of the master-pieces of Theo
critus. The Sorceress is superior to it in warmth of passion, hut
it is less pastoral.

The Cyclop, seated upon a rock on the coast of Sicily, thus
gives vent to his pain, while overlooking the billows that roll
beneath him :

" Charming Galatea, why dost thou scorn the attentions of a
lover, thou whose face is fair as the curd pressed by the soft net
work of rushes ? thou who art more tender than the

lamb, more lovely than the heifer, fresher than the grape not yet
softened by the sun s powerful rays ? Thou glidest along these
shores when sound slumbers enchain me; thou fleest me when I
am not visited by refreshing sleep; thou fearest me as the lamb
fears the wolf grown gray with years. Never have I ceased to
adore thee since thou earnest with my mother to pluck the young
hyacinths on the mountains: it was I who guided thy steps.
From that day even to the present moment I find it impossible
to live without thee. And yet, dost thou heed my pains ? In
the name of Jupiter, hast thou any feeling for my anguish ? . . .
But, unsightly as I am, I have a thousand ewes whose rich udders
my hand presses and whose foaming milk is my beverage. Sum
mer, autumn, and winter, always find cheeses in my cavern; my
nets are always full of them. No Cyclop could play so well to
thee upon the pastoral reed as I can, lovely maiden ! None
could with such skill celebrate all thy charms during the storms
of night. For thee I am rearing eleven does which are ready
to drop their fawns. I am also bringing up four bears cubs

286 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

stolen from their savage mothers. Come, and all these riches
shall be thine. Let the sea furiously lash its shores ; thy nights
shall be more happy if thou wilt pass them in my cave by my
side. Laurels and tall cypresses murmur there; the dark ivy
and the vine laden with clusters line its dusky sides; close to it
runs a limpid stream which white JFAna discharges from his
snow-clad summits and down his sides covered with brown forests.
What! wouldst thou still prefer the sea and its thousands of
billows? If my hairy bosom offends thy sight, I have oak wood
and live embers remaining beneath the ashes; burn, for any
thing from thy hand will give me pleasure, burn, if thou wilt,
mine only eye, this eye, which is dearer to me than life itself
Ah ! why did not my mother give to me, as to the fish, light oars
wherewith to cleave the liquid waves ! 1 how I would theo
descend to my Galatea ! how I would kiss her hand if she refused
me her lips! Yes, I would bring the white lilies, or tender
poppies with purple leaves; the first grow in summer, and the
others adorn the winter, so that I could not present them both to

thee at once

" In this manner did Polyphemus apply to his wounded heart
the immortal balm of the Muses, thus soothing the sorrows of
life more sweetly than he could have done by any thing that gold
can purchase."

This idyl breathes the fire of passion. The poet could not
have made choice of words more delicate or more harmonious.
The Doric dialect also gives to his verses a tone of simplicity
which cannot be transfused into our language. The frequent
repetition of the first letter of the alphabet, and a broad and
open pronunciation, seem to represent the tranquillity of the
scenes and the unaffected language of the shepherd. The
naturalness of the Cyclop s lament is also remarkable. He speaks
from the heart; yet no one would suspect for a moment that his
sighs are any thing else than the skilful imitation of a poet. With
what simplicity and warmth does the unhappy lover depict his
own ugliness ! Even that eye, which renders him so offensive,
suggests to Theocritus an affecting idea: so true is the remark
of iristotle, conveyed by Boileau in these lines :

D un pinceau d^licat I artifiee agreable

Du plus affreux objet fait un objet aimable.

PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 287

It is well known that the moderns, and the French in par
ticular, have riot been very successful in pastoral composition. 1
We are of opinion, however, that Bernardin de Saint- Pierre has
surpassed the bucolic writers of Italy and Greece. His novel, 01
rather his poem, of Paul and Virginia, belongs to the small
number of works which in a few years acquire an antiquity that
authorizes us to quote them without being afraid of having our
taste called in question.

CHAPTER VII.

CONTINUATION OF THE PRECEDING SUBJECT.

Paul and Virginia.

THE old man seated on the mountain relates the history of the
two exiled families; he gives an account of their labors, their
loves, their sports, and their cares.

"Paul and Virginia had neither clocks nor almanacs, neither
books of chronology, history, nor philosophy. The periods of
their lives were regulated by those of nature. They knew the
hours of the day by the shadow of the trees ; the seasons by the
times when they produce their flowers or their fruits ; and the
years by the number of their harvests. These pleasing images
imparted the greatest charms to their conversation. &lt; Tis din
ner-time/ said Virginia to the family : l the shadows of the
bananas are at their feet; or, night approaches: the tamarind-
trees are shutting up their leaves/ l When will you come to see
us? asked some young friends who lived not far off. In
cane-time, replied Virginia. When any person inquired her

1 The Revolution deprived us of a man who gave promise of first-rate talents
in the eclogue; we allude to Andre Chenier. We have seen a collection of
manuscript idyls by him, in which there are passages worthy of Theocritus.
This explains the expression used by that unfortunate young man when upon
ehe scaffold. "Die!" exclaimed he, striking his forehead; "and yet I had
something here !" It was the Muse revealing his talents to him at the moment
of death. See note P.

288 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

age, or that of Paul, she would answer, My brother is as old
as the great cocoa-tree beside the fountain, and I am as old as
the smaller; the mangoes have borne fruit twelve times, and the
orange-trees have flowered twice as often, since I was born.
Their lives seemed to be attached to those of the trees, like the
existence of the fauns and dryads. They knew no other his
torical epochs than those of their mothers lives, no other chro
nology than that of the orchards, and no other philosophy than
that of doing good to everybody, and of resignation to the will
of the Almighty

11 Sometimes, when alone with Virginia, Paul said to her on
his return from work, When I am fatigued, the sight of you
refreshes me; and when from the top of the hill I look down
into this valley, you look just like a rose-bud in the midst of our
orchards. . . . Though I lose sight of you among the trees, still
I discern something of you which I .cannot describe in the air
through which you pass or on the turf upon which you have
been sitting

" Tell me by what spell you have enchanted me. It cannot
be by your understanding, for our mothers have more than we.
Neither is it by your caresses, for they kiss me much oftener than
you. I suppose it must be by your kindness. Here, my beloved,
take this citron branch covered with blossom, which I broke in
the forest. Place it at night beside your bed. Eat this honey
comb, which I climbed to the top of a rock to take for you ; but
fii&t sit down on my knee, and I shall be refreshed/

" Oh my brother! Virginia would reply, the beams of the
morning sun that gild the summits of these rocks give me less

joy than your presence You ask why you love me.

Have not all those creatures that are brought up together a mu
tual affection for each other ? Look at our birds, reared in the
same nests ; they love like us, and, like us, they are always to
gether. Hear how they call and answer one another from tree to
tree; just as, when echo wafts to me the notes which you play on
your flute, I repeat the words at the bottom of this valley. . . .
... I daily pray to God for my mother and yours, for you and
for our poor servants ; but when I pronounce your name my fer
vor seems to increase. How ardently I implore the Almighty
that no misfortune may befall you ! Why do you go so far and

PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 289

climb so high in quest of fruits and flowers for Dae ? Have we
not plenty in the garden ? How you have fatigued yourself !
You are bathed in sweat ! With these words she wiped his
forehead and his cheeks with her little white handkerchief, and
gave him several kisses."

The point to be examined in this picture is not why it is supe
rior to that of Galatea, (a superiority too evident not to be ac
knowledged by every reader,) but why it owes its excellence to
religion, and, in a word, in what way it is Christian.

It is certain that the charm of Paul and Virginia consists in a
sertain pensive morality which pervades the whole work, and
which may be compared to that uniform radiance which the moon
throws upon a wilderness bedecked with flowers. Now, whoever
has meditated upon the truths of the gospel must admit that its
divine precepts have precisely this solemn and affecting character.
Saint-Pierre, who, in his Studies of Nature, endeavors to justify
the ways of God and to demonstrate the beauty of religion, must
have nourished his genius by the perusal of the sacred volume.
If his eclogue is so pathetic, it is because it represents two little
exiled Christian families, living under the eye of the Lord, guided
by his word in the Bible and his works in the desert. To this
add indigence and those afflictions of the soul for which religion
affords the only remedy, and you will have the whole of the sub
ject. The characters are as simple as the plot : they are two
charming children, whose cradle and whose grave are brought under
your notice, two faithful slaves, and two pious mistresses. These
good people have a historian every way worthy of their lives : an
old man residing alone upon the mountain, and who has survived
all that he loved, relates to the traveller the misfortunes of hi,s
friends over the ruins of their cottages.

We may observe that these Southern bucolics are full of allu
sions to the Scriptures. In one, we are reminded of Ruth, of
Sephora ; in another, of Eden and our first parents. These sacred
recollections throw an air of antiquity over the scenes of the
whole picture, by introducing into it the manners of the primitive
East. The mass, the prayers, the sacraments, the ceremonies of
the Church, to which the author is every moment referring, like
wise shed their spiritual beauty over the work. Is not the mys
terious dream of Madame de la Tour essentially connected with

290 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

what is grand and pathetic in our religious doctrines ? We also
discover the Christian in those lessons of resignation to the will
of God, of obedience to parents, charity to the poor, strictness in
tLe performance of the duties of religion, in a word, in the
whole of that delightful theology which pervades the poem cf
Saint-Pierre. We may even go still farther, and assert that it is
religion, in fact, which determines the catastrophe. Virginia
dies for the preservation of one of the principal virtues enjoined
by Christianity. It would have been absurd to make a Grecian
woman die for refusing to expose her person ; but the lover of
Paul is a Christian virgin, and what would be ridiculous accord
ing to the impure notions of heathenism becomes in this instance
sublime.

This pastoral is not like the idyls of Theocritus, or the eclogues
of Virgil ; neither does it exactly resemble the grand rural scenes
of Hesiod, Homer, and the Bible ; but, like the parable of the
Good Shepherd, it produces an ineffable effect, and you are con
vinced that none but a Christian could have related the evan
gelical loves of Paul and Virginia.

It will perhaps be objected that it is not the charm borrowed
from the sacred Scriptures which confers on Saint-Pierre the
superiority over Theocritus, but his talent for delineating nature.
To this we reply that he owes this talent also, or at least the de
velopment of this talent, to Christianity ; since it is this religion
which has driven the petty divinities from the forests and the
waters, and has thus enabled him to represent the deserts in all
their majesty. This we shall attempt to demonstrate when we
come to treat of mythology j let us now proceed with the investi
gation of the passions.

THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION A PASSION. 291

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION ITSELF CONSIDERED AS A PASSION.

NOT satisfied with enlarging the sphere of the passions in the
drama and the epic poem, the Christian religion is itself a species
of passion, which has its transports, its ardors, its sighs, its joys,
its tears, its love of society and of solitude. This, as we know,
is by the present age denominated fanaticism. We might reply
in the words of Rousseau, which are truly remarkable in the
mouth of a philosopher : " Fanaticism, though sanguinary and
cruel, 1 is nevertheless a great and powerful passion, which exalts
the heart of man, which inspires him with a contempt of death,
which gives him prodigious energy, and which only requires to
be judiciously directed in order to produce the most sublime vir
tues. On the other hand, irreligion, and a reasoning and philo
sophic spirit in general, strengthens the attachment to life, debases
the soul and renders it effeminate, concentrates all the passions in
the meanness of private interest, in the abject motive of self, and
thus silently saps the real foundations of all society ; for so trifling
are the points in which private interests are united, that they will
never counterbalance those in which they oppose one another."*

But this is not the question ; we treat at present only of dra
matic eifect. Now, Christianity considered itself as a passion
supplies the poet with immense treasures. This religious passion
is the stronger as it is in contradiction to all others, and must
swallow them up to exist itself. Like all the great affections,
it is profoundly serious ; it attracts us to the shade of convents
and of mountains. The beauty which the Christian adores is not
perishable ; it is that eternal beauty for which Plato s disciples
were so anxious to quit the earth. Here below she always ap
pears veiled to her lovers ; she shrouds herself in the folds of the
universe as in a mantle ; for if but one of her glances were to
meet the eye and pierce the heart of man, unable to endure it he
would expire with transport.

i Is Philosophy less so ? 2 Emilc, tome iii. p. 193, note.

292 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

To attain the enjoyment of this supreme beauty, Christians
take a very different course from that which the Athenian philo
sophers pursued ; they remain in this world in order to multiply
their sacrifices, and to render themselves more worthy, by a long
purification, of the object of their desires.

Whoever, according to the expression of the Fathers, have the
least possible commerce with the flesh, and descend in innocence
to the grave, such souls, relieved from doubts and fears, wing
their flight to the regions of life, where in never-ending trans
ports they contemplate that which is true, immutable, and above
the reach of opinion. How many glorious martyrs has this hope
of possessing God produced ! What solitude has not heard the
sighs of illustrious rivals contending for the enjoyment of Him
who is adored by the cherubim and seraphim ? Here an Anthony
erects an altar in the desert, and for the space of forty years sacri
fices himself, unknown to all mankind ; there a St. Jerome for
sakes Home, crosses the seas, and, like Elias, seeks a retreat on
the banks of the Jordan. Even there hell leaves him not un
molested, and the attractive figure of Rome, decked with all her
charms, appears in the forests to torment him. He sustains
dreadful assaults; he fights hand-to-hand with his passions. His
weapons are tears, fasting, study, penance, and, above all, love.
He falls at the feet of the divine beauty, and implores its succor.
Sometimes, like a criminal doomed to the most laborious toils, he
loads his shoulders with a burden of scorching sand, to subdue
the rebellious flesh, and to extinguish the unholy desires which
address themselves to the creature.

Massillon, describing this sublime love, exclaims, " To such the
Lord alone appears good and faithful and true, constant in his
promises, amiable in his indulgence, magnificent in his gifts, real
in his tenderness, merciful even in his wrath ; he alone appears
great enough to fill the whole immensity of our hearts, powerful
enough to satisfy all its desires, generous enough to soothe ail
its woes ; he alone appears immortal, and worthy of our endless
affection; finally, he alone excites no regret, except that we
learned too late to love him." 1

The author of the Following of Christ has selected from St

1 La Pecheresse, part i.

THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION A PASSION. 298

Augustine and the other Fathers whatever is most mystic and
most ardent in the language of divine love. 1

"The love of God is generous; it impels the soul to great ac
tions, and excites in it the desire of that which is most perfect.

" Love always aspires to a higher sphere, and suffers not itself
tc be detained by base considerations.

" Love is determined to be free and independent of all the ter
restrial affections, lest its inward light should be obscured, and
it should either be embarrassed with the goods or dejected by
the ills of the world.

" There is nothing in heaven or upon earth that is more deli
cious or more powerful, more exalted or more comprehensive,
more agreeable, more perfect, or more excellent, than love, because
love is the offspring of God, and, soaring above all created beings,
cannot find repose except in God.

" Those alone who love can comprehend the language of love,
and those words of fire in which a soul deeply imbued with the
Deity addresses him when it ejaculates, Thou art my God;
thou art my love ; thou art completely mine, and I am entirely
thine ! Extend my heart that I may love thee still more ; and
teach me by an inward and spiritual taste how delicious it is to
love thee, to swim, and to be, as it were, absorbed in the ocean
of thy love/ "

" He who loves generously/ adds the same author, " stands
firm amid temptations, and suffers himself not to be surprised by
the subtle persuasions of his enemy."

It is this Christian passion, this immense conflict between a
terrestrial and a celestial love, which Corneille has depicted in
that celebrated scene of his Polyeuctes, for this great man, less
delicate than the philosophers of the present day, had no notion
that Christianity was beneath his genius.

Pol. If death be noble in a sovereign s cause,

What must his be who suffers for his God ?
Paul. What God is that thou speakest of?
Pol. Ah ! Paulina,

He hears thy every word. "Tis not a God,

Deaf and insensible and impotent,

Of marble, or of wood, or shining gold.

1 Book iii. ch, 5.
25*

294 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

I mean the Christian s God my God and thine,
Than whom nor earth nor heaven confess another.
Paul. Be then content within thy heart s recess

To adore in silence.
p l" Why not tell me rather

To be at once idolater and Christian?
Paul. Feign but a moment, till Severus absence,

And give my father s mercy scope to act.
Pol. My Heavenly Father s mercy ah ! how far
To be preferred ! He my unconscious steps
From lurking danger guides. His hand sustains,
And when but entering on my new career,
His grace decrees the crown of victory.
My bark just launched he safely wafts to port,
And me from baptism s rites to heaven conveys.
Oh that thou knewest the vanity of life,
And all the bliss that after death awaits us !
God of all mercy, thou hast given to her
Too many virtues, and too high perfections,
Which claim her for a Christian, that twere grievou*
To think her destined to remain estranged
From thee and from thy love, to live the slave,
The unhappy slave, of thine arch-enemy,
And die, as born, beneath his odious yoke!
Paul. What wish escaped thy too presumptuous tongue?
Pol. One whose fulfilment gladly would I purchase
With every purple drop that fills these veins.

Paul. Sooner shall

PoL Hold, Paulina : tis in vain

To struggle gainst conviction. Unawares
The God of Christians melts the obdurate heart;
The happy moment, though not yet arrived,
Will come, but when, is not to me revealed.
Paul. Give up such idle fancies, and assure

Me of thy love.
p l" Ah! doubt me not, Paulina;

I love thee more than life, nay, more than aught
In heaven or earth, save God.
Paul - Then, by that love

Leave me not, I conjure thee !
Pol &gt; By that love

Let me implore thee, do as I have done.
Paul. What, not content to abandon, wouldst thou too

Seduce me from my faith ?

P l - Is t then a hardship

To go to heaven ? for thither I d conduct thee !
Paul. No more of these chimerag !
P l - Sacred truths !

PauL Infatuation J

THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION A PASSION. 295

Pol No; celestial light.

Paul. Thou choosest death before Paulina s love.

Pol. Attacned to earth, thou spurnest grace divine.

Such are those admirable dialogues in Corneille s mannei r , in
which the sincerity of the speakers, the rapidity of the transi
tions, the warmth and elevation of the sentiments, never fail to
delight the audience. How sublime is Polyeuctes in this scene !
what greatness of soul, what dignity, what divine enthusiasm he
displays ! The gravity and nobleness of the Christian character
appear, even in the opposition of the plural and singular pro
nouns volts and tu, the mere use of which in this way places a
whole world between the martyr Polyeuctes and the pagan
Paulina.

Finally, Corneille has exhibited all the energy of the Christian
passion in that dialogue which, to use Voltaire s expression, is
"admirable, and always received with applause."

Felix proposes to Polyeuctes to sacrifice to his false gods ; but
Polyeuctes refuses to comply;

FeL At length to my just wrath my clemency

Gives place. Adore, or yield thy forfeit life.

Pol. I am a Christian.

Pel. Impious wretch ! adore,

Or death shall be thy doom.

Pol. I am a Christian.

FeL Oh bosom most obdurate ! Soldiers, haste
And execute the orders I have issued.

Paul. Ah ! whither lead ye him ?

Fel. To death.

Pol. To glory. 2

Those words I am a Christian twice repeated are equal to
the most exalted expression of the Horaces. Corneille, who was
so excellent a judge of the sublime, well knew to what a height
the love of religion is capable of rising ; for the Christian loves
God as the supreme beauty, and heaven as his native land.

But, on the other hand, could polytheism ever inspire an
idolater with anything of the enthusiasm of Polyeuctes ? What
could be the object of his passionate love ? Would he submit to
death for some lewd goddess or for a cruel and unfeeling god ?
The religions which are capable of exciting any ardor are those

1 Act iv. scene iii. 2 Act v. scene iii.

}J96 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

which approach more or less to the doctrine of the unity of n
Grod ; otherwise, the heart and mind, being divided among a mul
titude of divinities, cannot be strongly attached to any. No love,
moreover, can le durable that has not virtue for its object. Truth
will ever be the predominant passion of man j if he loves error,
it is because at the time he considers error as truth. We have
no affection for falsehood, though we are continually falling into
it; but this weakness proceeds from our original depravity; we
have lost strength while retaining desire, and our hearts still seek
the light which our eyes are now too feeble to endure.

The Christian religion, in again opening to us, by the merits
of the Son of Man, those luminous paths which death had
covered with its shades, has recalled to us our primitive loves.
Heir of the benedictions of Jacob, the Christian burns to enter
that celestial Sion to which are directed all his sighs. This is the
passion which our poets may celebrate, after the example of Cor-
neille. It is a source of beauty which was wholly unknown to
antiquity, and which Sophocles and Euripides would not have
overlooked.

CHAPTER IX.

OP THE UNSETTLED STATE OF THE PASSIONS.

WE have yet to treat of a state of the soul which, as we think,
has not been accurately described ; we mean that which precedes
the development of the strong passions, when all the faculties,
fresh, active, and entire, but confined in the breast, act only upon
themselves, without object and without end. The more nations
advance in civilization, the more this unsettled state of the pas
sions predominates ; for then the many examples we have before
us, and the multitude of books we possess, give us knowledge
without experience ; we are undeceived before we have enjoyed ;
there still remain desires, but no illusions. Our imagination is
rich, abundant, and full of wonders; but our existence is poor,
insipid, and destitute of charms. With a full heart, we dwell in
an empty world, and scarcely have we advanced a few steps when
we have nothing more to learn.

UNSETTLED STATE OF THE PASSIONS. 297

It is inconceivable what a shade this state of the soul throws
over life ; the heart turns a hundred different ways to employ the
energies which it feels to be useless to it. The ancients knew
(jut little of this secret inquietude, this irritation of the stifled
passions fermenting all together; political affairs, the sports of
the Gymnasium and of the Campus Martius, the business of the
forum and of the popular assemblies, engaged all their time, and
left no room for this tedium of the heart.

On the other hand, they were not disposed to exaggerations, to
hopes and fears without object, to versatility in ideas and senti
ments, and to perpetual inconstancy, which is but a continual
disgust, dispositions which we acquire in the familiar society of
the fair sex. Women, independently of the direct passion which
they excite among all modern nations, also possess an influence
over the other sentiments. They have in their nature a certain
ease which they communicate to ours ; they render the marks of
the masculine character less distinct; and our passions, softened
by the mixture of theirs, assume, at one and the same time, some
thing uncertain and delicate.

Finally, the Greeks and Romans, looking scarcely any farther
than the present life, and having no conception of pleasures more
perfect than those which this world aifords, were not disposed,
like us, by the character of their religion, to meditation and
desire. Formed for the relief of our afflictions and our wants,
the Christian religion incessantly exhibits to our view the twofold
picture of terrestrial griefs and heavenly joys, and thus creates in
the heart a source of present evils and distant hopes, whence
spring inexhaustible abstractions and meditations. The Christian
always looks upon himself as no more than a pilgrim travelling
here below through a vale of tears and finding no repose till he
reaches the tomb. The world is not the object of his affections,
for he knows that the days of man are few, and that this object
would speedily escape from his grasp.

The persecutions which the first believers underwent had the
effect of strengthening in them this disgust of the things of this
life. The invasion of the barbarians raised this feeling to the
highest pitch, and the human mind received from it an impres
sion of melancholy, and, perhaps, even a slight tincture of mis
anthropy, which has never been thoroughly removed. On all

298 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

sides arose convents; hither retired the unfortunate, smarting
under the disappointments of the world, or souls who chose rather
to remain strangers to certain sentiments of life than to run the
risk of finding themselves cruelly deceived. 1 But, nowaday,
when these ardent souls have no monastery to enter, or have not
the virtue that would lead them to one, they feel like strangers
among men. Disgusted with the age, alarmed by religion, they
remain in the world without mingling in its pursuits ; and then
we behold that culpable sadness which springs up in the midst
of the passions, when these passions, without object, burn them
selves out in a solitary heart.

1 Though the author does not assert in this passage that misanthropy had
any part in the introduction of the monastic institute, or is compatible with its
essential spirit, this meaning might be inferred by the reader who would not
attend particularly to the language which he employs. He wishes to convey
the idea that the conventual life, by removing the occasions of sin and fixing
the mind and heart upon God alone, afforded the remedy of that morbid condi
tion of the soul which follows from misanthropy and a natural aversion for the
world. These sentiments are transformed by the religious or monastic spirit
into sentiments of charity and self-denial. It is well known that the introduc
tion of the religious orders was the inauguration of a new era in the history
of Christian charity, as it opened immense additional resources for the allevia
tion of almost every species of human misery. The monastic spirit, moreover*
was founded essentially on the love of God, as the only end of man. But the
love of God and the love of the neighbor go hand-in-hand. Misanthropy,
therefore, is a sentiment, both historically and intrinsically, opposed to the
spirit of the monastic state. That a tinge of melancholy in regard to earthly
things should pervade the religious and even the ordinary Christian life, is in
accordance with the gospel itself, since it teaches us to look upon ourselves as
exiles in this world, and beatifies those who yield to the spiritual sainesa
which this consideration inspires. "Blessed are they that mourn, lyr they
shall be comforted." T.

BOOK IV.

OF THE MARVELLOUS; OR, OF POETRY IN ITS RELA
TIONS TO SUPERNATURAL BEINGS.

CHAPTER I.

MYTHOLOGY DIMINISHED THE GRANDEUR OF NATURE THE
ANCIENTS HAD NO DESCRIPTIVE POETRY, PROPERLY SO
CALLED.

WE have already shown in the preceding books that Chris
tianity, by mingling with the affections of the soul, has increased
the resources of the drama. Polytheism did not concern itself
about the vices and virtues; it was completely divorced from
morality. In this respect, Christianity has an immense advantage
over heathenism. But let us see whether, in regard to what is
termed the marvellous, it be not superior in beauty to mythology
itself.

We are well aware that we have here undertaken to attack one
of the most inveterate scholastic prejudices. The weight of
authority is against us, and many lines might be quoted from
Racine s poem on the Poetic Art in our condemnation.

However this may be, it is not impossible to maintain that
mythology, though so highly extolled, instead of embellishing
nature destroys her real charms ; and we believe that several emi
nent characters in the literary world are at present of this opinion.

The first and greatest imperfection of mythology was that it
circumscribed the limits of nature and banished truth from her
domain. An incontestable proof of this fact is that the poetry
which we term descriptive was unknown throughout all antiquity; 1
so that the very poets who celebrated the works of nature did not
enter into the descriptive in the sense which we attach to the
word. They have certainly left us admirable delineations of the

1 See note Q.

299

300 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

employments, the manners, and the pleasures, of rural life; but
as to those pictures of scenery, of the seasons, and of the varia
tions of the sky and weather, which have enriched the modern
Muse, scarcely any traits of this kind are to be found in their
compositions.

The few that they contain are indeed excellent, like the rest
of their works. Homer, when describing the cavern of the
Cyclop, docs not line it with lilacs and roses; like Theocritus,
he has planted laurels and tall pines before it. He embellishes
the gardens of Alcinous with flowing fountains and useful trees;
in another place he mentions the hill assaulted by the winds and
covered with fiy-trees, and he represents the smoke of Circe s
palace ascending above a forest of oaks.

Virgil has introduced the same truth into his delineations.
He gives to the pine the epithet of harmonious, because the pine
actually sends forth a kind of soft murmur when gently agitated;
the clouds in the Greorgics are compared to fleeces of wool rolled
together by the winds; and the swallows in the ^Eneid twitter
on the thatched roof of king Evander or skim the porticoes of
palaces. Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, and Ovid, have also left
some sketches of this nature; but they consist of nothing more
than a favorite grove of Morpheus, a valley into which the
Cytherean goddess is about to descend, or a fountain where
Bacchus reposes in the lap of the Naiads.

The philosophic age of antiquity produced no alteration in this
manner. Olympus, whose existence was no longer believed, now
sought refuge among the poets, who in their turn protected the
gods that had once protected them. Statius and Silius Italicus
advanced no further than Homer and Virgil; Lucan alone made
some progress in this species of composition, and in his Pharsalia
we find the description of a forest and a desert, which remind ua
of the colors of modern artists. 1

Lastly, the naturalists were as sober as the poets, and followed
nearly the same road. Thus Pliny and Columella, who came
the last, take more pains to describe nature than Aristotle.
Among the historians and the philosophers, Xenophon, Plato,

1 This description is full of bombast and bad taste; though we have nothing
to do here with the execution of the piece, but with the class to which it belongs.

ANCIENT DESCRIPTIVE POETRY 3Q1

Tacitus, Plutarch, and Pliny the younger, are remarkable foi
gome beautiful pictures *

It can scarcely be supposed that men endued with such sensi
bility as the ancients, could have wanted eyes to perceive the
charms of nature and talents for depicting them, had they not
been blinded by some powerful cause. Now, this cause was their
established mythology, which, peopling the universe with elegant
phantoms, banished from the creation its solemnity, its grandeur,
and its solitude. It was necessary that Christianity should expel
the whole hosts of fauns, of satyrs, and of nymphs, to restore to
the grottos their silence and to the woods their scope for unin
terrupted contemplation. Under our religion the deserts have
assumed a character more pensive, more vague, and more sub
lime; the forests have attained a loftier pitch; the rivers have
broken their petty urns, that in future they may only pour the
waters of the abyss from the summit of the mountains; and the
true God, in returning to his works, has imparted his immensity
to nature.

The prospect of the universe could not excite in the bosoms
of the Greeks and Romans those emotions which it produces in
our souls. Instead of that setting sun, whose lengthened rays
sometimes light up the forest, at others form a golden tangent
on the rolling arch of the seas, instead of those beautiful acci
dents of light which every morning remind us of the miracle
of the creation, the ancients beheld around them naught but
a uniform system, which reminds us of the machinery of an
opera.

If the poet wandered in the vales of the Taygetus, on the banks
of the Sperchius, on the Msenalus, beloved of Orpheus, or in the
plains of the Elorus, whatever may have been the charm of this
Grecian geography, he met with nothing but fauns, he heard no
sounds but those of the dryads. Apollo and the Muses were
there, and Vertumnus with the Zephyrs led eternal dances. Syl-
vans and Naiads may strike the imagination in an agreeable

1 See in Xenopbon the Retreat of the Ten Thousand, and the Treatise on
Hunting; in Plato, the exordium of the Dialogue on the Laws; in Tacitus, the
description of the forsaken camp, where Varus was massacred with his legions,
(Annul., lib. i. ;) in Plutarch, the-lives of Brutus and of Pompey ; in Pliny, the
descriptio of his gar Ion.
26

302 G::NIUS CF CHRISTIANITY.

manner, provided they be not incessantly brought forward. We
would not

Expel the Tritons from the watery waste,

Destroy Pan s pipe, snatch from the Fates their shears.

But then what impression does all this leave on the soul ?
What results from it for the heart ? What moral benefit can the
mind thence derive ? Oh, how far more highly is the Christian
poet favored ! Free from that multitude of absurd deities which
circumscribed them on all sides, the woods are filled with the
immensity of the Divinity; and the gift of prophecy and wisdom,
mystery mid religion, seem to have fixed their eternal abode
in their awful recesses.

Penetrate into those forests of America coeval with the world.
What profound silence pervades these retreats when the winds
are hushed ! What unknown voices when they begin to rise !
Stand still, and every thing is mute ; take but a step, and all
nature sighs. Night approaches : the shades thicken ; you heai
herds of wild beasts passing in the dark ; the ground murmurs
under your feet; the pealing thunder roars in the deserts; the
forest bows ; the trees fall ; an unknown river rolls before you.
The moon at length bursts forth in the east; as you proceed at
the foot of the trees, she seems to move before you at their tops,
and solemnly to accompany your steps. The wanderer seats him
self on the trunk of an oak to await the return of day ; he looks
alternately at the nocturnal luminary, the darkness, and the
river : he feels restless, agitated, and in expectation of some
thing extraordinary. A pleasure never felt before, an unusual
fear, cause his heart to throb, as if he were about to be admitted
to some secret of the Divinity ; he is alone in the depth of the for
ests, but the mind of man is equal to the expanse of nature, and all
the solitudes of the earth are less vast than one single thought of
his heart. Even did he reject the idea of a Deity, the intellectual
being, alone and unbeheld, would be more august in the midst
of a solitary world than if surrounded by the ridiculous divinities
of fabulous times. The barren desert itself would have some con
geniality with his discursive thoughts, his melancholy feelings, and
even his disgust for a life equally devoid of illusion and of hope.

There is in man an instinctive melancholy, which makes him
harmonize with the scenery of nature. Who has not spent whole

ALLEGORY. 303

hours seated on the bank of a river contemplating its passing
waves? Who has not found pleasure on the sea-shore in viewing
the distant rock whitened by the billows ? How much are the
ancients to be pitied, who discovered in the ocean naught but the
palace of Neptune and the cavern of Proteus ! It was hard that
they should perceive only the adventures of the Tritons and the
Nereids in the immensity of the seas, which seems to give an in
distinct measure of the greatness of our souls, and which excites
a vague desire to quit this life, that we may embrace all nature
and taste the fulness of joy in the presence of its Author.

CHAPTER II.

OF ALLEGORY.

METHINKS I hear some one ask, do you find nothing beautiful
in the allegories of the ancients ? We must make a distinction.

The moral allegory, like that of the prayers in Homer, is
beautiful in all ages, in all countries, in all religions ; nor has it
been banished by Christianity. We may, as much as we will,
place at the foot of the throne of the Supreme Judge the two
vessels filled with good and evil; we shall possess this advantage,
that our God will never act unjustly or at random, like Jupiter;
he will pour the floods of adversity upon the heads of mortals, not
out of caprice, but for a purpose known to himself alone. We
are aware that our happiness here below is co-ordinate with a
general happiness in a chain of beings and of worlds that are con
cealed from our sight; that man, in harmony with the spheres,
keeps pace with them in their progress to accomplish a revolu
tion which God envelops in his eternity.

But if the moral allegory still continues to exist for us, this
is not the case with the physical allegory. Let Juno be the air,
and Jupiter the ether, and thus, while brother and sister, still
remain husband and wife, where is the charm, where is the
grandeur, of this personification ? Nay, more, this species of alle
gory is contrary to the principles of taste and even of soun 1 logic.

304 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

We ought never to personify a being itself, but only a quality
or affection of that being; otherwise there is not a real personifi
cation, but merely a change in the name of the object. I may
give speech to a stone; but what shall I gain by assigning to this
stone an allegorical name? Now the soul, whose nature is life,
essentially possesses the faculty of producing; so that one of her
vices, one of her virtues, may be considered as her son, or as her
daughter, since she has actually given birth to it. This passion,
active as its parent, may, in its turn grown up, develop itself,
acquire features, and become a distinct being. But the physical
object a being purely passive by its very nature, which is not
susceptible either of pleasure or of pain, which has no passions,
but merely accidents, and accidents as inanimate as itself affords
nothing to which you can impart life. Would you transform the
obduracy of the flint or the sap of the oak into an allegorical
being? It should be observed that the understanding is less
shocked by the creation of dryads, naiads, zephyrs, and echoes,
than by that of nymphs attached to mute and motionless objects;
for in trees, water, and the air, there are motions and sounds
which convey the idea of life, and which may consequently fur
nish an allegory, like the movement of the soul. But this minor
species of physical allegory, though not quite so bad as the
greater, is always of inferior merit, cold and incomplete; it
resembles at best the fairies of the Arabs and the genii of the
Orientals.

As to the vague sort of deities placed by the ancients in solitary
woods and wild situations, they doubtless produced a pleasing
effect, but they had no kind of connection with the mythological
system : the human mind here fell back into natural religion.
What the trembling traveller adored as he passed through these
solitudes was something unknown, something with whose narae
he was not acquainted, and which he called the divinity of the
place; sometimes he gave it the name of Pan, and Pan was the
universal God. These powerful emotions, excited by wild na
ture, have not ceased to exist, and the forests still retain for us
their awful divinity.

In short, it is so true that the physical allegory, or the deities
of fable, destroyed the charms of nature, that the ancients had no
genuine landscape painters for the same reason that they had no

MODERN DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 305

descriptive poetry. 1 This species of poetry, however, was more
or less known among other idolatrous nations, who were strangers
to the mythologic system ; witness the Sanscrit poems, the tales
of the Arabs, the Edda of the Scandinavians, the songs of the
negroes and the savages. 3 But, as the infidel nations have always
mingled their false religion, and consequently their bad taste,
with their compositions, it is under the Christian dispensation
alone that nature has been delineated with truth.

CHAPTER III.

HISTORICAL PART OP DESCRIPTIVE POETRY AMONG THE
MODERNS.

No sooner had the apostles begun to preach the gospel to the
world than descriptive poetry made its appearance. All things
returned to the way of truth, before Him who, in the words of
St. Augustin, holds the place of truth on earth. Nature ceased
to speak through the fallacious organ of idols; her ends were
discovered, and it became known that she was made in the first
place for God, and in the second for man. She proclaims, in
fact, only two things: God glorified by his works, and human
wants supplied.

This great discovery changed the whole face of the creation.
From its intellectual part, that is to say, from the divine intelli
gence which it everywhere displays, the soul received abundance
of food ; and from its material part the body perceived that every
thing had been formed for" itself. The vain images attached to
inanimate beings vanished, and the rocks became much more
really animated, the oaks pronounced m^re certain oracles, the
winds and the waves emitted sounds far more impressive, when
man had discovered in his own heart the life, the oracles, and the
voice of nature.

Hitherto solitude had been looked upon as frightful, tut Chris-

i The facts on which this assertion is grounded are developed in note W, at
the end of the volume. 2 See note R.

28* U

306 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

tians found in it a thousand charms. The anchorets extolled the
beauties of rocks and the delights of contemplation; and this
was the first stage of descriptive poetry. The religious who
published the lives of the first fathers of the desert were also
obliged to describe the retreats in which these illustrious recluses
had buried their glory. In the works of a Jerome and of an
Athanasius 1 may still be seen descriptions of nature which prove
that they were not only capable of observing, but also of exciting
a love for what they delineated.

This new species of composition introduced into literature by
Christianity rapidly gained ground. It insinuated itself even
into the historic style, as may be remarked in the collection
known by the name of the Byzantine, and particularly in the
histories of Procopius. It was in like manner propagated, but in
a degenerate form, by the Greek novelists of the Lower Empire
and by some of the Latin poets in the West.

When Constantinople had passed under the yoke of the Turks,
a new species of descriptive poetry, composed of the relics of
Moorish, Greek, and Italian genius, sprang up in Italy. Pe
trarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, raised it to a high degree of perfec
tion. But this kind of description is deficient in truth. It
consists of certain epithets incessantly repeated and always ap
plied in the same manner. It was impossible to quit the shady
forest, the cool cavern, or the banks of the limpid stream. No
thing was to be seen but groves of orange-trees and bowers of
jessamine and roses.

Flora returned with her basket, and the eternal Zephyrs failed
not to attend her; but they found in the woods neither the
Fauns nor the Naiads, and, had they not met with the Fairies
and the Giants of the Moors, they would have run the risk of
losing themselves in this immense solitude of Christian nature.
When the human mind advances a step, every thing must ad
vance with it ; all nature changes with its lights or its shadows.
Hence, it would be painful to us now to admit petty divinities
where we see naught but wide-extended space. Place, if you
will, the mistress of Tithonus upon a car, and cover her with
flowers and with dew; nothing will prevent her appearing dis-

1 Hieron., in Vit. Paul. ; Athan., in Vit. Anton.

MODERN DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 307

proportionate, while shedding her feeble light through the bound
less firmament which Christianity has expanded; let her then
leave the office of enlightening the world to Him by whom it wae
created.

From Italy this species of descriptive poetry passed into
France, where it was favorably received by a Ronsard, a Le-
moine, a Coras, a St. Amand, and the early novelists. But the
great writers of the age of Louis XI V., disgusted with this
style of delineation, in which they discovered no marks of truth,
banished it both from their prose and their poetry ; and it is one
of the distinguishing characteristics of their works that they ex
hibit no traces of what we denominate descriptive poetry. 1

Thus repulsed from France, the rural muse sought refuge in
England, where Spenser, Milton, and Waller had paved the way
for her reception. Here she gradually lost her affected manner,
but she fell into another excess. In describing real nature alone,
she attempted to delineate every thing, and overloaded her pic
tures either with objects too trivial or with ridiculous circum
stances. Thomson himself, in his Winter, so superior to the
other parts of his poem, has some passages that are very tedious.
Such was the second epoch of descriptive poetry.

From England she returned to France, with the works of Pope
and the bard of the Seasons. Here she had some difficulty in
gaining admission, being opposed by the ancient Italian style,
which Dorat and some others had revived; she nevertheless
triumphed, and for the victory was indebted to Delille and St.
Lambert. She improved herself under the French muse, sub
mitted to the rules of taste, and reached the third epoch.

It must, however, be observed that she had preserved her
purity, though unknown, in the works of some naturalists of the
time of Louis XIV., as Tournefort and Dutertre. The latter dis
plays a lively imagination, added to a tender and pensive genius:
he even uses the word melancholy, like Lafontaine, in the sense
in which we at present employ it. Thus the age of Louis XIV.
was not wholly destitute of genuine descriptive poetry, as we
might at first be led to imagine; it was only confined to the

1 Feuelon, Lafontaine, and Chaulieu, must be excepted. Racine the younger,
the father of this new poetic school, in which Delille has excelled, may also be
considered as the founder of descriptive poetry in France.

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

letters of our missionaries j 1 and here it is that we have studied
this kind of style, which we consider so new at the present day.

The admirable passages interspersed in the Bible afford a two
fold proof that descriptive poetry is among us the offspring of
Christianity. Job, the Prophets, Ecclesiasticus, and the Psalms y
in particular, are full of magnificent descriptions. What a mas
ter-piece of this kind is the one hundred and third psalm !

" Bless the Lord, my soul ! Lord, my God, thou art ex
ceedingly great ! Thou hast appointed darkness, and it is

night : in it shall all the beasts of the woods go about. The
young lions roaring after their prey, and seeking their meat from
God The sun ariseth, and they are gathered together : and they
shall lie down in their dens. Man shall go forth to his work, and
to his labor until the evening. How great are thy works, Lord !
thou hast made all things in wisdom : the earth is filled with thy
riches. So is this great sea, which stretcheth wide its arms;
there are creeping things without number : creatures little and
great. There the ships shall go. This sea-dragon which thou
hast formed to play therein."

Pindar and Horace have fallen far short of this poetry.

We were, therefore, correct in the observation that to Chris
tianity St. Pierre owes his talent for delineating the scenery of
nature ; to Christianity he owes it, because the doctrines of our
religion, by destroying the divinities of mythology, have re
stored truth and majesty to the deserts j to Christianity he owes
it, because he has found in the system of Moses the genuine sys
tem of nature.

But here another advantage presents itself to the Christian
poet. If his religion gives him a solitary nature, he likewise
may have an inhabited nature. He may, if he choose, place
angels to take care of the forests and the abysses of the deep, or
commit to their charge the luminaries and spheres of heaven.
This leads us to the consideration of the supernatural beings, or
the marvellous, of Christianity.

1 The reader will ee some fine examples of this when we come to treat of
the Missions.

CHRISTIAN AND PAGAN DIVINITIES 309

CHAPTER IV.

HAVE THE DIVINITIES OF PAGANISM, IN A POETICAL POINT OP
VIEW, THE SUPERIORITY OVER THE CHRISTIAN DIVINITIES? 1

"WE admit/ impartial persons may say, " that, in regard to
men, Christianity has furnished a department of the drama which
was unknown to mythology, and that it has likewise created the
genuine descriptive poetry. Here are two advantages which we
acknowledge, and which may, in some measure, justify your prin
ciples, and counterbalance the beauties of fable. But now, if you
are candid, you must allow that the divinities of paganism, when
they act directly and for themselves, are more poetic and more
dramatic than the Christian divinities."

At first sight, we might be inclined to this opinion. The gods
of the ancients, sharing our virtues and our vices, having, like
us, bodies liable to pain and irritable passions, mingling with the
human race, and leaving here below a mortal posterity, these
gods are but a species of superior men. Hence we may be led
to imagine that they furnish poetry with greater resources than
the incorporeal and impassible divinities of Christianity ; but on
a closer examination we find this dramatic superiority reduced to
a mere trifle.

In the first place, there have always been, in every religion,
two species of deity, one for the poet and the other for the phi
losopher. 2 Thus the abstract Being so admirably delineated by
Tertullian and St. Augustin is not the Jehovah of David or of
Isaias : both are far superior to the Theos of Plato or the Jupiter
of Homer. It is not, therefore, strictly true that the poetic divini
ties of the Christians are wholly destitute of passions. The God

1 The word divinities here is employed in a wide sense, embracing the inhab
itants of the spirit-world. T.

2 That is, in the representation or delineation of the Deity by means of
human language. T.

310 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

of the Scriptures repents, he is jealous, he loves, he hates, his
wrath is roused like a whirlwind ; the Son of man takes pity
on our distresses} the Virgin, the saints, and the angels, arc
melted by the spectacle of our afflictions, and Paradise, in
general, is much more deeply interested in behalf of man than
Olympus.

There are passions, therefore, among our celestial powers, 1 and
these passions have this great advantage over those of the gods
of paganism, that they never lead to any idea of depravity and
vice It is indeed very remarkable that, in depicting the indig
nation or the sorrow of the Christian heaven, it is impossible to
destroy the sentiment of tranquillity and joy in the imagination
of the reader; such is the sanctity and the justice of the God
that is pointed out by our religion.

This is not all : for if you positively insist that the God of the
Christians is an impassible being, still you may have impassioned
divinities, equally dramatic and equally malignant with those of
antiquity. In hell are concentrated all the passions of men. To
us our theological system appears more beautiful, more regular,
more scientific, than the fabulous doctrine which intermingled
men, gods, and demons. In our heaven the poet finds perfect
beings, but yet endued with sensibility and ranged in a brilliant
hierarchy of love and power ; the abyss confines its gods impas
sioned and potent in evil, like the gods of mythology ; men hold
the middle place, men, allied to heaven by their virtues and to
hell by their vices, men, beloved of the angels, hated by the
devils, the unfortunate objects of a war that shall never terminate
but with the world.

These are powerful agents, and the poet has no reason to com
plain. As to the actions of the Christian intelligences, it will not
be a difficult task to prove that they are more vast and more
mighty than those of the mythological divinities. Can the God
who governs the spheres, who propels the comets, who creates
the universe and light, who embraces and comprehends all ages,
who penetrates into the most secret recesses of the human heart,
can this God be compared with a deity who rides abroad in a
car, who lives in a palace of gold on a petty mountain, and who

1 Or rather, thrv are attributed to them by mankind.

CHRISTIAN AND PAGAN DIVINITIES. 311

has not even a clear foresight of the future ? There is not so
much as the slight advantage arising from visible forms and the
difference of sex but what our divinities share with those of
Greece, since the angels in Scripture frequently assume the
human figure, and the hierarchy of saints is composed of men
and women.

But who can prefer a saint whose history sometimes offends
against elegance and taste, to the graceful Naiad attached to the
sources of a stream ? It is necessary to separate the terrestrial
from the celestial life of this saint on earth she was but a wo
man ; her divinity begins only with her happiness in the regions
of eternal light. You must, moreover, continue to bear in mind
that the Naiad was incompatible with descriptive poetry, that a
stream represented in its natural course is much more pleasing
than in its allegorical delineation, and that we gain on one hand
what we seem to lose on the other.

In regard to battles, whatever has been advanced against Mil
ton s angels may be retorted upon the gods of Homer. In the one
case, as in the other, they are divinities for whom we have no
thing to fear, since they are not liable to death. Mars over
thrown and covering nine acres with his body, Diana giving
Venus a blow on the ear, are as ridiculous as an angel cut in two
and the severed parts uniting again like a serpent. The super
natural powers may still preside over the engagements of the
epic ; but, in our opinion, they ought not to interfere except in
certain cases, which it is the province of taste alone to determine;
this the superior genius of Virgil suggested to him more than
eighteen hundred years ago.

That the Christian divinities, however, have a ridiculous posi
tion in battle is not a settled point. Satan preparing to engage
with Michael in the terrestrial paradise is magnificent ; the God
of Hosts advancing in a dark cloud at the head of his faithful
legions is not a puny image j the exterminating sword, suddenly
unsheathed before the rebel angels, strikes with astonishment and
terror ; the sacred armies of heaven, sapping the foundations of
Jerusalem, produce as grand an effect as the hostile gods besieg
ing Priam s palace : finally, there is nothing more sublime in
Homer than the conflict between Emanuel and the reprobate
spirits in Milton, when, plunging them into the abyss, the Son of

312 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

man " checked his thunder in mid-volley," lest he should anni-
hilate them.

Hell heard the unsufferable noise; hell saw
Heaven running from heaven, and would have fled
Affrighted ; but strict fate had cast too deep
Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound.

CHAPTER V.

CHARACTER OF THE TRUE GOD.

WE are filled with admiration when we consider that the God
of Jacob is also the God of the gospel ; that the God who hurls
the thunderbolt is likewise the God of peace and innocence.

He forms the bud, he swells the ripening fruit,
And gives the flowers their thousand lovely hues,

Dispenses sun or rain as best may suit,
And bids cool night distil refreshing dews.

We are of opinion that there is no need of proof to demonstrate
how superior, in a poetical point of view, the God of Christians
is to the Jupiter of antiquity. At the command of the former,
rivers roll back to their sources, the heavens are folded like a
book, the seas are divided, the dead rise from their tombs, and
plagues are poured forth upon nations. In him the sublime ex
ists of itself; and you are spared the trouble of seeking it. The
Jupiter of Homer, shaking the heavens with a nod, is doubtless
highly majestic; but Jehovah descends into the chaos; he pro
nounces the words, "Let there be light/ and the fabulous sou
of Saturn dwindles to nothing.

When Jupiter would give the other deities an idea of his power,
he threatens to carry them off by the end of a chain. Jehovah
needs no chain, nor any thing of the kind.

What needs his mighty arm our puny aid?
In vain the monarchs of the earth combined
Would strive to shake his throne; a single glance
Dissolves their impious league ; he speaks, and straight
His foes lomtniugle with their native dust.

CHARACTER OF THE TRUE GOD. 813

At his dread voice affrighted ocean flees,
And heaven itself doth tremble. In his sight
The countless spheres that glow in yon expanse
Are nothing, and the feeble race of mortals
As though it ne er had been. 1

When Achilles prepares to avenge Patroclus, Jupiter announces
to the immortals that they are at liberty to take part in the con
flict. All Olympus is immediately convulsed :

Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls,
And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles.
Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground;
The forests wave, the mountains nod around ;
Through all their summits tremble Ida s woods,
And from their sources boil her hundred floods.
Troy s turrets totter on the rocking plain ;
And the tossed navies beat the heaving main.
Deep in the dismal regions of the dead
The infernal monarch reared his horrid head, &c. 2

This passage has been quoted by all critics as the utmost effort
of the sublime. The Greek verses are admirable : they present
successively the thunder of Jupiter, the trident of Neptune, and
the shriek of Pluto. You imagine that you hear the thunder ^
roar reverberating through all the valleys of Ida.

The sounds of the words which occur in this line are a good
imitation of the peals of thunder, divided, as it were, by intervals
of silence, toy, re, wv, re. Thus does the voice of heaven, in a
tempest, alternately rise and fall in the recesses of the forests.
A sudden and painful silence, vague and fantastic images, rapidly
succeed the tumult of the first movements. After Pluto s shriek
you feel as if you had entered the empire of death the expres
sions of Homer drop their force and coloring, while a multitude
of hissings imitate the murmur of the inarticulate voices of the
shades.

Where shall we find a parallel to this ? Has Christian poetry
the means of equalling such beauties ? Let the reader judge.
In the following passage the Almighty describes himself :

" There went up a smoke in his wrath, and a fire flamed from
his face j coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens and
came down, and darkness was under his feet. And he ascended

i Racine s Esther. 2 Pope s Homer, book xx. 75-84.

314 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

apon the cherubim, and he flew upon the wings of the winds
And he made darkness his covert, his pavilion round about him
dark waters in the clouds of the air. And the Lord thundered
from heaven, and the highest gave his voice j hail and coals of
fire. At the brightness before him the clouds passed, hail and
coals of fire. And he sent forth his arrows, and he scattered
them : he multiplied lightnings, and troubled them. Then the
fountains of waters appeared, and the foundations of the world
were discovered. At thy rebuke, Lord, at the blast of the
spirit of thy wrath/ 1

"It must be admitted," says La Harpe, "that there is as much
difference between this species of the sublime and any other as
between the spirit of God and the spirit of man. Here we behold
the conception of the grand in its principle. The rest is but a
shadow of it, as created intelligence is but a feeble emanation of
the Intelligence that creates, as a fiction, however excellent, is
but a shadow of truth, and derives all its merit from a funda
mental resemblance."

CHAPTER VI.

OF THE SPIRITS OF DARKNESS.

THE deities of polytheism, nearly equal in power, shared the
same antipathies and the same affections. If they happened
to be opposed to each other, it was only in the quarrels of mor
tals. They were soon reconciled by drinking nectar together.

Christianity, on the contrary, by acquainting us with the real
constitution of supernatural beings, has exhibited to us the em
pire of virtue eternally separated from that of vice. It has re
vealed to us spirits of darkness incessantly plotting the ruin of
mankind, and spirits of light solely intent on the means of saving
them. Hence arises an eternal conflict, which opens to the imagi
nation a source of numberless beauties.

1 Psalm xvii.

SPIRITS OF DARKNESS. 315

This sublime species of the marvellous furnishes an ther kind
of an inferior order; that is to say, magic. This last was
known to the ancients; but among us it has acquired, as a
poetic machine, higher importance and increased extent. Care
must, however, be always taken to employ it with discretion, be
cause it is not in a style sufficiently chaste. It is above all defi
cient in grandeur; for, borrowing some portion of its power from
human nature, men communicate to it something of their own in
significance.

A distinguishing feature in our supernatural beings, especially
in the infernal powers, is the attribution of a character. We
shall presently see what use Milton has made of the character of
pride, assigned by Christianity to the prince of darkness. Having,
moreover, the liberty to assign a wicked spirit to each vice, he
thus disposes of a host of infernal divinities. Nay, more; he
then obtains the genuine allegory without having the insipidity
which accompanies it; as these perverse spirits are, in fact, real
beings, and such as our religion authorizes us to consider them.

But, if the demons are as numerous as the crimes of men, they
may also be coupled with the tremendous incidents of nature.
Whatever is criminal and irregular in the moral or in the physical
world is alike within their province. Care must only be taken
when they are introduced in earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and
the gloomy recesses of an aged forest, to give these scenes a
majestic character. The poet should, with exquisite taste, make
a distinction between the thunder of the Most High and the
empty noise raised by a perfidious spirit. Let not the lightnings
be kindled but in the hands of God. Let them never burst from
the storm excited by the powers of hell. Let the latter be always
sombre and ominous. Let not its clouds be reddened by wrath
or propelled by the wind of justice. Let them be pale and livid,
like those of despair, and be driven by the impure blasts of
hatred alone. In these storms there should be felt a power
mighty only in destruction. There should be found that incon
gruity, that confusion, that kind of energy for evil, which has
something disproportionate and gigantic, like the chaos whence it
derives its origin.

316 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER VII.

OF THE SAINT"

IT is certain that the poets have not availed themselves of all
the stores with which the marvellous of Christianity is capable of
supplying the Muses. Philosophers may laugh at the saints and
angels; but had not the ancients themselves their demi-gods?
Pythagoras, Plato, Socrates, recommend the worship of those mor
tals whom they denominate heroes. " Honor the heroes full of
benignity and intelligence," says the first in his Golden Verses;
and, that the term heroes may not be mistaken, Hierocles inter
prets it exactly in the same manner as Christianity explains the
appellation of saint. " These heroes, full of benignity and intelli
gence, are always thinking of their Creator, and are resplendent
with the light reflected by the felicity which they enjoy in him."
"The term heroes," says he in another place, " comes from a
Greek word that signifies love, to intimate that, full of love for
God, the heroes seek only to assist us to pass from this earthly
state to a divine life, and to become citizens of heaven." 1 The
fathers of the Church also give to the saints the appellation of
heroes. In this sense they say that baptism is the priesthood of
the laity, and that it makes all Christians kings and priests unto
God ? and heroes assuredly were all those illustrious martyrs
who, subduing the passions of their hearts and defying the malig
nity of men, have, by their glorious efforts, deserved a place among
the celestial powers. Under polytheism sophists sometimes ap
peared more moral than the religion of their country; but among
us, never has a philosopher, however extraordinary his wisdom,
risen higher than Christian morality. While Socrates honored
the memory of the just, paganism held forth to the veneration of
the people villains, whose corporeal strength was their only virtue
and who were polluted with every specie&gt; of crime. If the
honors of apotheosis were conferred on good kings, had not also

1 Hierocl., Com. in Pyth. 2 Hieron., Dial. cont. Lvcif., i. ii. p. 136.

THE SAINTS. 317

a Tiberius and a Nero their priests and their temples? Holy
mortals whom the Church of Christ commands us to revere, ye
were neither the strong nor the mighty among men ! Born, many
of you, in the cottage of indigence, ye have exhibited to the world
nothing more than an humble life and obscure misfortunes. Shall
we never hear aught but blasphemies against a religion which,
deifying indigence, hardship, simplicity, and virtue, has laid pros
trate at their feet wealth, prosperity, splendor, and vice ?

What is there so incompatible with poetry in those anchorets
of Thebais, with their white staves and their garments of palm-
leaves? The birds of heaven bring them food; 1 the lions of the
desert carry their messages 3 or dig their graves. 3 Familiars of
the angels, they fill with miracles the deserts where Memphis
once stood, 4 and Horeb and Sinai, Cannel and Lebanon, the brook
Cedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat, still proclaim the glory of
the monk and of the hermit of the rock. The Muses love to
meditate in these antique cloisters, peopled with the shades of
an Anthony, a Pachomius, a Benedict, and a Basil. The apostles
preaching the gospel to the first believers in catacombs, or beneath
the date-tree of the desert, were not, in the eyes of a Michael
Angelo or a Raphael, subjects so exceedingly unfavorable to
genius.

As we shall recur to the subject in the sequel, we shall at
present say nothing concerning all those benefactors of mankind
who founded hospitals and devoted themselves to the miseries of
poverty, pestilence, and slavery, in order to relieve the afflicted.
We shall confine ourselves to the Scriptures alone, lest we become
bewildered in a subject so vast and so interesting. May we not
suppose, then, that the Josues, the Eliases, the Isaiases, the Jere-
miases, the Daniels, in a word, all those prophets who are now
enjoying eternal life, could breathe forth their sublime lamenta
tions in exquisite poetry? Cannot the urn of Jerusalem still be
filled with their tears? Are there no more willows of Babylon
upon which they may hang their unstrung harps ? As for us,
though we pretend not to a rank among the poets, we think that

1 Hieron., in Vit. Paul. 2 Theod., Hist. Relig., chap. vi. 3 Hieron., lUd.
4 We here make but slight mention of these recluses, because we shall speak
of them in another place.
27*

318 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

these som of prophecy would form very striking groups among
the clouds. Picture to yourselves their heads encircled with ra-
d iance, silvery beards sweeping their immortal breasts, and the
Spirit of God himself beaming from their resplendent eyes.

But what a host of venerable shades is roused by the strain*
of the Christian Muse in the cavern of Mambre ! Abraham,
Isaac, Jacob, Rebecca, and all ye children of the East, ye patri
archs, kings, and ancestors of Jesus Christ, sing the ancient
covenant between God and man ! Repeat to us that history,
dear to heaven, the history of Joseph and his brethren ! The
choir of holy monarchs, with David at their head, the army of
confessors and martyrs clad in bright robes, would also furnish
us with some exquisite touches of the marvellous. The latter
supply the pencil with the tragic style in its highest elevation.
Having depicted their sufferings, we might relate what God ac
complished for those holy victims, and touch upon the gift of
miracles with which he honored their tombs. Then we would
station near these august choirs the band of heavenly virgins, the
Genevieves, the Pulcherias, the Rosalias, the Cecilias, the Lu-
cillas, the Isabellas, the Eulalias. The marvellous of Christianity
presents the most pleasing contrasts.

; Tis well known how Neptune,

Rising from the deep,
Calms with a single word the infuriate waves.

Our doctrines furnish us with a very different kind of poetry.
A ship is on the point of perishing. The chaplain, by mysterious
words which absolve the soul, remits to each one the guilt of his
sins. He addresses Heaven in that prayer which, amid the up
roar of the elements, commends the spirits of the shipwrecked
to the God of tempests. Already the abysses of ocean yawn to
engulf the ill-fated vessel. Already the billows, raising their
dismal voices among the rocks, seem to begin the funeral dirge;
but suddenly a ray of light bursts through the storm. Mary, the
star of the sea, the patroness of mariners, appears in the midst of
a cloud. She holds her chile i i her arms, and calms the waves
with a smile. Charming religion, which opposes to what is most
terrific in nature what is most lovely on earth and in heaven, to
whe tempests of ocean a little infant and a tender mother !

THE ANGELS. 319

CHAPTER VIII.

OF THE ANGELS.

SUCH is the kind of marvellous which may be derived from
our saints without entering into the varied history of their lives.
But we discover also in the hierarchy of the angels, a doctrine as
ancient as the world, an immense treasure for the poet. Not
only are the commands of the Most High conveyed from one
extremity of the universe to the other by these divine mes
sengers, not only are they the invisible guardians of men, or
assume, when they would manifest themselves, the most lovely
forms, but religion permits us to assign tutelary angels to the
beautiful incidents of nature as well as to the virtuous senti
ments. What an innumerable multitude of divinities is thus all
at once introduced to people the spheres !

Among the Greeks, heaven terminated at the summit of Mount
Olympus, and their gods ascended no higher than the vapors of
the earth. The marvellous of Christianity, harmonizing with
reason, astronomy, and the expansion of the soul, penetrates from
world to world, from universe to universe, through successions
of space from which the astonished imagination recoils. In vain
does the telescope explore every corner of the heavens ; in vain
does it pursue the comet through our system; the comet at
length flies beyond their reach ; but it cannot delude the arch
angel, who rolls it on to its unknown pole, and who, at the ap
pointed time, will bring it back by mysterious ways into the very
focus of our sun.

The Christian poet alone is initiated into the secret of these
wonders. From globe to globe, from sun to sun, with the sera
phim, thrones, and dominations that govern the spheres, the
weary imagination again descends to earth, like a river which, by
a magnificent cascade, pours forth its golden current opposite to
the sun setting in radiant majesty. From grand and imposing
images you pass to those which are soft and attractive. In the
shady forest you traverse the domain of the Angel of Solitude;

820 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

in the soft moonlight you find the Genius of the musing heart;
you hear his sighs in the murmur of the woods and in the plain
tive notes of Philomela. The roseate tints of the dawn are the
streaming hair of the Angel of Morning. The Angel of Night
reposes in the midst of the firmament like the moon slumbering
upon a cloud ; his eyes are covered with a bandage of stars, while
his feet and his forehead are tinged with blushes of twilight and
Aurora; an Angel of Silence goes before him, and he is followed
by the Angel of Mystery. Let us not wrong the poets by think
ing that they look upon the Angel of the Seas, the Angel of
Tempests, the Angel of Time, and the Angel of Death, as spirits
disagreeable to the Muses. The Angel of Holy Love gives the
virgin a celestial look, and the Angel of Harmony adorns her
with graces; the good man owes the uprightness of his heart
to the Angel of Virtue and the power of his words to the Angel
of Persuasion. There is nothing to prevent our assigning to
these beneficent spirits attributes distinctive of their powers and
functions. The Angel of Friendship, for instance, might wear a
girdle infinitely more wonderful than the cestus of Venus; foi
here might be seen, interwoven by a divine hand, the consola
tions of the soul, sublime devotion, the secret aspirations of the
heart, innocent joys, pure religion, the charm of the tombs, and
immortal hope. 1

1 If we except Milton, never was a more poetical use made of the agency of
the heavenly messengers than by Addison in the Campaign. He thus sublimely
depicts the Angel of Vengeance :

So, when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o er pale Britannia past,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,
And, pleased the Almighty s orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.

CHARACTER OF SATAN. 321

CHAPTER IX.

APPLICATION OF THE PRINCIPLES ESTABLISHED IN THE PRE
CEDING CHAPTERS CHARACTER OF SATAN.

FROM precepts let us pass to examples. On resuming the
subject of the preceding chapters, we shall begin with the cha
racter ascribed to the fallen angels by Milton.

Dante and Tasso had, prior to the English poet, depicted the
monarch of hell. The imagination of Dante, exhausted by nine
circles of torment, has made simply an atrocious monster of Satan,
locked up in the centre of the earth. Tasso, by giving him horns,
has almost rendered him ridiculous. Misled by these authorities,
Milton had, for a moment, the bad taste to measure his Satan ;
but he soon recovers himself in a sublime manner. Hear the
exclamation of the Prince of Darkness from the summit of a
mountain of fire, whence he surveys, for the first time, his new
dominions :*

Farewell, happy fields,

Where joy forever dwells ! hail, horrors, hail !
Infernal world, and thou profoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor; one who brings
A rnind not to be changed by place or time !

Here at least

We shall be free

Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell.

What a mode of taking possession of the infernal abyss !
The council of fallen spirits being assembled, the poet thus
represents Satan in the midst of his senate : 3

His form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory, obscured; as when the sun new risen
Looks through the horizontal, misty air,
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon
In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone

Paradise Lost, b. i. 249. 2 Paradise Lost, b. i. 591.

322 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Above them all the Archangel: but his face
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and car*
Sat on his faded cheek

Let us complete the delineation of the character of Satan.
Having escaped from hell and reached the earth, overwhelmed
with despair, while contemplating the universe, he thus apostm-
phizes the sun :*

Oh thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Look st from thy sole dominion, like the God
Of this new world, at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads, to thee t call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,

Sur , to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state

1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in heaven against heaven s matchless King.
Ah, wherefore ! he deserved no such return

From me, whom he created what I was

In that bright eminence

Lifted up so high,

I sdained subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit

The debt immense of endless gratitude

Oh, had his powerful destiny ordained

Me some inferior angel, I had stood

Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised

Ambition

Me miserable ! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and Infinite despair?

Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell

Oh then at last relent : is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission ; and that word
Disdain fodoids me, and the dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts,
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent Ah me ! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell. . . .

But say I could repent, and could obtain
By act of grace my former state ; how soon
Would height recall my thoughts ! how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore !

1 Paradise Lost, b. iv., from verse 33 to 1 13, with a few omissions. See note S.

CHARACTER OF SATAN. 323

This knows my punisher ; therefore as far

From granting he as I from begging peace:

All hope excluded thus, behold, instead

Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,

Mankind created, and for him this world.

So farewell hope, and, with hope, farewell fear,

Farewell remorse ; all good to me is lost ;

Evil, be thou my good : by thee, at least,

Divided empire with heaven s King I hold

By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign,

As man ere long and this new world shall know.

How exalted soever may be our admiration of Homer, we are
obliged to admit that lie has nothing which can be compared to
this passage. When, in conjunction with the grandeur of the
subject, the excellence of the poetry, the natural elevation of the
characters, so intimate an acquaintance with the passions is dis
played, what more can justly be required of genius ? Satan
repenting when he beholds the light, which he hates because it
reminds him how much more glorious was once his own con
dition; afterward wishing that he had been created of an inferioi
rank j then hardening himself in guilt by pride, by shame, and
by mistrust itself of his ambitious cliaracter ; finally, as the sole
result of his reflections, and as if to atone for a transient re
morse, taking upon himself the empire of evil throughout all
eternity this is certainly one of the most sublime conceptions
that ever sprang from the imagination of a poet.

An idea here strikes us, which we cannot forbear to communi
cate. Whoever possesses discernment and a knowledge of his
tory, must perceive that Milton has introduced into the character
of Satan the perverseness of those men, who about the middle
of the seventeenth century filled England with mourning and
wretchedness. You even discover in him the same obstinacy,
the same enthusiasm, the same pride, the same spirit of rebellion
and intolerance ; you meet with the principles of those infamous
levellers, who, seceding from the religion of their country, shook
off the yoke of all legitimate government, revolting at once
against God and man. Milton had himself imbibed this spirit
of perdition; and the poet could not have imagined a Satan so
detestable, unless he had seen his image in one of those repro
bates who, for such a length of time, transformed their country
into n real abode of demons.

324 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER X.

POETICAL MACHINERY.

Venus in the woods of Carthage Raphael in the bowers of Eden
WE shall now quote some examples of poetical machinery.
Venus appearing to Muezs in the woods of Carthage is a passage
composed in the most graceful style. " His mother, pursuing
the same path across the forest, suddenly stands before him. She
had the figure and the face of a nymph, and was armed after the
manner of the virgins of Tyre."

This poetry is charming j but has the bard of Eden fallen short
of it, when describing the arrival of the angel Raphael at the
bower of our first parents ?

Six wings he wore, to shade
His lineaments divine ; the pair that clad
Each shoulder broad came mantling o er his breast
With regal ornament ; the middle pair
Girt like a starry zone his waist ;

.... the third his feet
Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail

Sky-tinctured grain He stood

And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled
The circuit wide

.... He now is come

Into the blissful field through groves of myrrh
And flowering odors, cassia, nard, and balm,
A wilderness of sweets ; for Nature here
Wantoned as in her prime, and played at will

Her virgin fancies

Him through the spicy forest onward come,
Adam discerned, as in the door he sat,

.... and thus he called :
Haste hither, Eve, and worth thy sight behold,
Eastward among those trees what glorious shape
Comes this way moving j seems another morn
Risen on mid-noon.

In this passage, Milton, little inferior in grace to Virgil, sur-
the Ronan poet in sanctity and grandeur. Raphael is

THE ANGEL RAPHAEL. 325

more beautiful than Venus, Eden more delicious than the woods
of Carthage, and ^neas is a cold and insignificant character in
comparison with the majestic father of mankind.

Here is a description of one of Klopstock s mystical angels :
"The first-born of the Thrones quickly descended toward
Gabriel, to conduct him in solemn state into the presence of Ae
Most High. By the Eternal he is called the Elect, and by H* *-
ven, Eloa. He is the highest of all created beings, and next m
rank to the Essence increate ; a single thought of his is as beau
tiful as the whole soul of man when, worthy of immortality, it is
absorbed in profound meditation. His looks are more lovely than
the vernal morn ; brighter than the stars when, in youthful splen
dor, they issued from their Creator s hands to run their appointed
courses. He was the first being that God created. From the
crimson dawn he formed his ethereal body. When he received
existence, a heaven of clouds floated around him ; God himself
raised him -from them in his arms, and, blessing him, said, Crea
ture, here afn, I!" 1

Raphael is the external, Eloa the internal, angel. The Mer
curies and the Apollos of mythology seem to us less divine than
these genii of Christianity.

The gods in Homer fight with each other on several occasions ;
but we there meet with nothing superior to the preparations of
Satan for giving battle to Gabriel in paradise, or to the over
throw of the rebel legions by the thunderbolts of Emanuel. The
divinities of the Iliad several times rescue their favorite heroes
by covering them with a cloud; but this machine has been most
happily transferred to Christian poetry by Tasso, when he intro
duces Solyman into Jerusalem. 2 The car enveloped in vapor,
the invisible journey of an aged enchanter and a hero through
the camp of the Christians, the secret gate of Herod, the al
lusions to ancient times interwoven with a rapid narrative, the
warrior who attends a council without being seen, and who shows
himself only to urge Jerusalem to make a longer resistance, all
this marvellous machinery, though of the magic kind, possesses
extraordinary excellence.

It may perhaps be objected that paganism has at least the

Metaias., Erst. ges. v. 286, Ac. " Book x.

326 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

superiority over Christianity in the description of the voluptuous
What shall we say, then, of Armida ? Is she devoid of charms
when, leaning over the forehead of the slumbering Renaud, the
dagger drops from her hand and her hatred is transformed into
love ? Is Ascanius, concealed by Venus in the Cytherean forests,
more pleasing than the young hero of Tasso who is bound with
flowery chains and transported to the Fortunate Isles ? There is
certainly no excess of the serious in those gardens whose only
fault is to be too enchanting or in those loves that require only
to be covered with a veil. We find in this episode even the
cestus of Venus, the omission of which in other places has been
BO much regretted. If discontented critics would have the use
of magic altogether banished from poetry, the spirits of darkness
might become the principal actors themselves, instead of being
the agents of men. The facts recorded in the Lives of the Saints
would authorize such imagery, and the demon of sensualism has
always been considered as one of the most dangerous *iwl most
powerful among the infernal spirits.

CHAPTER XL

DREAM OF AENEAS DREAM OF ATHALIE.

WE have now but two species of poetic machinery to treat of
the journeys of the gods, and dreams.

To begin with the latter, we shall select the dream of
on the fatal night of the destruction of Troy, which the
himself thus relates to Dido :

Twas in the dead of night, when sleep repairs
Otr bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares,
"When Hector s ghost before my sight appears :
A bloody shroud he seemed, and bathed in tears.
Such as he was when, by Pelides slain,
Thessalian coursers dragged him o er the plain.
Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust
Through the bored holes, his body black with dust;
Unlike that Hector who returned from toils
Of war triumphant in JEacian spoils,

DREAM OF JENEAS 327

Or him who made the fainting Greeks retire,

And launched against their navy Phrygian fire.

His hair and beard stood stiftened with his gore,

And all the wounds he for his country bore

Now streamed afresh, and with new purple ran.

I wept to see the visionary man,

And while my trance continued thus began :

light of Trojans and support of Troy,

Thy father s champion and thy country s joy !

long-expected by thy friends ! from whence

Art thou so late returned for our defence?

Do we behold thee, wearied as we are

With length of labors and with toils of war?

After so many funerals of thy own,

Art thou restored to our declining town ?

But say, what wounds are these ? what new disgrace

Deforms the manly features of thy face ?

To this the spectre no reply did frame,

But answered to the cause for which he came,

And, groaning from the bottom of his breast,

This warning in these mournful words expressed :

goddess-born ! escape, by timely flight,

The flames and horrors of this fatal night;

The foes already have possessed the wall;

Troy nods from high and totters to her fall.

Enough is paid to Priam s royal name,

More than enough to duty and to fame.

If by a mortal hand my father s throne

Could be defended, twas by mine alone :

Now Troy to thee commends her future state,

And gives her gods companions of thy fate :

From their assistance happier walls expect,

Which, wandering long, at last thou shalt erect.

He said, and brought me from their blest abodes

The venerable statues of the gods,

With ancient Vesta from the sacred choir,

The wreaths and relics of the immortal fire. 1

This dream deserves particular attention, because it is an epi
tome, as it were, of Virgil s genius, and displays, in a narrow
compass, all the species of beauties peculiar to that poet.

We are struck, in the first place, with the contrast between
this terrific dream and the peaceful hour in which it is sent by
the. gods to JEneas. No one has referred to times and places
with more impressive effect than the Mantuan poet. Here it is

1 Dryden s Virgil, book ii.

328 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

a tomb, there some affecting adventure, that determines the limit?
of a country } a new city bears an ancient appellation ; a foreign
stream assumes the name of a river in one s native land. As to
the hours, Virgil has almost always coupled the most tranquil
time with the most distressing events, producing a contrast re
plete with melancholy, and which recalls the philosophic moral
that nature fulfils her laws undisturbed by the petty revolutions
in human things.

The delineation of Hector s ghost is also worthy of notice. The
phantom, surveying j&neas in silence, his big tears, his swollen
feet, are minor circumstances of which the great painter invari
ably avails himself to give identity to the object. The words of
JEneas quantum mutatus ab illo I are the exclamation of a hero,
duly sensible of Hector s merits and taking a retrospective view
of the whole history of Troy. In the squallentem barbam et con-
cretos sanguine crines you see the perfect spectre. But Virgil,

after his manner, suddenly changes the idea : Vulnera

circum plurima muros accepit patrios. How comprehensive are
these words ! a eulogy on Hector, the memory of his misfortunes
and those of his country, for which he received so many wounds.
lux Dard anise ! Spes 6 fidissima Teucrum ! are exclamations
fraught with genuine ardor. How deeply pathetic and how
keenly painful do they render the succeeding words : ut te post
multa tuorum funera . . . adspicimus! Alas! this is the his
tory of those who leave their country. On their return we may
address them in the words of ^Eneas to Hector :

After so many funerals of thy own,

Art thou restored to our declining town ?*

The silence of Hector, his deep sigh, followed by the exhorta
tion, fuge, eripe Jlammis, are also striking circumstances, and
cannot fail to produce effects of terror and consternation in the
mind of the reader. The last trait in the picture combines the
twofold imagery of dream and vision ; and it seems as if the
spectre were removing Troy itself from the earth when he hur
ries off with the statue of Vesta and the sacred fire in his arms.

There is, moreover, in this dream, a beauty derived from the

1 The author could not refrain from this observation, after having expe
rienced tke truth of it in all its terrible reality. E.

DREAM OF ATHALIE. 329

very nature of the thing, ^neas at first rejoices to see Hector,
under the impression that he is yet alive ; he then alludes to the
misfortunes that have befallen Troy since the death of the hero.
The state in which he beholds him is not sufficient to remind him
of his fate ; he asks, whence proceed those wounds f and yet tells
you that he thus appeared the day on which he was dragged
round the walls of Ilion. Such is the incoherence of the ideas,
sentiments, and images, of a dream.

It is a high gratification to us to find among the Christian
poets something that rivals, and that perhaps surpasses, this
dream. In poetry, tragic effect, and religion, these two delinea
tions are equal, and Virgil is once more repeated in Racine.

Athalie, under Ihe portico of the temple of Jerusalem, thus
relates her dream to Abner and Mathan :

Twas in^he dead of night, when horror reigns,

My mother Jezabel appeared before me,

Richly attired as on the day she died.

Her sorrows had not damped her noble pride ;

She even still retained those borrowed charms

Which, to conceal the irreparable ravage

Of envious time, she spread upon her cheeks.

"Tremble," said she, "0 daughter worthy of me!

The Hebrews cruel God gainst thee prevails j

I grieve that into his tremendous hands

Thou too must fall, my daughter !" As she spoke

These awful words, her shadow toward my bed

Appeared to stoop; I stretched my arms to meet her

But grasped in my embrace a frightful mass

Of bones and mangled flesh besmeared with mire,

Garments all dyed with gore, and shattered limbs,

Which greedy dogs seemed eagerly to fight for.

It would be difficult to decide, in this place, between Virgil
and Racine. Both dreams are alike drawn from the character
of their respective religions. Virgil is more melancholy, Racine
more terrific. The latter would have missed his object, and be
trayed an ignorance of the gloomy spirit of the Hebrew doctrines,
if, after the example of the former, he had placed the dream of
Athalie in a peaceful hour. As he is about to perform much, so
also he promises much in the verse

Twas in the dead of night, when horror reigns.

In Racine there is a conformity, and in Virgil a contrast, of
images.

28*

330 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The scene announced by the apparition of Hector that is to
ay, the destruction of a great nation and the foundation of the
Roman empire would be much more magnificent than the fall of
a single queen, if Joas, rekindling the to~ch of David, did not
show us in the distance the coming of the Messiah and the re
formation of all mankind.

The two poets exhibit the same excellence, though we prefer
the passage in Racine. As Hector first appeared to tineas, so
he remained to the end ; but the borrowed pomp of Jezabel, so
suddenly contrasted with her gory and lacerated form, is a change
of person which gives to Racine s verse a beauty not possessed
by that of Virgil. The mother s ghost, also, bending over her
daughter s bed, as if to conceal itself, and then all at once trans
formed into mangled bones and flesh, is one of those frightful
circumstances which are characteristic of the phantom.

CHAPTER XII.

POETICAL MACHINERY, CONTINUED.

Journeys of Homer s gods Satan s expedition in quest of the
New Creation.

WE now come to that part of poetic machinery which is derived
from the journeys of supernatural beings. This is one of the de
partments of the marvellous in which Homer has displayed the
greatest sublimity. Sometimes he tells you that the car of the
god flies like the thought of a traveller, who calls to mind in a
moment all the regions that he has visited; at others he says,
"Far as a man seated on a rock on the brink of ocean can see
around him, so far the immortal coursers sprang forward at every
bound."

But, whatever may be the genius of Homer and the majesty
of his gods, his marvellous and all his grandeur are nevertheless
eclipsed by the marvellous of Christianity.

SATAN S EXPEDITION. 331

Satan, having reached the gates of hell, which are opened for
him by sin and death, prepares to go in quest of the creation. 1

The gates wide open stood,

And like a furnace mouth

Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.

Before their eyes in sudden view appear

The secrets of the hoary deep, a dark

Illimitable ocean, without bound,

Without dimension, where length, breadth, and height*

And time and place, are lost; where eldest Night

And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold

Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise

Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. . . .

Into this wild abyss the wary fiend

Stood on the brink of hell, and looked a while,

Pondering his voyage, for no narrow frith

He had to cross

At last his sail-broad vans

He spreads for flight, and, in the surging smoke

Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many a league,

As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides

Audacious ; but that seat soon failing, meets

A vast vacuity ; all unawares,

Fluttering his pennons vain, plump down he drops

Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this hour

Down had been falling, had not, by ill chance,

The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud,

Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him

As many miles aloft; that fury stayed

Quenched in a boggy syrtis, neither sea,

Nor good dry land ; nigh foundered, on he fares,

Treading the crude consistence, half on foot,

Half flying

The fiend

O er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,

With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way,

And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies.

At length, a universal hubbub wild

Of stunning sounds and voices all confused,

Borne through the hollow dark, assaults his ear

With loudest vehemence ; thither he plies,

Undaunted to meet there whatever power

Or spirit of the nethermost abyss

Might in that noise reside, of whom to ask

Which way the nearest coast of darkness lies

&gt; Paradise Lost, book ii. v. 888 to 1050; book iii. v. 501 to 544, with the
omksion of passages here and there.

832 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Bordering on light, when straight behold the throne

Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread

Wide on the wasteful deep; with him enthroned,

Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things,

The consort of his reign ; and by them stood

Rumor and Chance,

And Tumult and Confusion all embroiled,
And Discord with a thousand various mouths,
To whom Satan, turning boldly, thus : Ye Poweri
And Spirits of this nethermost abyss,
Chaos, and ancient Night, I come no spy
With purpose to explore or to disturb
The secrets of your realm, but by constraint
Wandering this darksome desert, as my way
Lies through your spacious empire up to light

Direct my course.

Thus Satan ; and him thus the Anarch old,

With faltering speech and visage incomposed,

Answered: I know thee, stranger, who thou art;

That mighty leading angel, who of late

Made head against heaven s King, though overthrowi

I upon my frontiers here

Keep residence, ........

That little which is left so to defend,
Encroached on still through your intestine broils,
Weakening the sceptre of old Night; first hell,
Your dungeon stretching far and wide beneath;
Now lately heaven and earth, another world,
Hung o er my realm, linked in a golden chain
To that side heaven from whence your legions felL

Go and speed;

Havoc and spoil and ruin are my gain !
He ceased ; and Satan stayed not to reply,
But, glad that now his sea should find a shore,
With fresh alacrity and force renewed,
Springs upward like a pyramid of fire

Into the wild expanse

But now at last the sacred influence

Of light appears, and from the walls of heaven

Shoots far into the bosom of dim night

A glimmering dawn ; here nature first begins

Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire

That Satan with less toil, and now with ease,

Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious light,

And like a weather-beaten vessel holds

Gladly the port,

Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to behold
Far off the empyreal heaven extended wide
With opal towers and battlements adorned

THE CHRISTIAN HELL. 883

Of living sapphire

Far distant he descries,

Ascending, by degrees magnificent,
Up to the wall of heaven, a structure high-
Direct against which opened from beneath

A passage down to the earth.

Satan from hence now on the lower stair,
That scaled by steps of gold to heaven gate,
Looks down with wonder at the sudden view
Of all this world at once.

In the opinion of any impartial person, a religion *hich has
furnished such a sublime species of the marvellous, and more
over inspired the idea of the loves of Adam and Eve, cannot be
an anti-poetical religion. What is Juno, repairing to the limits
of the earth in Ethiopia, to Satan speeding his course from the
depths of Chaos up to the frontiers of nature ? The passages
which we have omitted still heighten the effect; for they seem
to protract the journey of the prince of darkness, and convey to
the reader a vague conception of the infinite space through
which he has passed.

CHAPTEK XIII.

THE CHRISTIAN HELL.

AMONG the many differences which distinguish the Christian
hell from the Tartarus of the ancients, one in particular is well
worthy of remark; that is, the torments which the devils them
selves undergo. Pluto, the Judges, the Fates, the Furies, shared
not the tortures of the guilty. The pangs of our infernal spirits
are therefore an additional field for the imagination, and conse
quently a poetical advantage which our hell possesses over that
of antiquity.

In the Cimmerian plains of the Odyssey, the indistinctness of
the place, the darkness, the incongruity of the objects, the ditch
where the shades assemble to quaff blood, give to the picture
comething awful, and that perhaps bears a nearer resemblance
to the Christian hell than the Taenarus of Virgil. In the latter
may be perceived the progress of the philosophic doctrines of

334 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Greece. The Fates, the Cocytus, the Styx, are to be found with
all their details in the works of Plato. Here commences a dis
tribution of punishments and rewards unknown to Homer. We
.have already observed 1 that misfortune, indigence,, and weak
ness, were, after death, banished by the pagans to a world as
painful as the present. The religion of Jesus Christ has not thus
repudiated the souls of men; on the contrary, it teaches the
unhappy that when they are removed from this world of tribula
tion they shall be conveyed to a place of repose, and that, if
they have thirsted after righteousness in time, they shall enjoy
its rewards in eternity. 3

If philosophy be satisfied, it will not be difficult perhaps to con
vince the Muses. We must admit that no Christian poet has
done justice to the subject of hell. Neither Dante, nor Tasso,
nor Milton, is unexceptionable in this respect. There are some
excellent passages, however, in their descriptions, which show
that if all the parts of the picture had been retouched with equal
care they would have produced a place of torment as poetical as
those of Homer and Virgil.

CHAPTER XIV.

PARALLEL BETWEEN HELL AND TARTARUS.

Entrance of Avernus Dante s gate of Hell Dido Francisca
d Arimino Torments of the damned.

THE description of the entrance of Avernus in the sixth book
of the ^Eneid contains some very finished composition :

Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram,
Perque domos ditis vacuas et inania regna.

Pallentes habitant morbi, tristisque senectus,

1 Part i. book vi.

* The pagan view respecting the infernal region was so manifestly unjust
that Virgil himbelf was compelled to notice it :

.... sortemque animo miseratus iniquam. JEneid, b. vL

HELL AND TARTARUS COMPARED. 335

Et metus, et malesuada fames, et turpis egestas,
Terribiles visu formae ; letumque, laborque,
Turn consanguineus leti sopor, et mala mentis
Gaudia.

Every one who can read Latin must be struck with the mourn-
fhl harmony of these lines. You first hear the bellowing of the
cavern in which the Sibyl and ^Eneas are walking :

Ibant obscuri sola, sub nocte per umbram ;

then you are all at once ushered into desert spaces, into the
regions of vacuity :

Perque domos ditis vacuas et inania regna.

Next come the dull and heavy syllables which admirably repre
sent the deep sighs of hell :

Tristisque senectus, et metus letumque, laborque,

consonances which moreover evince that the ancients were no
strangers to the species of beauty attached by us to rhyme. The
Latins, as well as the Greeks, employed the repetition of sounds
in their pastoral pictures and sombre harmonies.

Dante, like ^neas, at first wanders in a wild forest which con
ceals the entrance to his hell. Nothing can be more awful than
this solitude. He soon reaches the gate, over which he discovers
the well-known inscription :

Per me si va nella citta dolente;
Per me si va nell eterno dolore:
Per me si va tra la perduta gente.

Lasciat* ogni speranza, voi ch entrate.

Here we find precisely the same species of beauties as in the
Latin poet. Every ear must be struck with the monotonous ca
dence of these repeated rhymes, in which the everlasting outcry
of pain which ascends from the depths of the abyss seems alter
nately to burst forth and expire. In the thrice reiterated per me
si vd you may fancy the knell of the dying Christian. The
lasciat ogni speranza is comparable to the grandest trait in the
hell of Virgil.

Milton, after the example of the Mantuan poet, has placed
Death at the entrance of his hell (Letum) as well as Sin, which

336 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

is nothing else than the mala mentis gaudia, the guilty joys of
the heart. The former is thus described by him :

The other shape,
If shape it might be called that shape had none,

Black it stood as Night,

Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,

And shook a dreadful dart. What seemed his head,

The likeness of a kingly crown had on.

Never was phantom represented in a manner more vague and
more terrific. The origin of Death, related by Sin, the manner
in which the echoes of hell repeat the tremendous name when for
the first time pronounced, form altogether a species of dark
sublime unknown to antiquity. 1

Advancing into the infernal regions, we go with ^Eneas
into the lugentes campi, the plain of tears. He there meets with
the unfortunate Dido. He discovers her in the shade of a wood,
as you perceive, or fancy that you perceive, the new moon rising
through the clouds.

Qualem primo qui surgere mense
Aut videt aut vidisse putat per nubila lunam.

The whole of this passage displays exquisite taste; but Dante
is perhaps not less pathetic in the description of the plain of tears.
Virgil has placed lovers among myrtle groves and solitary alleys.
Dante has surrounded his with a lurid atmosphere and tempests,
which incessantly drive them to and fro. The one has assigned
to love its own reveries as a punishment. The other has sought
that punishment in the image of the excesses to which the pas
sion gives birth. Dante accosts an unhappy couple in the midst
of a whirlwind. Francisca d Arimino, being questioned by the
poet, relates the history of her misfortunes and of her love.

1 Harris, in his Hermes, remarks that this passage derives great beauty from
the masculine gender which is here given to Death. If Milton had said, shook
her dart, instead of shook his dart, the sublime would be diminished. Death is
masculine in Greek, (Oavaros,) and Racine has also given it the masculine gen
der in French, La mort est le seul dieu que j osois implorer. Voltaire has not
approved himself much as a critic in finding fault with the use of the masculine
for death and of the feminine for sin, as, in English, death may be any of the
three genders, and sin is properly made feminine by the general rule which
applies this gender to nouns implying either weakness or capacity.

HELL ASD TARTARUS COMPARED. 337

One day,

For our delight, we read of Lancelot,
How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Oft-tiines, by that reading,
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point
Alone we felL When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, so rapturously kissed
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kissed. The book and writer both
Were love s purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more. 1

What admirable simplicity in this recital of Francisca ! What
delicacy of expression in the concluding lines! They are not
surpassed by the language of Virgil in the fourth book of the
JEneid, where allusion is made to the love of Dido :

Then first the trembling earth the signal gave,

And flashing fires enlighten all the cave;

Hell from below, and Juno from above,

And howling nymphs, were conscious to their love.*

Not far from the field of tears, tineas descries the field of the
Warriors. Here he meets with Deiphobus, cruelly mutilated. In
teresting as his story may be, the mere name of Ugolino reminds
us of a far more exquisite passage. That Voltaire should have
discovered nothing but burlesque objects in the flames of a Chris
tian hell is a circumstance that may be conceived; but we would
ask whether poetry at least does not find its advantage in the
scenes in which Count Ugolino appears, and which form the sub
ject of such exquisite verse, such tragic episode?

When we pass from all these details to a general view of hell
and of Tartarus, we find in the latter the Titans blasted with
lightning, Ixion threatened with the fall of a rock, the Danaids
with their tun, Tantalus disappointed by the waters, &c.

Whether it be that we are familiarized with the idea of these tor
ments, or that they have nothing in them capable of producing
the terrible because they are measured by the standard of hard
ships known in life, so much is certain, that they make but little
impression on the mind. But would you be deeply affected,

1 Canto v. 2 Dryden s Trang ation.

29 W

338 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

would you know how far the imagination of pan can extend,
would you become acquainted with the poetry of torments and
the hymns of flesh and blood, descend into the hell of Dante.
Here spirits are tossed about by the whirlwinds of a tempest;
there burning sepulchres enclose the followers of heresy. Tyrants
^re plunged into a river of warm blood. Suicides, who have dis
regarded the noble nature of man, are sank toward that of the
plant, and are transformed into stunted trees which grow in a
burning sand and whose branches the harpies are incessantly
breaking off. These spirits will not be united to their bodies on
the day of the general resurrection. They will drag them into
the dreary forest, and there suspend them to the boughs of the trees
to which they are attached.

Let it not be asserted that any Greek or Roman author could
have produced a Tartarus as awful as Dante s Inferno. Such a
remark, were it even correct, would prove nothing decisive against
the poetic resources of the Christian religion ; but those who have
the slightest acquaintance with the genius of antiquity will ad
mit that the sombre coloring of Dante is not to be found in the
pagan theology, and that it belongs to the stern doctrines of cur
faith.

CHAPTER XV.

PURGATORY.

THAT the doctrine of purgatory opens to the Christian poet a
source of the marvellous which was unknown to antiquity will be
readily admitted. 1 Nothing, perhaps, is more favorable to the
inspiration of the muse than this middle state of expiation be
tween the region of bliss and that of pain, suggesting the idea of
a confused mixture of happiness and of suffering. The grada-

1 Some trace of this dogma is to be found in Plato and in the doctrine o/
Zeno. (See Diog. Laer.) The poets also appear to have had some idea of it;
(JEneid, b. vi. ;) but these notions are all vague and inconsequent. (See
note T.)

PURGATORY. 339

tion of the punishments inflicted on those souls that are more or
less happy, more or less brilliant, according to their degree of
proximity to an eternity of joy or of wo, affords an impressive
subject for poetic description. In this respect it surpasses the
subjects of heaven and hell, because it possesses a future, whicr
they do not.

The river Lethe was a graceful appendage of the ancient Ely
sium; but it cannot be said that the shades which came to life
again on its banks exhibited the same poetical progress in the
way to happiness that we behold in the souls of purgatory. When
they left the abodes of bliss to reappear among men, they passed
from a perfect to an imperfect state. They re-entered the ring
for the fight. They were born again to undergo a second death.
In short, they came forth to see what they had already seen be
fore. Whatever can be measured by the human mind is neces
sarily circumscribed. We may admit, indeed, that there was some
thing striking and true in the circle by which the ancients sym
bolized eternity; but it seems to us that it fetters the imagina
tion by confining it always within a dreaded enclosure. The
straight line extended ad injinitum would perhaps be more ex
pressive, because it would carry our thoughts into a world of un
defined realities, and would bring together three things which
appear to exclude each other, hope, mobility, and eternity.

The apportionment of the punishment to the sin is another
source of invention which is found in the purgatorial state, and is
highly favorable to the sentimental. What ingenuity might be
displayed in determining the pains of a mother who has been too
indulgent of a maiden who has been too credulous of a young
man who has become the victim of a too ardent temperament !
If violent winds, raging fires, and icy cold, lend their influence to
the torments of hell, why may not milder sufferings be derived
from the song of the nightingale, from the fragrance of flowers,
from the murmur of the brook, or from the moral affections them
selves? Homer and Ossian tell us of the joy of grief,

Poetry finds its advantage also in that doctrine of purgatory
which teaches us that the prayers and other good works of the
faithful may obtain the deliverance of souls from their temporal
pains. How admirable is this intercourse between the living son

340 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

and the deceased father between the mother and df&gt; nghter be
tween husband and wife between life and death ! What affect
ing considerations are suggested by this tenet of religion ! My
virtue, insignificant being as I am, becomes the common property
of Christians; and, as I participate in the guilt of Adam, so also
the good that I possess passes to the account of others. Christian
poets! the prayers of your Nisus will be felt, in their happy
effects, by some Euryalus beyond the grave. The rich, whose
charity you describe, may well share their abundance with the
poor; for the pleasure which they take in performing this simple
and grateful act, will receive its reward from the Almighty in the
release of their parents from the expiatory flame. What a beau
tiful feature in our religion, to impel the heart of man to virtue
by the power of love, and to make him feel that the very coin
which gives bread for the moment to an indigent fellow-being,
entitles perhaps some rescued soul to an eternal position at the
table of the Lord !

CHAPTER XVI.

PARADISE.

THE characteristic which essentially distinguishes Paradise
from Elysium is this, that in the former the righteous souls dwell
in heaven with God and the angels, whereas in the latter the
happy shades are separated from Olympus. The philosophic
system of Plato and Pythagoras, which divides the soul into two
essences the subtle form, which flies beneath the moon, and the
spirit, which ascends to the Divinity, this system is not within
our province, which embraces the poetical theology alone.

We have shown in various parts of this work the difference
which exists between the felicity of the elect and that of the
manes in Elysium. Tis one thing to dance and to feast, and
another to know the nature of things, to penetrate into the secrets
of futurity, to contemplate the revolutions of the spheres in a
word, to be associated in the omniscience if not in the omni-

PARADISE. 341

potence, of the Eternal. It is, however, not a little extraordinary
that, with so many advantages, the Christian poets have all been
unsuccessful in their description of heaven. Some have failed
through timidity, as Tasso and Milton; others from fatigue, as
Dante; from a philosophical spirit, as Voltaire; or from over
drawing the picture, as Klopstock. 1 This subjecf, therefore,
must involve some hidden difficulty, in regard to which we shall
offer the following conjectures :

It is natural to man to show his sympathy only in those things
which bear some relation to him and which affect him in a par
ticular way, for instance, misfortune. Heaven, the seat of un
bounded felicity, is too much above the human condition for the
soul to be touched by it; we feel but little interest in beings per
fectly happy. On this account, the poets have always succeeded
better in the description of hell ; humanity, at least, is here, and
the torments of the wicked remind us of the afflictions of life ;
we are affected by the woes of others, like the slaves of Achilles,
who, while shedding many tears for the death of Patroclus,
secretly deplored their own unhappy lot.

To avoid the coldness resulting from the eternal and ever uni
form felicity of the just, the poet might contrive to introduce
into heaven some kind of hope or expectation of superior happi
ness, or of some grand unknown epoch in the revolution of
beings ; a he might remind the reader more frequently of human
things, either by drawing comparisons or by giving affections
and even passions to the blessed. Scripture itself mentions the
hopes and the sacred sorrows of heaven. Why should there not
be in paradise tears such as saints might be capable of shedding ? 3

1 It is singular enough that Chapelain, who has produced choirs of martyrs,
virgins, and apostles, has alone represented the Christian paradise in its true
light.

2 The essential happiness of the blessed in heaven, viz., that which consists
in the intuitive vision of God, cannot be increased either before or after the re
surrection ; but their accidental happiness, or that which may be derived from
creatures, is susceptible of augmentation ; for instance, when they witness the
conversion of sinners, or behold new saints, especially their own relatives or
friends, added to the number of the elect. Such events cannot fail to heighten
their joy, on account of the love which they have for God and for their neigh-

.bor. In this sense only can there be any hope in heaven. (See Witasse,
de Deo., quaest. xi. sect, xii.) T.

3 Milton has seized this idea when he represents the angels dismayed at the

29*

342 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

By these various means he would produce harmonies between oui
feeble nature and a more sublime constitution, between our short
lived existence and eternal things ; we should be less disposed to
consider as an agreeable fiction a happiness which, like our own,
would be mingled with vicissitudes and tears.

From alMhese considerations on the employment of the Chris
tian marvellous in poetry, we may at least doubt whether the
marvellous of Paganism possesses so great an advantage over it
as has generally been supposed. Milton, with all his faults, is
everlastingly opposed to Homer, with all his beauties. But sup
pose for a moment that the bard of Eden had been born in
France, that he had flourished during the age of Louis XIV.,
and that with the native grandeur of his genius he had combined
the taste of Racine and Boileau ; we ask, what in this case the
Paradise Lost would have been, and whether the marvellous of
that poem would not have equalled the marvellous of the Iliad
and Odyssey? If we formed our judgment of mythology from
the Pharsalia, or even from the ^Eneid, would we have that
brilliant idea of it which is conveyed by the father of the graces,
the inventor of the cestus of Venus ? When we possess a work
on a Christian subject as perfect in its kind as the performances
of Homer, we will then have a fair opportunity of deciding be
tween the marvellous of fable and the marvellous of our OWD
religion ; and till then we shall take the liberty of doubting the
truth of that precept of Boileau :

The awful mysteries of the Christian s faith

Admit not of the lighter ornaments.

We might, indeed, have abstained from bringing Christianity
into the lists against mythology, on the single question concerning
the marvellous. If we have entered into this subject, it is only
to exhibit the superabundant resources of our cause. We might
cut short the question in a simple and decisive manner; for were
it as certain as it is doubtful that Christianity is incapable of
furnishing as rich a marvellous as that of fable, still it is true
that it possesses a certain poetry of the soul, an imag nation of
the heart, of which no trace is to be found in mythology; and
the impressive beauties which emanate from this source would

intelligence of the fall of man ; and Fenelon in like manner assigns emotions
of pity to the happy shades.

PARADISE. 343

alone compensate the loss of the ingenious fictions oi antiquity.
In the pictures of paganism, every thing has a physical character,
every thing is external and adapted only to the eye ; in the de
lineations of the Christian religion, all is sentiment and mind, all
is internal, all is created for the soul. What food for thought !
what depth of meditation ! There is more sweetness in one of
those divine tears which Christianity draws from the eyes of the
believer than in all the smiling errors of mythology. A poet
has only to contemplate the Mother of Sorrows, or some obscure
saint, the patron of the blind and the orphan, to compose a more
affecting work than with all the gods of the Pantheon. Is there
not poetry here? Do we not find here also the marvellous? But,
if you would have a marvellous still more sublime, contemplate
the life, actions, and sufferings of the Redeemer, and recollect
that your God bore the appellation of the Son of man! Yes,
we venture to predict that a time will come when men will be
lost in astonishment to think how they could have overlooked the
admirable beauties which exist in the mere names, in the mere
expressions, of Christianity, and will be scarcely able to conceive
how it was possible to aim the shafts of ridicule at this religion
of reason and of misfortune. 1

Here we conclude the survey of the direct relations between
Christianity and the Muses, having considered it in its relations
to men and in its relations to supernatural beings. We shall
close our remarks on this subject with a general view of the
Bible, the source whence Milton, Dante, Tasso, and Racine, de
rived a part of their wonderful imagery, as the great poets of
antiquity had borrowed their grandest traits from the works of
Homer.

i The religion of reason or truth, established by the Son of God, most, by ita
very nature, be always a butt of opposition for e-very variety of religious error,
and consequently expose its professors to obloquy and persecution. It is there
fore a religion of misfortune or suffering, as well as of reason or truth. Our
Saviour himself announced this external characteristic of his church, and it is
a source of immense consolation to its faithful but persecuted members of the
present day to recall those words, " You shall be hated by all men for my
name s sake." On the other hand, it is a melancholy evidence of the strange
i&gt;lin&lt;lness that seizes upon the mind, that there are men who boast of their
Christianity, and yet, despite the positive declarations of Christ, do not recognise
in the storm of opposition continually raging against the Church one of the
most striking characteristics of its truth. (See St. Matt, x.) T.

BOOK V.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER.
CHAPTER I.

OP THE SCRIPTURES AND THEIR EXCELLENCE.

How extraordinary that work which begins with Genesis and
ends with the Apocalypse ! which opens in the most perspicuous
style, and concludes in the most figurative language ! May we
not justly assert that in the books of Moses all is grand and
simple, like that creation of the world and that innocence of
primitive mortals which he describes, and that all is terrible
and supernatural in the last of the prophets, like that corrupt
society and that consummation of ages which he has represented ?

The productions most foreign to our manners, the sacred books
of infidel nations, the Zendavesta of the Parsees, the Vidam of
the Brahmins, the Goran of the Turks, the Edda of the Scandi
navians, the maxims of Confucius, the Sanscrit poems, excite in
us no surprise. We find in all these works the ordinary chain
of human ideas ; they have all some resemblance to each other
both in tone and idea. The Bible alone is like none of them ; it
is a monument detached from all the others. Explain it to a
Tartar, to a Caffre, to an American savage j put it into the hands
of a bonze or a dervise ; they will be all equally astonished by it
a fact which borders on the miraculous. Twenty authors,
living at periods very distant from one another, composed the
sacred books ; and, though they are written in twenty different
styles, yet these styles, equally inimitable, are not to be met with
in any other performance. The New Testament, so different in
its spirit from the Old, nevertheless partakes with the latter of
this astonishing originality.

But this is not the only extraordinary thing which men unani
mously discover in the Scriptures. Those who do not believe

344

STYLES OF SCRIPTURE. 345

in the authenticity of the Bible nevertheless believe, in spite of
themselves, that there is something more than common in this
same Bible. Deists and atheists, great and little, all attracted
by some hidden magnet, are incessantly referring to that work,
which is admired by the one and reviled by the others. There
is not a situation in life for which we may not find in the Bible a
text apparently dictated with an express reference to it. It would
be a difficult task to persuade us that all possible contingencies,
both prosperous and adverse, had been foreseen, with all theii
consequences, in a book penned by the hands of men. Now it is*
certain that we find in the Scriptures

The origin of the world and the prediction of its end :

The groundwork of all the human sciences :

Political precepts, from the patriarchal government to despot
ism ; from the pastoral ages to the ages of corruption :

The moral precepts, applicable in prosperity and adversity, and
to the most elevated as well as the most humble ranks of life :

Finally, all sorts of styles, which, forming an inimitable work
of many different parts, have, nevertheless, no resemblance to
the styles of men.

CHAPTER n.

OF THE THREE PRINCIPAL STYLES OF SCRIPTURE.

AMONG these divine styles, three are particularly remarkable :

1. The historic style, as that of Genesis, Deuteronomy, Job, &c.

2. Sacred poetry, as it exists in the Psalms, in the Prophets,
in the moral treatises, &c.

3. The evangelical or gospel style

The first of these three styles has an indescribable charm,
sometimes imitating the narrative of the epic, as in the history
of Joseph, at others bursting into lyric numbers, as after the
passage of the Red Sea ; here sighing forth the elegies of the
holy Arab, there with Ruth singing affecting pastorals. That
chosen people, whose every step is marked with miracles, that
people, for whom the sun stands still, the rock pours forth waters,

346 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

and the heavens shower down manna, could not have any ordinary
annals. All known forms are changed in regard to them : their
revolutions are alternately related with the trumpet, the lyre, and
the pastoral pipe ; and the style of their history is itself a con
tinual miracle, that attests the truth of the miracles the memory
of which it perpetuates.

Our astonishment is marvellously excited from one end of the
Bible to the other. What can be compared to the opening of
Genesis ? That simplicity of language, which is in an inverse
ratio to the magnificence of the objects, appears to us the utmost
effort of genius.

" In the beginning God created heaven and earth.

"And the earth was void and empty, and darkness was upon
the face of the deep; and the spirit of God moved over the
waters.

"And God said, Be light made, and there was light.

"And God saw the light that it was good, and he divided the
light from the darkness."

The beauty of this style cannot be described ; and, if it were
criticized, we should scarcely know how to answer. We shall
merely observe that God, seeing the light, and, like a man satisfied
with his work, congratulating himself and finding it good, is one
of those traits which are not in the order of human things ; it
does not come naturally to the mind. Homer and Plato, who
speak with so much sublimity of the gods, have nothing com
parable to this majestic simplicity. God stoops to the language
of men, to reduce his wonders to the level of their comprehen
sion ; but he still is God.

When we reflect that Moses is the most ancient historian in
the world, and that he has mingled no fabulous story with his
narrative ; when we consider him as the deliverer of a great peo
ple, as the author of one of the most excellent legislative codes
that we know of, and as the most sublime writer that ever ex
isted ; when we behold him floating in his cradle upon the Nile,
afterward concealing himself for many years in the deserts, then
returning to open a passage through the sea, to produce streams
of water from the rock, to converse with God in a cloud, and
finally to disappear on the summit of a mountain, we cannot for
bear feeling the highest astonishment. But when, with a refer-

STYLES OF SCRIPTURE. 34V

ence to Christianity, we come to reflect that the history of the
Israelites is not only the real history of ancient days, but likewise
the type of modern times ; that each fact is of a twofold nature,
containing within itself an historic truth and a mystery; that the
Jewish people is a symbolical epitome of the human race, repre
senting in its adventures all that has happened and all that evei
will happen in the world ; that Jerusalem must always be taken
for another city, Sion for another mountain, the Land of Promise
for another region, and the call of Abraham for another vocation;
when it is considered that the moral man is likewise disguised
under the j&gt;hy steal man in this history; that the fall of Adam,
the blood of Abel, the violated nakedness of Noah, and the
malediction pronounced by that father against a son, are still
manifested in the pains of parturition, in the misery and pride
of man, in the oceans of blood which since the first fratricide
have inundated the globe, and in the oppressed races descended
from Cham, who inhabit one of the fairest portions of the earth; 1
lastly, when we behold the Son promised to David appearing at
the appointed time to restore genuine morality and the true reli
gion, to unite all the nations of the earth, and to substitute the
sacrifice of the internal man for blood-stained holocausts, we are
at a loss for words, and are ready to exclaim, with the prophet,
"God is our king before ages !"

In Job the historic style of the Bible changes, as we have ob
served, into elegy. No writer not even Jeremias, he alone whose
lamentations, according to Bossuet, come up to his feelings has
carried the sadness of the soul to such a pitch as the holy Arab.
It is true that the imagery, borrowed from a southern clime, from
the sands of the desert, the solitary palm-tree, the sterile moun
tain, is in singular unison with the language and sentiment of an
afflicted soul ; but in the melancholy of Job there is something
supernatural. The individual man, however wretched, cannot
draw forth such sighs from his soul. Job is the emblem of suf-
f&gt; rim/ humanity; and the inspired writer has found lamentations
sufficient to express all the afflictions incident to the whole human
race. As, moreover, in Scripture every thing has a final refer
ence to the new covenant, we are authorized in believing that the

1 The negroes.

ob GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

elegies of Job were composed also for the days of mourning of
the Church of Jesus Christ. Thus God inspired his prophets with
funeral hymns worthy of departed Christians, two thousand years
before these sacred martyrs had conquered life eternal.

" Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in
which it was said, A man-child is conceived." 1

Extraordinary kind of lamentation ! Such expressions are to
be met with only in the Scripture.

" For now I should have been asleep and still, and should have
rest in my sleep."

This expression, should have rest in MY sleep, is particularly
striking. Omit the word my, and the whole beauty of it is de
stroyed. Sleep YOUR sleep, ye opulent of the earth, says Bossuet,
and remain in YOUR dust. 2

" Why is light given to him that is in misery, and life to them
that are in bitterness of soul ?" s

Never did an exclamation of deeper anguish burst from the
recesses of a human bosom.

" Man born of a woman, living for a short time, is filled with
many miseries/ 4

The circumstance born of a woman is an impressive redund
ance ; we behold all the infirmities of man in the infirmity of his
mother. The most elaborate style would not express the vanity
of life with such force as those few words u living for a short
time, is filled with many miseries."

Every reader is acquainted with that exquisite passage in
which God deigns to justify his power to Job by confounding the
reason of man ] we shall therefore say nothing concerning it in
this place.

The third species of historical style that we find in the Bible
is the bucolic; but of this we shall have occasion to speak at
some length in the two following chapters.

As to the second general style of the Holy Scriptures, namely,
sacred poetry, a great number of excellent critics having exerted
their abilities on this subject ; it would be superfluous for us to go
over the grou id again. Who is unacquainted with the choruses of

1 Job iii. 3. 2 Funer. Orat. for the Chancellor Le Tellier.

* Job iii. 20. 4 Job xiv. 8.

STYLES OF SCRIPTURE. 349

Esther and Athalie ? Who has not read the odes of Rousseau
and of Malherbe ? Dr. Lowth s Essay is in the hands of every
scholar, 1 and La Harpe has left us an excellent prose translation
of the Psalmist.

The third and last style of the sacred volume is that of the
New Testament. Here the sublimity of the prophets is softened
into a tenderness not less sublime ; here love itself speaks ; here
the Word is really made flesh. What beauty! What simplicity !

Each evangelist has a distinct character, except St. Mark,
whose gospel seems to be only an abridgment of St. Matthew s.
St. Mark, however, was a disciple of St. Peter, and several critics
are of opinion that he wrote under the dictation of the prince of
the apostles. It is worthy of remark that he has recorded the
fall of his master. That Jesus Christ should have chosen for
the head of his church the very one among his disciples who
had denied him appears to us a sublime and affecting mystery.
The whole spirit of Christianity is unfolded in this circumstance.
St. Peter is the Adam of the new law; the guilty and penitent
father of the new Israelites. 1 1 is fall teaches us, moreover, that
the Christian religion is a religion of mercy, and that Jesus
Christ has established his law among men subject to error less
for the flowers of innocence than for the fruits of repentance.

The Gospel of St. Matthew is particularly precious for its
moral precepts. It contains a greater number of those pathetic
lessons which flowed so abundantly from the heart of Jesus than
any other gospel.

The narrative of St. John has something sweeter and more
tender. In him we really behold the disciple whom Jesus loved;
the disciple whom he wished to have with him in the garden of
Olives during his agony. Sublime distinction ! for it is only the

1 The deep and various learning of Bishop Lowth, and hia elegant and re
fined taste, give him the strongest claims to the praise here attributed to his
work on the sacred poetry of the Hebrews.

What," said he, "is there in the whole compass of poetry, or what can the
human mind conceive more grand, more noble, or more animated, what is there
more beautiful or interesting, than the sacred writings of the Hebrew prophets ?
They equal the almost inexpressible greatness of the subjects by the splendor
of their diction and the majesty of their poetry; and, as some of them are of
higher antiquity than even the Fables of the Greeks, so they excel the Greek
compositions as much in sublimity as n age." Lowth n Preelections. S.
30

350 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

friend of our soul that we deem worthy of entering into the
secret of our grief. John was also the only apostle who accom
panied the Son of Man to Calvary. It was there that the Saviour
confided to him his mother. "Woman, behold thy son I" after
that, he saith to the disciple, " Behold thy mother I" Heavenly
words, full of love and confidence ! The beloved disciple had
received an indelible impression of his Master from having
reposed on his bosom j hence, he was the first to recognise him
after his resurrection. The heart of John could not mistake the
features of his divine friend; his faith was the offspring of his
charity. The whole Gospel of St. John is characterized by the
spirit of that maxim which he repeated so continually in his old
age. Full of days and good works, and no longer able to dis
course at length to the people whom he had brought forth in
Christ, he contented himself with saying, "My little children,
love one another."

St. Jerome informs us that St. Luke belonged to the medical
profession, (which was so noble and excellent in ancient times,)
and that his gospel is a medicine for the soul. The language of
this evangelist is pure and elevated, and indicates him to have
been a man of letters and acquainted with the affairs and the
men of his time. He commences his narrative after the manner
of the ancient historians, and you imagine yourself reading an
introduction of Herodotus:

"Forasmuch as many have taken in hand to set forth in
order a narrative of the things that have been accomplished
among us; according as they have delivered them unto us, who
from the beginning were eye-witnesses and ministers of the word;
it seemed good to me also, having diligently attained to all things
from the beginning, to write to thee in order, most excellent
Theophilus."

Such is the ignorance of our times that many who pretend to
a liberal education will be surprised to learn that St. Luke is a
writer of high rank, and that his gospel breathes the genius of
Grseco-Hebrseic antiquity. What narrative is more beautiful
than the whole passage which precedes the birth of Christ ?

" There was in the days of Herod the king of Judea, a certain
priest named Zachary, of the course of Abia, and his wife was of
the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. And they

STALES OF SCRIPTURE. 351

were both just before God; .... and they had nc son, for that
Elizabeth was barren, and they both were well advanced in years."

Zachary is offering up sacrifice in the temple, when an angel
appears to him " standing on the right side of the altar of
incense." He announces that he shall have a son, and that this
son shall be called John, who will be the precursor of the
Messiah and will turn "the hearts of the fathers unto the chil
dren." The same angel then repairs to the humble dwelling of
an Israelitic virgin, and says to her, "Hail, full of grace, the
Lord is with thee!" Mary hastens to the mountains of Judea,
where she meets Elizabeth, and the infant in the womb of the
latter leaps with joy at the salutation of her who was to bring
furth the Saviour of the world. Filled all at once with the Holy
Ghost, Elizabeth exclaims, "Blessed art thou among women, and
blessed is the fruit of thy womb ! And whence is this to rne,
that the mother of my Lord should coiue to me ? For behold, as
soon as the voice of thy salutation sounded in my ears, the infant
in niy womb leaped for joy." Then Mary entones that magnifi
cent canticle, "My soul doth magnify the Lord," &c. Here
follows the history of the Redeemer s birth and of the shepherds
who come to adore him. A numerous multitude of the celestial
army are heard singing, " Glory to God in the highest, and on
earth peace to men of good will:" a hymn worthy of the angels,
and an abridgment, as it were, of the Christian religion.

We know something of antiquity, and we venture to assert
that a long search would be necessary among the brightest geniuses
of Rome and Greece,before any thing could be found to rival the
simplicity and grandeur of the passage which we have just quoted

Whoever reads the gospel with attention will discover some
thing admirable at every moment,which at first might escape his
notice on account of its extreme simplicity. St. Luke, for instance,
in recording the genealogy of Christ, ascends to the very origin
of the world. Having reached the primitive generations, and
continuing the names of the different races, he says: "Cainan,
who was of Henos, who was of Seth, who was of Adam, who was
of GOD. The simple expression, who was of God, without com
ment or reflection, to relate the creation, the origin, the nature,
the end. and the mystery, of man, appears to us an illustration of
the grandest sublimity.

352 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The religion of the Son of Mary is the essence, as it were, of all
religions, or that which is most celestial in them all. The cha
racter of the evangelical style may be delineated in a few words :
it is a tone of parental authority mingled with a certain fraternal
indulgence, with I know not what commiseration of a God who,
to redeem us, deigned to become the son and the brother of men.

To conclude : the more we read the epistles of the apostles, and
especially those of St. Paul, the more we are astonished; we look
in wonder upon the man who, in a kind of common exhortation,
familiarly introduces the most sublime thoughts, penetrates into
the deepest recesses of the human heart, explains the nature of
the Supreme Being, and predicts future events. 1

CHAPTER III.

PARALLEL BETWEEN THE BIBLE AND HOMER.
Terms of Comparison.

So much has been written on the Bible, it has been so re
peatedly commented upon, that the only method perhaps now
left to produce a conviction of its beauties is to compare it with
the works of Homer. Consecrated by ages, these poems have
become invested with a venerable character which justifies the
parallel and removes all idea of profanation. If Jacob and Nestor
are not of the same family, both at least belong to the early ages
of the world, and you feel that it is but a step from the palace
of Pylos to the tents of Israel.

In what respect the Bible is more beautiful than Homer what
resemblances and what differences exist between it and the pro
ductions of that poet, such are the subjects which we purpose to
examine in these chapters. Let us contemplate those two mag
nificent monuments, which stand like solitary columns at the
entrance to the temple of genius, and form its simple, its majestic
peristyle.

1 See note U.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 353

In the first place, it is a curious spectacle to behold the com
petition of the two most ancient languages in the world, the lan
guages in which Moses and Lycurgus published their laws and
David and Pindar chanted their hymns. The Hebrew, concise,
energetic, with scarcely any inflection in its verbs, expressing
twenty shades of a thought by the mere apposition of a letter,
proclaims the idiom of a people who, by a remarkable combina
tion, unite primitive simplicity with a profound knowledge of
mankind.

The Greek displays, in its intricate conjugations, in its endless
inflections, in its diffuse eloquence, a nation of an imitative and
social genius, a nation elegant and vain, fond of melody and
prodigal of words.

Would the Hebrew compose a verb, he needs but know the
three radical letters which form the third person singular of the
preterite tense. He then has at once all the tenses and moods,
by introducing certain servile letters before, after, or between,
those three radical letters.

The Greek meets with much more embarrassment. He is
obliged to consider the characteristic, the termination, the aug
ment, and the pcnultima, of certain persons in the tenses of tho
verbs; modifications the more difficult to be discovered, as the
characteristic is lost, transposed, or takes up an unknown let
ter, according to the very letter before which it happens to be
placed.

These two conjugations, Hebrew and Greek, the one so simple
and so short, the other so compounded and .so prolix, seem to
bear the stamp of the genius and manners of the people by whom
they were respectively formed. The first retraces the concise lan
guage of the Patriarch who goes alone to visit his neighbor at the
well of the palm-tree; the latter reminds you of the prolix elo
quence of the Pelasgian on presenting himself at the door of
his host.

If you take at random any Greek or Hebrew substantive, you
will be still better able to discover the genius of the two lan
guages. Nesher, in Hebrew, signifies an caylc; it is derived
from the verb shur, to contemplate, because the eagle gazes stead
fastly at the sun. The Greek for eayle is uterus, rapid fliyht.

The children of Israel were struck with what is most sublime
30* X

351 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

in tlie eagle; they beheld him motionless on the mountain rock
watching the orb of day on his return.

The Athenians perceived only the impetuous flight of the bird
and that motion which harmonized with the peculiar movement
of their own thoughts. Such are precisely those images of sun,
fire, and mountains, so frequently employed in the Bible, and
those allusions to sounds, courses, and passages, which so re
peatedly occur in Homer. 1

Our terms of comparison will be, Simplicity; Antiquity of
Manners ; Narration ; Description ; Comparisons or Images ; the
Sublime. Let us examine the first of these terms.

1. SIMPLICITY.

The simplicity of the Bible is more concise and more solemn ;
the simplicity of Homer more diffuse and more lively : the
former is sententious, and employs the same terms for the
expression of new ideas; the latter is fond of expatiating, and
often repeats in the same phrases what has been said before.
The simplicity of Scripture is that of an ancient priest, who,
imbued with all the sciences, human and divine, pronounces from
the recess of the sanctuary the precise oracles of wisdom. The
simplicity of the poet of Chios is that of an aged traveller, who,
beside the hearth of his host, relates all that he has learned in
the course of a long and chequered life.

2. ANTIQUITY OF MANNERS.

The sons of the shepherds of the East tend their flocks like the
sons of the king of Ilium. But if Paris returns to Troy, it is to
reside in a palace among slaves and in the midst of luxury. A
tent, a frugal table, rustic attendants, this is all that Jacob s
children have to expect at the paternal home.

No sooner does a visitor arrive at the habitation of a prince in
Homer than the women, and sometimes even the king s daughter
herself, lead the stranger to the bath. He is anointed with

1 Au:rdf seems to come from the Hebrew H AIT, to go forth impetuously, unless
it be derived from ATE, soothsayer, or ATH, prodigy. The art of divination
might thus be traced to an etymology. The Latin aquila comes evidently from
the Hebrew aiouke, animal with claws, by giving it the Latin termination a,
pronouncing the like ou, and transposing the k and changing it into q.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 355

perfumes, water is brought him in ewers of gold and silver, he
is invested with a purple mantle, conducted to the festive hall,
and seated in a beautiful chair of ivory raised upon a step of
curious workmanship. Slaves mingle wine and water in goblets,
and present the gifts of Ceres in a basket; the master of the
house helps him to the juicy portion of the victim, of which he
gives him five times more than to any of the others. The great
est ct eerfulness prevails during the repast, and hunger is soon
appeased in the midst of plenty. When they have finished eat
ing, the stranger is requested to relate his history. At length,
when he is about to depart, rich presents are made him, let his
appearance at first have been ever so mean ; for it is supposed
that he is either a god who comes thus disguised to surprise the
heart of kings, or at least an unfortunate man, and consequently
a favorite of Jupiter.

Beneath the tent of Abraham the reception is different. The
patriarch himself goes forth to meet his guest; he salutes him,
and then pays his adorations to God. The sons lead away the
camels, and the daughters fetch them water to drink. The feet
of the traveller are washed; he seats himself on the ground, and
partakes in silence of the repast of hospitality. No inquiries are
made concerning his history; no questions are asked him; he
stays or pursues his journey as he pleases. At his departure a
covenant is made with him, and a stone is erected as a memorial
of the treaty. This simple altar is designed to inform future
ages that two men of ancient times chanced to meet in the road
of life, and that, after having behaved to one another like two
brothers, they parted never to come together again, and to inter
pose vast regions between their graves.

Take notice that the unknown guest is a sfranger with Homer
and a traveller in the Bible. What different views of humanity!
The Greek implies merely a political and local idea, where the
Hebrew conveys a moral and universal sentiment.

In Homer, all civil transactions take place with pomp and
parade. A judge seated in the midst of the public place pro
nounces his sentences with a loud voice. Nestor on the seashore
presides at sacrifices or harangues the people. Nuptial rites are
accompanied with torches, epithalamiums, and garlands sus
pended from the doors; an army, a whole nation, attends the

356 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

funeral of a king; an oath is taken in the name of the Furies,
with dreadful imprecations.

Jacob, under a palm-tree at the entrance of his tent, adminis
ters justice to his shepherds. " Put thy hand under my thigh,"
said the aged Abraham to his servant, "and swear to go into
Mesopotamia" 1 Two words are sufficient to conclude a marriage
by the side of a fountain. The servant conducts the bride to the
son of his master, or the master s son engages to tend the flocks
of his father-in-law for seven years in order to obtain his daugh
ter. A patriarch is carried by his sons after his death to the
sepulchre of his ancestors in the field of Ephron. These cus
toms are of higher antiquity than those delineated by Homer,
because they are more simple ; they have also a calmness and
a solemnity not to be found in the former.

3. NARRATION.

The narrative of Homer is interrupted by digressions, ha
rangues, descriptions of vessels, garments, arms, and sceptres,
by genealogies of men and things. Proper names are always
surcharged with epithets. A hero seldom fails to be divine, like
the immortals, or honored by the nations as a God. A princess
is sure to have handsome arms; her shape always resembles the
trunk of the palm-tree of Delos, and she owes her locks to the
younyest of the graces.

The narrative of the Bible is rapid, without digression, with
out circumlocution; it is broken into short sentences, and the
persons are named without flattery. These names are inces
santly recurring, and the pronoun is scarcely ever used instead
of them, a circumstance which, added to the frequent repetition
of the conjunction and, indicates by this extraordinary simplicity
a society much nearer to the state of nature than that sung by
Homer. All the selfish passions are awakened in the characters
of the Odyssey, whereas they are dormant in those of Genesis.

1 The custom of swearing by the generation of men is a natural image of the
manners of that primeval age when a great portion of the earth was still a
desert waste, and man was the chief and most precious object in the eyes of
his fellow-man. This custom was also known among the Greeks, as we learn
from the life of Crates ; Diog. Laer., 1. vi.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 357

4. DESCRIPTION.

The descriptions of Homer are prolix, whether they be of the
pathetic or terrible character, melancholy or cheerful, energetic
or sublime.

The Bible, in all its different species of description, gives in
general but one single trait; but this trait is striking, and dis
tinctly exhibits the object to our view.

5. COMPARISONS.

The comparisons of Homer are lengthened out by incidental
circumstances; they are little pictures hung round an edifice to
refresh the eye of the spectator, fatigued with the elevation of
the domes, by calling his attention to natural scenery and rural
manners.

The comparisons of the Bible are generally expressed in few
words; it is a lion, a torrent, a storm, a conflagration, that roars,
falls, ravages, consumes. Circumstantial similes, however, are
also met with; but, then, an oriental turn is adopted, and tho
object is personified, as pride in the cedar, &c.

6. THE SUBLIME.

Finally, the sublime in Homer commonly arises from the gene
ral combination of the parts, and arrives by degrees at its acme.

In the Bible it is always unexpected; it bursts upon you like
lightning, and you are left wounded by the thunderbolt before
you know how you were struck by it.

In Homer, again, the sublime consists in the magnificence of
the words harmonizing with the majesty of thought.

In the Bible, on the contrary, the highest sublimity often arises
from a vast discordance between the majesty of the ideas and the
littleness, nay, the triviality, of the word that expresses them. The
soul is thus subjected to a terrible shock ; for when, exalted by
thought, it has soared to the loftiest regions, all on a sudden the
expression, instead of supporting it, lets it fall from heaven to
earth, precipitating it from the bosom of the divinity into the
mire of this world. This species of sublime the most impetuous
of all is admirably adapted to an immense and awful being, allied
at once to the greatest and the most trivial objects.

358 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER IV.

CONTINUATION OF THE PARALLEL BETWEEN THE BIBLE AND
HOMER EXAMPLES.

A FEW examples will now complete the development of our
parallel. We shall reverse the order which we before pursued,
that is, we shall begin with addresses, from which short and de
tached passages may be quoted, in the nature of the sublime and
the simile, and conclude with the simplicity and antiquity of
manners.

There is a passage remarkably sublime in the Iliad; it is that
which represents Achilles, after the death of Patroclus, appearing
unarmed at the entrenchments of the Greeks, and striking terror
into the Trojan battalions by his shouts. 1 The golden cloud
which encircles the brows of Pelides, the flame which plays upon
his head, the comparison of this flame with a fire kindled at night
on the top of a besieged tower, the three shouts of Achilles which
thrice throw the Trojan army into confusion, form altogether
that Homeric sublime which, as we have observed, is composed
of the combination of several beautiful incidents with magnifi
cence of words.

Here is a very different species of the sublime ; it is the move
ment of the ode in its highest enthusiasm.

" The burden of the valley of vision. What aileth thee also,
that thou, too, art wholly gone up to the house-tops ? Full of
clamor, a populous city, a joyous city : thy slain are not slain by

the sword, nor dead in battle Behold, the Lord ....

will crown thee with a crown of tribulation ; he will toss thee like
a ball into a large and spacious country; there shalt thou die,
and there shall the chariot of thy glory be, the shame of the
house of thy Lord." 2

Into what unknown world does the prophet all at once trans
port you ? Who is it that speaks, and to whom are these words
addressed ? Movement follows upon movement, and each verse

1 Iliad, lib. xviii. 204. 2 i sa i as xxii&gt; 1} 2 , 18.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 359

produces greater astonishment than that which precedes it The
city is no longer an assemblage of edifices ; it is a female, or
rather a mysterious character, for the sex is not specified. This
person is represented going to the house-tops to mourn; the pro
phet, sharing her agitation, asks in the singular, " Wherefore dost
thou ascend"? and he adds wholly, in the collective: " He shall
throw you like a ball into a spacious field, and to this shall the
chariot of your glory be reduced." Here are combinations of
words and a poetry truly extraordinary.

Homer has a thousand sublime ways of characterizing a violent
death ; but the Scripture has surpassed them all in this single
expression : " The first-born of death shall devour his strength."

The fi rst-born of death, to imply the most cruel death, is one
of those metaphors which are to be found nowhere but in the
Bible. We cannot conceive whither the human mind has been
in quest of this ; all the paths that lead to this species of the
sublime are unexplored and unknown. 1

It is thus also that the Scriptures term death the king of ter
rors; * and thus, too, they say of the wicked man, he hath con
ceived sorrow, and brought forth iniquity. 3

When the same Job would excite a high idea of the greatness
of God, he exclaims : Hell is naked before him,,* he withhohl-
eth the waters in the clouds, 5 he taketh the scarf from kings,
and girdeth their loins with a cord. 9

The soothsayer Theoclimenus is struck, while partaking of the
banquet of Penelope, with the sinister omens by which the suitois
are threatened. He addresses them in this apostrophe :

race to death devote ! with Stygian shade

Each destined peer impending fates invade :

With tears your wan, distorted cheeks are drowned ;

With sanguine drops the walls are rubied round:

Thick swarms the spacious hall with howling ghosts,

To people Orcus and the burning coasts !

Nor gives the sun his golden orb to roll,

But universal night usurps the pole. 7

1 Job xviii. 13. We have followed here the Hebrew text, with the poly-
glott of Xi incur.-, the versions of Sanotes Pagnin, Arius Montanus, A3. The
Vulgate has, " first-born death," primoyenita mort.

8 Ibid. v. 14. 3 Ibid. xv. 35. Ibid. xxvi. .

6 Ibid. xii. 15. e ibid. xii. 18.

7 Pope s Homer Ody**., book xx. 423-430.

360 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Awful as this sublime may be, still it is inferior in this respect
to the vision of Eliphaz, in the book of Job :

" In the horror of a vision by night, when deep sleep is wont
to hold men, fear seized upon me, and trembling, and all my
bones were affrighted ; and when a spirit passed before me, the
hair of my flesh stood up. There stood one whose countenance
I knew not, an image before my eyes, and I heard the voice as
it were of a gentle wind." 1

Here we have much less blood, less darkness, and fewer tears,
than in Homer ; but that unknown countenance and gentle wind
are, in fact, much more awful.

As to that species of the sublime which results from the col
lision of a great idea and a feeble image, we shall presently see
a fine example of it when we come to treat of comparisons.

If the bard of Ilium represents a youth slain by the javelin of
Menelaus, he compares him to a young olive-tree covered with
flowers, planted in an orchard, screened from the intense heat of
the sun, amid dew and zephyrs , but, suddenly overthrown by an
impetuous wind upon its native soil, it falls on the brink of the
nutritive waters that conveyed the sap to its roots. Such is the
long simile of -Homer, with its elegant and charming details :

Ka\ov f rr/AcSaoj/, TO&Z re Ttvoiai tiovtaai

KO.I r/?pua avSet \SVKO).

As the young olive in some sylvan scene,
Crowned by fresh fountains with eternal green,
Lifts the gay head in snowy flow rets fair,
And plays and dances to the gentle air ;
When lo! a whirlwind from high heaven invades
The tender plant, and withers all its shades j
It lies uprooted from its genial bed,
A lovely ruin, now defaced and dead. 2

In reading these lines, we seem to hear the sighings of the
wind through the summit of the olive.

The Bible, instead of all this, has but a single trait. " The
wicked," it says, " shall be blasted as a vine when its grapes are
in the first flower, and as an olive-tree that casteth its flowers." 3

" With shaking shall the earth be shaken as a drunken man,"

i Job iv. 13-16. * Iliad, lib. xvii. 55, 56. 3 j b xv . 33.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED 361

exclaims Isaias, " and shall be removed as the tent of one
night." 1

Here is the sublime in contrast. At the words, it shall be re
moved, the mind remains suspended, and expects some great
comparison, when the prophet adds, like the tent of one night.
You behold the earth, which to us appears so vast, spread out in
tie air, and then carried away with ease by the mighty God by
whom it was extended, and with whom the duration of ages is
scarcely as a rapid night.

Of the second species of comparison which we have ascribed
to the Bible, that is, the long simile, we meet with the following
instance in Job :

" He (the wicked man) seemeth to have moisture before the
Bun cometh, and at his rising his blossom shall shoot forth. His
roots shall be thick upon a heap of stones, and among the stones
he shall abide. If one swallow him up out of his place, he shall
deny him, and shall say, I know thee not." 2

How admirable is this simile, or, rather, this prolonged meta
phor ! Thus, the wicked are denied by those sterile hearts, by
those heaps of stones, in which, during their guilty prosperity,
they foolishly struck root. Those flints which all at once acquire
the faculty of speech exhibit a species of personification almost
unknown to the Ionian bard. 3

Ezekiel, prophesying the destruction of Tyre, exclaims :
"Now shall the ships be astonished in the day of thy terror;
and v the islands in the sea shall be troubled, because no one
cometh out of thee." 4

Can any thing be more awful and more impressive than this
image? You behold in imagination that city, once so flourishing
and so populous, still standing with all her towers and all her
edifices, but not a living creature traversing her desert streets
or passing through her solitary gates.

Let us proceed to examples of the narrative kind, which ex
hibit a combination of sentiment, description, imagery, simjrficity,
and antiquity of manners.

1 Isaiaa xxiv. 20. 2 Job viii. 16-18.

3 Homer has represented the shore of the Hellespont as weeping.

4 Ezek. xxvi. 18.

362 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

The most celebrated passages, the most striking and most ad
mired traits in Homer, occur almost word for word in the Bible,
but here they invariably possess an incontestable superiority.

Ulysses is seated at the festive board of king Alcinoiis, while
Demodocus sings the Trojan war and the misfortunes of the
Greeks :

Touched at the song, Ulysses straight resigned
To soft affliction all his manly mind :
Before his eyes the purple vest he drew,
Industrious to conceal the falling dew;
But when the music paused, he ceased to shed
The flowing tear, and raised his drooping head ;
And, lifting to the gods a goblet crowned,
He poured a pure libation to the ground.
Transported with the song, the listening train
Again with loud applause demand the strain :
Again Ulysses veiled his pensive head,
Again unmanned, a shower of sorrow shed. 1

Beauties of this nature have, from age to age, secured to
Homer the first place among the greatest geniuses. It reflects
no discredit upon his memory that he has been surpassed in
such pictures by men who wrote under the immediate inspiration
of heaven. But vanquished he certainly is, and in such a man
ner as to leave criticism no possible subterfuge.

They who sold Joseph into Egypt, the own brothers of that
powerful man, return to him without knowing who he is, and
bring young Benjamin with them, according to his desire.

" Joseph, courteously saluting them again, asked them, saying,
Is the old man, your father, in health, of whom you told me?
is he yet living?

" And they answered, Thy servant, our father, is in health,
he is yet living. And, bowing themselves, they made obeisance
to him.

"And Joseph, lifting up his eyes, saw Benjamin, his brother
by the same mother, and said, Is this your young brother of
whom you told me? And he said, God be gracious to thee,
my son.

"And he made haste, because his heart was moved upon his
brother, and tears gushed out; and, going into his chamber, he
wept.

1 Pope s Homer t Odyaa., b. viii. 79-90.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 363

" And when he had washed his face, coming out again, he re
frained himself, and said, Set bread on the table." 1

Here are Joseph s tears in opposition to those of Ulysses
Here are beauties of the very same kind, and yet what a differ
ence in pathos ! Joseph weeping at the sight of his ungrateful
brethren and of the young and innocent Benjamin this man
ner of inquiring concerning his father this adorable simplicity
this mixture of grief and kindness are things wholly ineffable.
The tears naturally start into your eyes, and you are ready to
weep like Joseph.

Ulysses, disguised in the house of Eumaeus, reveals himself to
Telemachus. He leaves the habitation of the herdsman, strips
off his rags, and, restored to his beauty by a touch of Minerva s
wand, he returns magnificently attired.

The prince, o erawed,
Scarce lifts his eyes, and bows as to a god.
Then with surprise, (surprise chastised by fears,)
How art thou changed! he cries; a god appears!
Far other vests thy limbs mnjestic grace;
Far other glories lighten from thy face !
If heaven be thy abode, with pious care,
Lo! I the ready sacrifice prepare;
Lo ! gifts of labored gold adorn thy shrine,
To win thy grace. Oh save us, power divine

Few are my days, Ulysses made reply,
Nor I, alas ! descendant of the sky.
I am thy father. Oh my son ! my son !
That father for whose sake thy days have run
One scene of wo to endless cares consigned
And outraged by the wrongs of base mankind.
Then, rushing to his arms, he kissed his boy
With the strong raptures of a parent s joy.
Tears bathe his cheek, and tears the ground bedew
He strained him close, as to his breast ho grew. 2

We shall recur to this interview; but let us first turn to that
between Joseph and his brethren.

Joseph, after a cup has been secretly introduced by his direc
tion into Benjamin s sack, orders the sons of Jacob to be stopped.
The latter are thunder-struck. Joseph affects an intention to

1 Genesis xlii i. 26-31. 2 Pope s HomeSa Odytsey, book xvi. 194-213

364 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

detain the culprit. Juda offers himself as a hostage for Ben
jamin. He relates to Joseph that, before their departure for
Egypt, Jacob had said to them :

" You know that my wife bore me two.

" One went out, and you said a beast devoured him; and hither
to he appeareth not.

" If you take this, also, and any thing befall him in the way,
you will bring down niy gray hairs with sorrow unto hell

" Joseph could no longer refrain himself before many that stood
by; whereupon he commanded that all should go out, and no
stranger be present at their knowing one another.

"And he lifted up his voice with weeping, which the Egyp
tians and all the house of Pharao heard.

"And he said to his brethren, I am Joseph; is my father yet
living? His brethren could not answer him, being struck with
exceeding great fear.

"And he said mildly to them, Come ne arer to me. And
when they were come near him he said, I am Joseph, your bro
ther, whom ye sold into Egypt.

"Be not afraid; .... not by your counsel was I sent hither,
but by the will of God.

" Make haste and go ye up to my father.

"And, falling upon the neck of his brother Benjamin, he em
braced him and wept; and Benjamin in like manner wept also
on his neck.

"And Joseph kissed all his brethren, and wept upon every
one of them." 1

Such is the history of Joseph, which we find not in the work
of a sophist, (for that which springs from the heart and from
tears is not understood by him;) but we find this history in the
volume which forms the groundwork of that religion so despised
by sophists and freethinkers, and which would have a just right
to return contempt for contempt, were not charity its essence.
Let us examine in what respects the interview between Joseph
and his brethren surpasses the discovery of Ulysses to Tele-
machus.

Homer, in our opinion, has, in the first place, fallen into a great

1 Genesis xliv. and xlv.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 365

error in employing the marvellous in his picture. In dramatic
scenes, when the passions are agitated and all the wonders ought
to emanate from the soul, the intervention of a divinity imparts
coldness to the action, gives to the sentiment the air of fable, and
discloses the falsehood of the poet where we expected to meet
with nothing but truth. Ulysses, making himself known in his
rags by some natural mark, would have been much more pathetic.
Of this Homer was himself aware, since the king of Ithica was
revealed to Euryclea, his nurse, by an ancient scar, and to Laertes
by the little circumstance of the pear-trees which the good old
man had given him when a child. We love to find that the heart
of the destroyer of cities is formed like those of other men, and
that the simple affections constitute its principal element.

The discovery is much more ably conducted in Genesis. By
an artifice of the most harmless revenge, a cup is put into the
sack of the young and innocent Benjamin. The guilty brethren
are overwhelmed with grief when they figure to themselves the
affliction of their aged father; and the image of Jacob s sorrow,
taking the heart of Joseph by surprise, obliges him to discover
himself sooner than he had intended. As to the pathetic words,
lam Joseph, everybody knows that they drew tears of admiration
from Voltaire himself. Ulysses found in Telemachus a dutiful
and affectionate son. Joseph is speaking to his brethren who
had sold him. He does not say to them, / am your brother, but
merely, I am Joseph; and this name awakens all their feelings.
Like Telomachus, they are deeply agitated; but it is not the ma
jesty of Pharao s minister; tis something within their own con
sciences that occasions their consternation. He desires them to
come near to him; for he raised his voice to such a pitch as to
be heard by the whole house of Pharao when he said, I am Jo
seph. His brethren alone are to heai the explanation, which he
adds in a low tone; I am Joseph, YOUR BROTHER, WHOM YE SOLD
INTO EGYPT. Here are delicacy, simplicity, and generosity, carried
to the highest degree.

Let us not fail to remark with what kindness Joseph cheers hit-
brethren, and the excuses which he makes for them when he
says that, so far from having injured him, they are, on the con
trary, the cause of his elevation. The Scripture never fails to in
troduce Providence in the perspective of its pictures. The great
31*

366 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

counsel of God, which governs all human affairs at the moment
when they seem to be most subservient to the passions of men
and the laws of chance, wonderfully surprises the mind. We
love the idea of that hand concealed in the cloud which is inces
santly engaged with men. We love to imagine ourselves some
thing in the plans of Infinite Wisdom, and to feel that this transi
tory life is a pattern of eternity.

With God every thing is great; without God every thing is
little : and this remark applies even to the sentiments. Suppose
all the circumstances in Joseph s story to happen as they are re
corded in Genesis, suppose the son of Jacob to be as kind, as
tender, as he is represented, but, at the same time, to be &philoso-
pher, and, instead of telling his brethren, lam here by the will
of the Lord, let him say, fortune has favored me. The objects
are instantly diminished; the circle becomes contracted, and the
pathos vanishes together with the tears.

Finally, Joseph kisses his brethren as Ulysses embraces Tele-
machus; but he begins with Benjamin. A modern author
would not have failed to represent him falling in preference upon
the neck of the most guilty of the brothers, that his hero might
be a genuine tragedy character. The Bible, more intimately ac
quainted with the human heart, knew better how to appreciate
that exaggeration of sentiment by which a man always appears to
be striving to perform or to say what he considers something ex
traordinary. Homer s comparison of the sobs of Telemachus and
Ulysses with the cries of an eagle and her young, had, in our
opinion, been better omitted in this place. " And he fell upon
Benjamin s neck, and kissed him, and wept; and Benjamin wept
also, as he held him in his embrace. 7 Such is the only magnifi
cence of style adapted to such occasions.

We might select from Scripture other narratives equally ex
cellent with the history of Joseph; but the reader himself may
easily compare them with passages in Homer. Let him take,
for instance, the story of Ruth, and the reception of Ulysses by
Eumseus. The book of Tobias displays a striking resemblance
to several scenes of the Iliad and Odyssey. Priam is conducted
by Mercury in the form of a handsome youth, as Tobias is ac
companied by an angel in the like disguise.

The Bible is particularly remarkable for certain modes of ex-

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. a67

pression far more pathetic, we think, than all the poetry of
Homer. When the latter would delineate old age he says:

Slow from bis seat arose the Pylean sage,
Experienced Nestor, in persuasion skilled;
Words sweet as honey from his lips distilled.
Two generations now had passed ajray,
Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;
Two ages o er his native realm he reigned,
And now the example of the third remained.!

This passage possesses the highest charms of antiquity, as well
as the softest melody. The second verse, with the repetitions of
the letter L, imitates the sweetness of honey and the pathetic
eloquence of an old man :

Tw Kal dird yAuWj; fitAiroj yAwn ow pvcv aidn.

Pharao having asked Jacob his age, the patriarch replies :

"The days of my pilgrimage are one hundred and thirty years,
few and evil ; and they are not come up to the days of the pil
grimage of my fathers."*

Here are two very different kinds of antiquity. The one lies
in the image, the other in the sentiments; the one excites pleas
ing ideas, the other melancholy; the one, representing the chief
of the nation, exhibits the old man only in relation to a certain
condition of life, the other considers him individually and exclu
sively. Homer leads us to reflect rather upon men in general,
and the Bible upon the particular person.

Homer has frequently touched upon connubial joys, but has he
produced any thing like the following?

" Isaac brought Rebecca into the tent of Sarah, his mother,
and took her to wife, and he loved her so much that it moderated
the sorrow which was occasioned by his mother s death." 3

We shall conclude this parallel, and the whole subject of
Christian poetics, with an illustration which will show at once the
difference that exists between the style of the Bible and that of
Homer; we shall take a passage from the former and present
it in colors borrowed from the latter. Ruth thus addresses
Noemi :

1 Iliad, b. i. 2 Gen. xlvii 9. Gen. xxiv. 67.

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

"Be not against me to desire that I should leave thee and de
part ; for whithersoever thou shalt go I will go, and where thou
shalt dwell I also will dwell. Thy people shall be my people,
and thy God my God. The law that shall receive thee dying, in
the same will I die." 1

Let us endeavor to render this passage in the language of
Homer.

The fair Ruth thus replies to the wise Noemi, honored by the
people as a goddess : " Cease to oppose the determination with
which a divinity inspires me. I will tell thee the truth, just as
it is, and without disguise. I will remain with thee, whether
thou shalt continue to reside among the Moabites, so dexterous in
throwing the javelin, or shalt return to Judea, so fertile in olives.
With thee I will demand hospitality of the nations who respect
the suppliant. Our ashes shall be mingled in the same urn, and
I will offer agreeable sacrifices to the God who incessantly accom
panies thee.

"She said; and as, when a vehement wind brings a cool re
freshing rain from the western sky, the husbandmen prepare the
wheat and the barley, and make baskets of rushes nicely inter
woven, for they foresee that the falling shower will soften the
soil and render it fit for receiving the precious gifts of Ceres, so
the words of Ruth, like the fertilizing drops, melted the whole
heart of Noemi."

Something like this, perhaps, so far as our feeble talents allow
us to imitate Homer, would be the style of that immortal genius.
But has not the verse of Ruth, thus amplified, lost the original
charm which it possesses in the Scripture? What poetry can
ever be equivalent to that single stroke of eloquence, Populus
tuus populus meus, Deus tuus Deus meus. It will now be
easy to take a passage of Homer, to efface the colors, and to
leave nothing but the groundwork, after the manner of the
Bible.

We have thus endeavored, to the best of our limited abilities,
to make our readers acquainted with some of the innumerable
beauties of the sacred Scriptures. Truly happy shall we be, if

1 Ruth i. 16.

THE BIBLE AND HOMER COMPARED. 369

wo have succeeded in exciting within them an admiration of that
grand and sublime corner-stone which supports the church of Je
sus Christ!

" If the Scripture," says St. Gregory the Great, "comprehends
mysteries capable of pe .plexing the most enlightened under
standings, it also contains simple truths fit for the nourishment
oi the humble and the, illiterate ; it carries externally wherewith
to suckle infants, and in its most secret recesses wherewith to fill
the most sublime geniuses with admiration ; like a river whose
current is so shallow in certain parts that a lamb may cross it,
and deep enDugh in others for an elephant to swim there/

THE FINE ARTS AND LITERATURE.

BOOK I.

THE FINE ARTS.
CHAPTER I.

MUSK 1 ..

Of the Influence of Christianity upon Music.

To the Fine Arts, the sisters of poetry, we have now to direct
our attention. Following the steps of the Christian religion,
they acknowledged her for their mother the moment she appeared
in the world ; they lent her their terrestrial charms, and she con
ferred on them her divinity. Music noted down her hymns ;
Painting represented her in her mournful triumphs ; Sculpture
delighted in meditating with her among the tombs; and Archi
tecture built her temples sublime and melancholy as her thoughts.

Plato has admirably denned the real nature of music. "We
must not judge of music," said he, "by the pleasure which it
affords, nor prefer that kind which has no other object than
pleasure, but that which contains in itself a resemblance to the
beautiful."

Music, in fact, considered as an art, is an imitation of nature;
its perfection, therefore, consists in representing the most beauti
ful nature possible. But pleasure is a matter of opinion which
varies according to times, manners, and nations, and whiclfc can
not be the beautiful, since the beautiful has an absolute existence.
Hence every institution that tends to purify the soul, to banish
370

MUSIC. 371

fi om it trouble and discord, and to promote the growth of virtue,
is by this very quality favorable to the best music, or to the most
perfect imitation of the beautiful. But if this institution is
moreover of a religious nature, it then possesses the two essential
conditions of harmony : the beautiful and the mysterious. Song
has come to us from the angels, and symphony has its source in
heaven.

It is religion that causes the vestal to sigh amid the night in
her peaceful habitation; it is religion that sings so sweetly beside
the bed of affliction. To her Jeremias owed his lamentations
and David the sublime effusions of his repentance. If, prouder
under the ancient covenant, she depicted only the sorrows of
monarchs and of prophets, more modest, and not less royal, under
the new law, her sighs are equally suited to the mighty and the
weak, because in Jesus Christ she has found humility combined
with greatness.

The Christian religion, we may add, is essentially melodious,
for this single reason, that she delights in solitude. Not that
she has any antipathy to society; there, on the contrary, she
appears highly amiable : but this celestial Philomela prefers the
desert; she is coy and retiring beneath the roofs of men; she
loves the forests better, for these are the palaces of her father
and her ancient abode. Here she raises her voice to the skies
amid the concerts of nature; nature is incessantly celebrating
the praises of the Creator, and nothing can be more religious
than the hymns chanted in concert with the winds by the oaks
of the forest and the reeds of the desert.

Thus the musician who would follow religion in all her rela
tions is obliged to learn the art of imitating the harmonies of
solitude. He ought to be acquainted with the melancholy notes
of the waters and the trees; he ought to study the sound of
the winds in the cloister and those murmurs that pervade the
Gothic temple, the grass of the cemetery and the vaults of death.

Christianity has invented the organ and given sighs to brass
itself. To her music owed its preservation in the barbarous
ages; wherever she has erected her throne, there have arisen a
people who sing as naturally as the birds of the air. Song is the
daughter of prayer, and prayer is the companion of religion.
She has civilized the savage, only by the means of hymns; and

372 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

the Iroquois who would not submit to her doctrines was over
come by her concerts. religion of peace ! thou hast not, like
other systems, inculcated the precepts of hatred and discord j
thou hast taught mankind nothing but love and harmony.

CHAPTER II.

THE GREGORIAN CHANT.

IP it were not proved by history that the Gregorian chant is
a relic of that ancient music of which so many wonderful things
are related, the examination of its scale would itself suffice to
convince us of its great antiquity. 1 Before the time of Guido
Aretino, it rose no higher than the fifth, beginning with ut : ut y
re, mi, fa, sol, or c, d, e, f, g. These five notes are the natural
gamut of the voice, and produce a full and musical scale. 3

Burette has left us some Greek tunes. On comparing them
with the plain chant, we find in both the same system.
Most of the Psalms are sublimely solemn, particularly the Dixit
Dominus Domino meo, the Confitebor tibi, and the Laudate pueri.
The In Exitu, arranged by Rameau, is of a less antique character,
belonging, perhaps, to the same age as the Ut queant laxis, that

is to say, the age of Charlemagne.

i __ . .

1 The Gregorian chant is so called from St. Gregory the Great, who introduced
it, and who flourished in the sixth century. The chief points in which it differs
from modern music are the following: It has not as great a variety of notes;
its melodies are more grave; and, chiefly, it excludes harmonization. It is
also called plain-chant, and is often sung in unison hy the choir and congrega
tion. T.

2 Guido, a Benedictine monk of Italy, lived in the eleventh century. He
introduced the gamut, and is supposed to have been acquainted with counter
point. He was the first to employ the syllables ut, re, mi, &lt;fcc. for the designa
tion of musical notes, deriving them from the first stanza of the hymn in honor
of St. John Baptist :

Ut queant laxis resonare fibris,
Mira, gestorum /amuli tuorum,
Solve polluti Zabii reatum,

Sancte Joannes. T.

THE GREGORIAN CHANT. 37S

Christianity is serious as man, and her very smile is grave.
Nothing is more exquisite than the sighs which our afflictions
extort from religion. The whole of the service for the dead is
a master-piece; you imagine that you hear the hollow murmurs
of the grave. An ancient tradition records that the chant which
delivers the dead, as it is termed by one of our best poets, is the
same that was performed at the funeral obsequies of the Athenians
about the time of Pericles.

The chant of the Passion, or history of our Saviour s suffer
ings, during the holy week, is worthy of remark. The recitative
of the historian, the cries of the Jewish populace, the dignity of
the answers of Jesus, form a musical drama of the most pathetic
character.

Pergolesi has displayed in his Stabat Mater all the riches of
his art; but has he surpassed the simple music of the Church?
He has varied the melody with each strophe; and yet the essen
tial character of melancholy consists in the repetition of the same
sentiment, and, if we may so express ourselves, in the monotony
of grief. Various reasons may draw tears from our eyes, but
our tears have always the same bitterness; besides, rarely do we
weep over a number of sorrows at once; when the wounds are
numerous, there is always one more severe than the rest, which
at length absorbs all inferior pains. Such is the cause of the
charm which pervades our old French ballads. The repetition
of the notes at each couplet to different words is an exact imita
tion of nature.

Pergolesi, then, manifested a want of acquaintance with this
truth, which is intimately connected with the theory of the
passions, when he determined that not a sigh of the soul should
resemble the sigh that had gone before it. Wherever variety is,
there is distraction ; and wherever distraction is, sorrow is at an
end : so necessary is unity to sentiment : so weak is man in this
very part in which lies all his strength, we mean, in grief. 1

1 These remarks of the author are unquestionably true when the musical
aubject possesses a unity of incident as well as of sentiment. Here the repeti
tion of the same notes is very expressive. But when the subject, like tho
Stabat, recalls to the mind a variety of scenes, does not the perfection of the
musical art require that &lt;hese scenes should be represented with all the ex
pressiveness of which it is capable? The Requiem of Mozart is a master-piece,
32

374 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

The lesson of the Lamentations of Jeremiah is stamped with
a peculiar character. It may have been retouched by the moderns,
but to us the ground appears to be of Hebrew origin, for it bears
no resemblance to the Greek tunes in the church music. The
Pentateuch was sung at Jerusalem, like pastorals, in a full and
soft strain; the prophecies were repeated in a harsh and emphatic
tone; and the psalms had an ecstatic mode belonging exclusively
to them. 1 Here we fall into those grand recollections which the
Catholic worship assembles from all quarters : Moses and Homer,
Lebanon and Cytheron, Solyma and Rome, Babylon and Athens,
have deposited their remains at the foot of our altars.

Finallv, it was enthusiasm itself that inspired the Te Deum.
When, halting in the plains of Lens or Fontenoy, amid clouds
of smoke and yet reeking blood, a French army, scathed with
the thunderbolts of war, bowed the knee to the flourishes of
clarions and trumpets, and joined in a hymn of praise to the
God of battles, or when, in the midst of lamps, altars of gold,
torches, perfumes, the swelling tones of the organ, and the full
accompaniment of various instruments, this grand hymn shook
the windows, the vaults, and the domes of some ancient cathe
dral, there was not a soul but felt transported, not one but ex
perienced some portion of that rapture which inspired Pindar in
the groves of Olympia or David on the banks of the Cedron.

The reader will observe that, in treating of the Greek chants
only of the Church, we have not employed all our means, since
we might have exhibited an Ambrose, a Dainasus, a Leo, a
Gregory, laboring themselves for the restoration of the science
of music ; we might have enumerated all those master-pieces of
modern music composed for Christian solemnities, as well as all
those great masters, Vinci, Leo, Hasse, Galuppi, and Durante,
educated or patronized in the oratories of Rome and at the court
of the sovereign pontiff. 3

because it has an imitative power, an objective excellence, while at the same
time its general tone is in accordani3e with the solemn feelings which the sub
ject inspires. T.

1 Bonnet s History of Music and its Effects.

2 In the whole range of musical literature, nothing can be found to excel the
compositions to which the worship and piety of the Catholic Church have given
birth. T

HISTORICAL PAINTING. 375

CHAPTER IIL

HISTORICAL PAINTING AMONG THE MODERNS.

THE pleasing writers of Greece relate that a young female,
perceiving the shadow of her lover upon a wall, chalked the out
line of the figure. Thus, according to antiquity, a transient pas
sion produced the art of the most perfect illusions.

The Christian school has sought another master. It has dis
covered him in that Great Artist who, moulding a morsel of
earth in his mighty hands, pronounced those words, Let us make
man in our own image ! For us, then, the first stroke of design
existed in the -eternal idea of God ; and the first statue which
the world beheld was that noble figure of clay animated by the
breath of the Creator.

There is a force of error which compels silence, like the force
of truth ; both, carried to the highest pitch, produce conviction,
the former negatively, the latter affirmatively. When, therefore,
we hear it asserted that Christianity is inimical to the arts, we
are struck dumb with astonishment, for we cannot forbear calling
to mind Michael Angelo, Raphael, the Caracci, Domenichino,
Lesueur, Poussin, Coustou, and crowds of other artists, whose
names alone would fill whole volumes.

About the middle of the fourth century, the Roman empire,
invaded by barbarians and torn in pieces by heresy, crumbled
into ruin on every side. The arts found no asylum except with
the Christians and the orthodox emperors. Theodosius, by a
special law, de excusatione artificum, exempted painters and
their families from all taxes and from the quartering of troops.
The fathers of the Church bestow never-ceasing praises on paint
ing. St. Gregory thus expresses himself: " I frequently gazed
at the figure, and could not pass it without shedding tears, as it
placed the whole story before my eyes in the most lively manner." 1
This was a picture representing the sacrifice of Abraham. St

1 Second Nicene Coun. Act., xi.

376 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Basil goes still further; for he asserts that painters accomplish
as much by their pictures as orators by their eloquence. 1 A
monk, named Methodius, executed, in the ninth century, that
Last Judgment which converted Bogoris, king of the Bulgarians. 3
The clergy had collected at the college of Orthodoxy, at Constan
tinople, the finest library in the world, and all the master-pieces
of antiquity: here, in particular, was to be seen the Venus of
Praxiteles, 8 which proves, at least, that the founders of the Ca
tholic worship were neither barbarians without taste, bigoted
monks, nor the Votaries of absurd superstition.

This college was demolished by the iconoclast emperors. 4 The
professors were burnt alive, and it was at the risk of meeting
with a similar fate that some Christians saved the dragon s skin,
one hundred and twenty feet long, on which the works of Homer
were written in letters of gold. The pictures belonging to the
churches were consigned to the flames. Stupid and furious
bigots, nearly resembling the Puritans of Cromwell s time, hacked
to pieces with their sabres the admirable mosaic-works in the
. ,hurch of the Virgin Mary at Constantinople, and in the palace
of Blaquernac. To such a height was this persecution carried
that it involved the painters themselves ; they were forbidden,
under pain of death, to prosecute their profession. Lazarus, a
monk, had the courage to become a martyr to his art. In vain
did Theophilus cause his hands to be burned, to prevent him
from holding the pencil. This illustrious friar, concealed in the
vault of St. John the Baptist, painted with his mutilated fingers
the great saint whose protection he sought j 5 worthy, undoubtedly,
of becoming the patron of painters, and of being acknowledged
by that sublime family which the breath of the Spirit exalts abovo
the rest of mankind.

Tinder the empire of the Goths and Lombards, Christianity
continued to lend her assisting hand to talent. These efforts are
particularly remarkable in the churches erected by Theodoric,

1 St. Basil, horn. 20.

* Curopal. Codron. Zonar. Mftiml)., Hint, of the Jconocl.

a Cedron. Zonar. Constant., and Maiiub., Hint, of the fconocl.

4 The IconochmtH or I in age- breakers, a fanatical sect that originated in the
Kovonth century. At a later period, the name was applied to all who were
opposed to (ho veneration of images. T.

8 Maimb., Hint, of the Iconocf., Ocdren. Curopal.

HISTORICAL PAINTING. S77

Luitprand, and Desiderius. The same spirit of religion actuated
Charlemagne ; and the Church of the APOSTLES, erected by that
great prince at Florence, is, even at the present day, accounted a
fine structure.

At length, about the thirteenth century, the Christian religion,
after encountering a thousand obstacles, brought back the choir
of Muses in triumph to the earth. Every thing was done for the
churches, both by the patronage of the pontiffs and of religious
princes. Bouchet, a Greek by birth, was the first architect,
Nicolas the first sculptor, and Cimabue the first painter, that re
covered the antique style from the ruins of Rome and Greece.
From that time the arts were raised by different hands and dif
ferent geniuses to the pitch of excellence which they attained in
the great age of Leo X., when Raphael and Michael Angelo burst
forth like resplendent luminaries.

The reader is aware that our subject does not require us to
give a technical history of the art. All that we undertake to
show is in what respect Christianity is more favorable to painting
than any other religion. Now, it is an easy task to prove three
things Firstly, that the Christian religion, being of a spiritual
and mystic nature, furnishes the painter with the beautiful ideal
more perfect and more divine than that which arises from a ma
terial worship; secondly, that, correcting the deformity of the
passions, or powerfully counteracting them, it gives a more
sublime expression to the human countenance, and more clearly
displays the soul in the muscles and conformation of the body ;
thirdly, and lastly, that it has furnished the arts with subjects
more beautiful, more rich, more dramatic, more pathetic, than
those of mythology.

The first two propositions have been amply discussed in our
examination of poetry j we shall, therefore, confine cfur attention
to the third only.

378 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

CHAPTER IV.

OF THE SUBJECTS OP PICTURES.

FUNDAMENTAL truths.

Firstly. The subjects of antiquity continue at the disposal of
modern painters ; thus, in addition to the mythological scenes,
they have the subjects which Christianity presents.

Secondly. A circumstance which shows that Christianity has a
more powerful influence over genius than fable, is that our great
masters, in general, have been more successful in sacred than in
profane subjects.

Thirdly. The modern styles of dress are ill adapted to the arts
of imitation ; but the Catholic worship has furnished painting
with costumes as dignified as those of antiquity. 1

Pausanias, 3 Pliny, 3 and Plutarch, 4 have left us a description of
the pictures of the Greek school. 5 Zeuxis took for the subjects
of his three principal productions, Penelope, Helen, and Cupid ;
Polygnotus had depicted, on the walls of the temple of Delphi,
the sacking of Troy and the descent of Ulysses into hell ; Eu-
phranor painted the twelve gods, Theseus giving laws, and the
battles of Cadmea, Leuctra, and Mantinea; Apelles drew Venus
Anadyomene with the features of Campaspe ; ^Etion represented
the -nuptials of Alexander and Roxana, and Timantes delineated
the sacrifice of Iphigenia.

Compare these subjects with the Christian subjects, and you

1 These costumes of the fathers and the first Christians (which have been
transmitted to our clergy) are no other than the robe of the ancient Greek
philosophers, denominated irt.pi0o\aiov, or pallium. It was even a cause of per
secution for the believers ; for when the Romans or the Jews perceived them
thus attired, they would exclaim, O rpaixo$ (nrfitrr)$, Oh the Greek impostor!
(Jerom., ep. 10, ad Furiam.) Consult Kortholt. de Morib. Christ., cap. iii. p.
23, and Bar., an. Ivi. n. 11. Tertullian has written a work expressly on this
subject, (de Pallio.)

2 Paus., lib. v. 3 PHn., lib. xxxv. c. 8 9.
4 Plut., in Hipp., Pomp., Lucul, &c. 5 See note V.

SUBJECTS OF PICTURES. 379

will perceive their inferiority. The sacrifice of Isaac, for ex
ample, is in a more simple style than that of Iphigenia, and is
equally affecting. Here are no soldiers, no group of people, none
of that bustle which serves to draw off the attention from the
principal action. Here is the solitary summit of a mountain, a
patriarch who numbers a century of years, the knife raised over
an only son, and the hand of God arresting the paternal arm.
The histories of the Old Testament are full of such pictures ; and
it is well known how highly favorable to the pencil are the patri
archal manners, the costumes of the East, the largeness of the
animals and the vastness of the deserts of Asia.

The New Testament changes the genius of painting. With
out taking away any of its sublimity, it imparts to it a higher
degree of tenderness. Who has not a hundred times admired
the Nativity, the Virgin and Child, the Flight in the Desert,
the Crowning with Thorn*, the Sacraments, the Mission of the
Apostles, the Taking down from the Cross, the Women at the
holy Sepulchre. Can bacchanals, festivals of Venus, rapes, meta
morphoses, affect the heart like the pictures taken from the Scrip
ture? Christianity everywhere holds forth virtue and misfortune
to our view, and polytheism is a system of crimes and prosperity.
Our religion is our own history ; it was for us that so many tragic
spectacles were given to the world : we are parties in the scenes
which the pencil exhibits to our view. A Greek, most assuredly,
felt no kind of interest in the picture of a demi-god who cared
not whether he was happy or miserable ; but the most moral and
the most impressive harmonies pervade the Christian subjects.
Be forever glorified, religion of Jesus Christ, that hast repre
sented in the Louvre 1 the Crucifixion of the King of Kiiti/s, the
Last Judgment on the ceiling of our court of justice, a Resurrec
tion at the public hospital, and the Birth of our Saviour in the
habitation of those orphans who are forsaken both by father and
mother !

We may repeat here, respecting the subjects of pictures, what
we have said elsewhere concerning the subjects of poems. Chris
tianity has created a dramatic department in painting far superior
to that of mythology. It is religion also that has given us a Claude

1 The Museum of the Fine Arts at Paris.

380 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Loraine, as it lias furnished us with a Delille and a St. Lambert. 1
But what need is there of so many arguments ? Step into the
gallery of the Louvre, and then assert, if you can, that the spirit
of Christianity is not favorable to the fine arts.

CHAPTER V.

SCULPTURE.

WITH a few variations required by the technical part of the
art, our remarks on painting are equally applicable to sculpture.

The statue of Moses by Michael Angelo, at Rome; Adam and
Eve by Baccio, at Florence; the Vow of Louis XIII. by Coustou,
at Paris; St. Denys by the same; the tomb of Cardinal Riche
lieu, the production of the joint genius of Lebran and Grirardon;
the monument of Colbert, executed after the design of Lebrun,
by Coyzevox and Tuby; Christ, the Mother of Pity, and the
Eight Apostles, by Bouchardon, and several other statues of the
religious kind, prove that Christianity understands the art of ani
mating the marble full as well as the canvas.

It were, however, to be wished that sculptors would in future
banish from their funeral compositions those skeletons which they
have frequently introduced in monuments. Such phantoms are
not suggested by the genius of Christianity, which depicts death
so fair for the righteous.

It is equally necessary to avoid representations of corpses, 8
(however meritorious the execution,) or humanity sinking under
protracted infirmities. 3 A warrior expiring on the field of honor
in the full vigor of manhood may be very fine; but a body emaci
ated by disease is an image which the arts reject, unless accom-

1 See note W.

2 As in the mausoleum of Francis I. and Anne of Bretagne.
* As in the tomb of the Duke d Harcourt.

ARCHITECTURE. 381

panied by some miracle, as in the picture of St. Charles Borro-
meo. 1 Exhibit, then, upon the monument of the Christian, on
the one hand his weeping family and his dejected friends, on
the other, smiling hope and celestial joys. Such a sepulchre, dis
playing on either side the scenes o f time and of eternity, would
be truly admirable. Death might make his appearance there,
but under the features of an angel at once gentle and severe; for
the tomb of the righteous ought always to prompt the spectator
to exclaim, with St. Paul, grave, where u thy victory?
death, where is thy sting f

CHAPTER VI.

ARCHITECTURE.
Hotel des Invalides.

IN treating of the influence of Christianity on the arts, there
is no occasion for either subtlety or eloquence. The monuments
are there to confute the depredators of religion. It is sufficient,
for example, to mention St. Peter s at Rome, St. Sophia s at
Constantinople, and St. Paul s in London, to prove that we are
indebted to religion for the three master-pieces of modern archi
tecture.

In architecture, as in the other arts, Christianity has re-esta
blished the genuine proportions. Our churches, neither so small
as the temples of Athens nor so gigantic as those of Memphis,
maintain that due medium in which beauty and taste eminently
reside. By means of the dome, unknown to the ancients, reli
gion has produced a happy combination of the boldness of the
Gothic and the simplicity and grace of the Grecian orders.

1 Painting may be more easily reconciled to the representation &gt;f a dead
body than sculpture, because the marble, exhibiting more palpable forms, up
proaches too near to the truth.

382 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

This dome, which in most of our churches is transformed into
a steeple, imparts to our hamlets and towns a moral character
which the cities of antiquity could not possess. The eyes of the
traveller are first struck by that religious spire the sight of which
awakens in his bosom a multitude of feelings and recollections.
It is the funeral pyramid around which the rude forefathers of
the hamlet sleep; but it is also the monument of joy beneath
which the sacred brass records the life of the believer. Here
husband and wife are united. Here Christians fall prostrate at
the foot of the altar, the weak to pray to the God of might, the
guilty to implore the God of mercy, the innocent to sing the
praises of the God of love. Does a country-place appear naked,
dreary, and desolate? introduce a rural steeple, and the whole
instantly becomes animated. The soothing ideas of pastor and
flock, of an asylum for the traveller, of alms for the pilgrim, of
hospitality and Christian fraternity, spring up on every side.

The more those ages which reared our monuments were dis
tinguished for piety and faith, the more striking are those monu
ments for grandeur and elevation of character. Of this an ex
quisite specimen may be seen in the Hotel of the Invalids and the
Military School. You would say that, at the voice of religion, the
domes of the former aspire to heaven, while, at the command of an
atheistical age, the latter has been made to grovel upon the earth.

Three sides, forming with the church an oblong square, com
pose the whole structure of the Invalids. But what perfect taste
in this simplicity ! What beauty in that court, which, neverthe
less, is but a military cloister, where art has blended martial with
religious ideas, and combined the image of a camp of aged
soldiers with the affecting recollections of an hospital ! It is at
once the monument of the God of hosts and the God of the gos
pel. The rust of years with which it begins to be covered gives
it a noble affinity to those living ruins the veterans who walk be
neath its ancient porticos, In the forecourts every thing re
minds you of war ditches, glacis, ramparts, cannon, tents, senti
nels. Proceed, and the noise gradually diminishes till it wholly
subsides at the church, where profound silence reigns. It was a
grand idea to place the religious structure in the rear of all the
military edifices, like the image of rest and hope at the end of a
life exposed to a thousand hardships and dangers.

VERSAILLES. 383

The age of Louis XIV. is perhaps the only one that has duly
appreciated these admirable moral harmonies, and always per
formed in the arts just what was becoming, without doing either
too little or too much. The wealth of commerce has erected the
magnificent colonnades of Greenwich Hospital; but there is
something prouder and more imposing in the general mass of the
Invalids. You are convinced that a nation which rears such
palaces for the old age of its armies has received the sword of
might as well as the sceptre of the arts. 1

CHAPTER VII

VERSAILLES.

PAINTING, architecture, poetry, and the higher species of elo
quence, have invariably degenerated in philosophic ages; because
a reasoning spirit, by destroying the imagination, undermines the
foundation of the fine arts. We fancy ourselves more enlightened
because we correct a few errors in natural philosophy, substituting,
however, all the errors of reason in their stead; and we are, in
fact, going backward, since we are losing one of the finest facul
ties of the mind.

It was at Versailles that all the splendors of the religious age
of France were combined. Scarcely a century has elapsed since
those groves rang with the sounds of festivity, and now they are
animated only by the music of the grasshopper and the nightin
gale. This palace, which of itself is like a large town, those
marble staircases, which seem to ascend to the skies, those
statues, those basins of water, those woods, are now either crum
bling into ruin, or covered with moss, or dried up, or overthrown;
and yet this abode of kings never appeared more magnificent or
less solitary. All these places were formerly empty. The little

1 Our author s subject would not have suffered by a more particular notice of
SL Peter s at Rome and St. Paul s Cathedral in London.

384 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

court of the last of the Bourbons (before adversity had completely
overwhelmed that court) seemed lost in the vast habitation of
Louis XIV.

When time has given a mortal blow to empires, some great
name associates itself with them and covers their relics. If the
noble poverty of the soldier has now succeeded the magnificence
of courts at Versailles, if the views of miracles and martyrs have
there taken the place of profane pictures, why should the shade
of Louis XIV. be offended ? He conferred lustre on religion, on
the arts, and on the army. It is consistent, therefore, that the
ruins of his palace should afford an asvluin to the ruins of the
army, of the arts, and of religion.

CHAPTER VIII.

GOTHIC CHURCHES.

EVERT thing ought to be in its proper place. This is a truth
become trite by repetition; but without its due observance there
can be nothing perfect. The Greeks would not have been better
pleased with an Egyptian temple at Athens than the Egyptians
with a Greek temple at Memphis. These two monuments, by
changing places, would have lost their principal beauty; that is
to say, their relations with the institutions and habits of the peo
ple. This reflection is equally applicable to the ancient monu
ments of Christianity. It is even curious to remark how readily
the poets and novelists of this infidel age, by a natural return to
ward the manners of our ancestors, introduce dungeons, spectres,
castles, and Gothic churches, into their fictions, so great is the
charm of recollections associated with religion and the history of
our country. Nations do not throw aside their ancient customs
as people do their old clothes. Some part of them may be dis
carded; but there will remain a portion, which with the new
manners will form a very strange mixture.

GOTHIC CHURCHES*. 385

In vain would you build Grecian temples, ever so elegant and
well-lighted, for the purpose of assembling the good people of
St. Louis and Queen Blanche, and making them adore a meta
physical God; they would still regret those Notre Dames of
Rheims and Paris, those venerable cathedrals, overgrown with
inoss, full of generations of the dead and the ashes of their
forefathers ; they would still regret the tombs of those heroes,
the Montmorencys, on which they loved to kneel during mass;
to say nothing of the sacred fonts to which they were carried at
their birth. The reason is that all these things are essentially
interwoven with their manners ; that a monument i not vene
rable, unless a long history of the past be, as it were, inscribed
beneath its vaulted canopy, black with age. For this reason,
also, there is nothing marvellous in a temple whose erection we
have witnessed, whose echoes and whose domes were formed
before our eyes. God is the eternal law; his origin, and what
ever relates to his worship, ought to be enveloped in the night
of time.

You could not enter a Gothic church without feeling a kind
of awe and a vague sentiment of the Divinity. You were all at
once carried back to those times when a fraternity of ceuobites,
after having meditated in the woods of their monasteries, met
to prostrate themselves before the altar and to chant the
praises of the Lord, amid the tranquillity and the silence of
night. Ancient France seemed to revive altogether; you beheld
all those singular costumes, all that nation so different from what
it is at present; you were reminded of its revolutions, its pro
ductions, and its arts. The more remote were these times the
more magical they appeared, the more they inspired ideas which
always end with a reflection on the nothingness of man and the
rapidity of life.

The Gothic style, notwithstanding its barbarous proportions,
possesses a beauty peculiar to itself. 1

1 Gothic architecture, as well as the sculpture in the same stylo, is supposed
to have been derived from the Arabs. Its affinity to the monuments of
Egypt would rather lead us to imagine that it was transmitted to us by
ihe first Christians of the East; but we are more inclined to refer its origin
to nature.

33 Z

386 GENIUS OF CHKISTIANITY.

The forests were the first temples of the Divinity, and in
them men acquired the first idea of architecture. This art
must, therefore, have varied according to climates. The Greeks
turned the elegant Corinthian column, with its capital of foliage,
after the model of the palm-tree. 1 The enormous pillars of the
ancient Egyptian style represent the massive sycamore, the
oriental fig, the banana, and most of the gigantic trees of
Africa and Asia.

The forests of Gaul were, in their turn, introduced into the
temples of our ancestors, and those celebrated woods of oaks
thus maintained their sacred character. Those ceilings sculp
tured into foliage of different kinds, those buttresses which
prop the walls and terminate abruptly like the broken trunks
of trees, the coolness of the vaults, the darkness of the
sanctuary, the dim twilight of the aisles, the secret passages,
the low doorways, in a word, every thing in a Gothic
church reminds you of the labyrinths of a wood; every thing
excites a feeling of religious awe, of mystery, and of the
Divinity.

The two lofty towers erected at the entrance of the edifice
overtop the elms and yew-trees of the churchyard, and produce
the most picturesque effect on the azure of heaven. Sometimes
their twin heads are illumined by the first rays of dawn; at
others they appear crowned with a capital of clouds or magni
fied in a foggy atmosphere. The birds themselves seem to make
a mistake in regard to them, and to take them for the trees of
the forest ; they hover over their summits, and perch upon their
pinnacles. But, lo ! confused noises suddenly issue from the
top of these towers and scare away the affrighted birds. The
Christian architect, not content with building forests, has been

i Vitruvius gives a different account of the invention of the Corinthian
capital; but this does not confute the general principle that architecture
originated in the woods. We are only astonished that there should not be
more variety in the column, after the varieties of trees. We have a conception,
for example, of a column that might be termed Palmist, and be a natural
representation of the palm-tree. An orb of foliage slightly bowed and sculp
tured on the top of a light shaft of marble would, in our opinion, produce a
very pleasing effect in a portico.

GOTHIC CHURCHES. 387

desirous to retain their murmurs ; and, by means of the organ
and of bells, he has attached to the Gothic temple the very
winds and thunders that roar in the recesses of the woods. Past
ages, conjured up by these religious sounds, raise their venerable
voices from the bosom of the stones, and are heard in every
corner of the vast cathedral. The sanctuary re-echoes like the
cavern of the ancient Sibyl ; loud-tongued bells swing over your
head, while the vaults of death under your feet are profoundly
silent

BOOK II.

PHILOSOPHY.
CHAPTER I.

ASTRONOMY AND MATHEMATICS.

LET us now consider the effects of Christianity upco literature
in general. It may be classed under these three principal heads :
philosophy, history, and eloquence.

By philosophy we here mean the study of every species of
science.

It will be seen that, in defending religion, we by no means
attack wisdom. Far be it from us to confound sophistical pride
with the solid qualifications of the mind and heart. Genuine
philosophy is the innocence of the old age of nations, when they
have ceased to possess virtues by instinct, and owe such as they
have to reason. This second innocence is less certain than the
first, but, when it can be attained, it is more sublime.

On whatever side you view the religion of the gospel, you
find that it enlarges the understanding and tends to expand
the feelings. In the sciences, its tenets are not hostile to any
natural truth; its doctrine forbids not any study. Among the
ancients, a philosopher was continually meeting with some
divinity in his way; he was doomed by the priests of Jupiter or
Apollo, under pain of death or exile, to be absurd all his life.
But, as the God of the Christians has not confined himself within
the narrow limits of a sun, he has left all the luminaries of
heaven open to the researches of scholars : " He hath delivered
the world to their consideration/ 1 The natural philosopher
may weigh the air in his tube without any apprehension of
offending Juno ; it is not of the elements of his body, but of
the virtues of his soul, that the Supreme Judge will one day
require an account.

1 Ecclesiastes iii. 11.

ASTRONOMY AND MATHEMATICS. 389

We are aware that we shall not fail to be reminded of certain
bulls of the Holy See, or certain decrees of the Sorbonne, which
condemn this or that philosophical discovery ; but, on the other
hand, how many ordinances of the court of Rome in favor of
these same discoveries might we not enumerate ! What can be
said in this case, except that the clergy, who are men like
ourselves, have shown themselves more or less enlightened,
according to the natural course of ages ? If Christianity itself
has neve r appeared in opposition to the sciences, we have a suffi
cient authorization for our first assertion.

Let it be observed that the Church has at all periods pro
tected the arts, though she has sometimes discouraged abstract
studies; and in this she has displayed her accustomed wisdom.
In vain do men perplex their understandings ; they never will
fully comprehend any thing in nature, because it is not they
who have said to the ocean, " Hitherto thou shalt come, and
shalt go no farther, and here thou shalt break thy swelling
waves." 1 Systems will eternally succeed systems, and truth
will ever remain unknown. " If nature," says Montaigne,
" should one day be pleased to reveal her secrets to us,
oh heavens ! what errors, what mistakes, shall we find in our
paltry sciences I" 9

The legislators of antiquity, agreeing on this point, as in
many others, with the principles of the Christian religion,
discouraged philosophers 3 and lavished honors upon artists. 4
All these alleged persecutions of the sciences by Christianity
may, therefore, with equal justice, be laid to the charge of the
ancients, in whom, however, we discover such profound wisdom.
In the year of Rome 591, the senate issued a decree banishing
all philosophers from the city, and six years afterward Cato lost
no time in procuring the dismissal of Carneades, the Athenian
ambassador, " lest," as he said, " the Roman youth, acquiring a
taste for the subtleties of the Greeks, should lose the simplicity
of the ancient manners." If the system of Copernicus was

i Job xxrdii. 11. 2 Euayt, book ii. ch. 12.

3 Xenoph., Hist. Green. ; Plut, Mor. ; Plat, in Phced., in Repub.

4 The Greeks carried this hatred of philosophers to a criminal height, since
they put Socrates to death.

390 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

condemned by the court of Rome, did it not meet with a similai
fate among the Greeks ?* " Aristarchus," says Plutarch, " was
of opinion that the Greeks ought to bring Cleanthes, the
Samian, to trial, and to find him guilty of blasphemy against
the gods, as a disturber of the public faith ; because this man,
endeavoring to save appearances, supposed that the firmament
was motionless, and that the earth moved along the oblique
circle of the zodiac, revolving upon its axis." 3

It is true, moreover, that modern Rome showed superior
intelligence; for the same ecclesiastical tribunal which at first
condemned the system of Copernicus, six years afterward
allowed it to be taught as an hypothesis. 3 Besides, could a
greater proficiency in astronomical science be reasonably ex
pected of a Roman priest than of Tycho Brahe, who continued
to deny the motion of the earth ? Lastly, were not a Pope
Gregory, who reformed the calendar, a Friar Bacon, probably
the inventor of the telescope, Cuza, a cardinal, Gassendi, a
priest, either the patrons or the luminaries of astronomy ? 4

1 The assertion that the system of Copernicus, proclaimed by Galileo, was
condemned by the Court of Rome, is proved to be utterly unfounded in truth.
Galileo was arraigned before the tribunals at Rome, not as an astronomer,
but as a bad theologian. He was censured, not for teaching that the earth
revolved round the sun, but for obstinately declaring that his opinion was
contained in the Bible, and pretending that the ecclesiastical authorities should
publish a decision to this effect. That such were the facts of the case we
learn from the letters of Guiceiardini and the Marquis Nicolini, both disciples
and friends of Galileo, and from the letters of the distinguished astronomer
himself. Mr. Mallet du Pau, an impartial Protestant writer, has presented all
this evidence in a lengthy dissertation on the subject, which appeared in the
Mercure de France, July 17, 1784. T.

2 Plut., On the Face which appears in the Moon s Disc, chap. 4. It is
scarcely necessary to observe that there is an error in Plutarch s text, and
that it was, on the contrary, Aristarchus of Samos against whom Cleanthes
endeavored to raise a persecution on account of his opinion respecting the
motion of the earth ; but this makes no alteration in what we are attempting
to demonstrate.

3 The theory of Galileo, once divested of its theological aspect, met with
no opposition whatever from the ecclesiastical authorities. T. See note X.

1 Cardinal Cuza, equally distinguished for virtue and learning, died in 1454.
He taught without censure the same astronomical system which afterward
formed the pretended charge against Galileo a fact which corroborates the
remark in a preceding note, that the question in the case of Galileo was not
of an astronomical, but a theological, nature. T.

ASTRONOMY AND MATHEMATICS. 391

Plato, that genius so deeply enamored of the loftier sciences,
expressly says, in one of his finest works, that the hiyht,* studies
are not useful to all, but only to a small number; and to this
reflection, continued by experience, he adds the remark, "that
absolute ignorance is neither the greatest of evils nor the most- to
be feared, but that an accumulation of ill-digested knowledge i
infinitely worse." 1

If religion, therefore, stood in need of any justification on this
head, we should not want authorities among the ancients, or even
among the moderns. Hobbes has written several treatises 8 against
the uncertainty of the most certain of all sciences, the mathe
matics. In that which he has entitled Contra Gcometras, sivo
contra fastum Professor-urn, he censures the definitions of Euclid,
one after another, and shows how much in them is false, vague,
or arbitrary. The manner in which he expresses himself is re
markable : Ttaque per hanc fpistolam hoc ayo ut osfendam tibi
non minorem esse dubitandi causam, in scriptis mathcmaticorum
qudm in scriptis physicorum, ethicorum, &c* " I shall therefore
endeavor to prove to you, in this epistle, that there is not less
cause for doubt in the works of mathematicians, than in those of
natural philosophers, moralists, &c."

Bacon has expressed himself in still stronger language against
the sciences, even when he appears to be defending them. Ac
cording to that great writer, it is proved that a slight tincture of
philosophy may lead to a disbelief of a first cause ; but that more
profound knowledge conducts man unto God. 4

How dreadful this idea, if true ! For one single genius capable
of attaining that plenitude of knowledge required by Bacon,
and where, according to Pascal, you merely find yourself in an
other sort of iynorance, how many inferior minds must there be,
that can never soar so high, but remain involved in those
clouds of science which enshroud the Divinity !

The rock upon which the multitude will invariably strike is
pride ; you will never be able to persuade them that they know
nothing at the moment when they imagine themselves in posses-

1 De Leg., lib. vii.

2 Examinatio et emendatio mathematics hodiernce, Dial. IV., contra yeometra*
1 Hob., Opera omn. Amttelod., edit. 1667.

De Auy. Scient., lib. v.

392 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

sion of all the stores of science. Great minds alone can form a
conception of that last point of human knowledge, at which the
treasures which you have amassed vanish from your sight and
you find yourself reduced to your original poverty. For this rea
son, almost all wise men have considered philosophical studies as
fraught with extreme danger for the multitude. Locke employs
the first three chapters of the fourth book of his Essay on the
Human Understanding in fixing the limits of our knowledge,
which are at so small a distance from us as to be really alarming.

" Our knowledge/ says he, " being so narrow as I have
showed, it will perhaps give us some light into the present state
of our minds if we look a little into the dark side and take a
view of our ignorance ; which, being infinitely larger than our
knowledge, may serve much to the quieting of disputes ; if, dis
covering how far we have clear and distinct ideas, we confine our
thoughts within the contemplation of those things that are within
the reach of our understandings, and launch not out into that
abyss of darkness, (where we have not eyes to see nor faculties to
perceive any thing,) out of a presumption that nothing is beyond
our comprehension." 1

Lastly, it is well known that Newton, disgusted with the study
of the mathematics, could not for several years bear to hear it
mentioned ; and even in our days, Gibbon, who was so long the
apostle of the new ideas, wrote as follows : " The precision of
the sciences has accustomed us to despise moral evidence, so fruit
ful in exquisite sensations, and which is capable of deciding the
opinions and the actions of our lives."

In fact, many people have thought that science, in the hands
of man, contracts the heart, robs nature of her charms, leads weak
minds to atheism, and from atheism to crimes of every kind;
that the fine arts, on the contrary, impart a magic coloring to
life, melt the soul, fill us with faith in the Divinity, and conduct
us by religion to the practice of every virtue.

We shall not quote Rousseau, whose authority on this subject
might be called in question; but Descartes, for example, has
expressed himself in a most extraordinary manner, respecting
the science on which a considerable share of his reputation is
founded.

1 Locke on the Human Understanding, vol. ii. book iv. ch. 3, p. 22.

ASTRONOMY AND MATHEMATICS. 303

"Accordingly," says the learned author of his life, " nothing
appeared to him less useful than to devote the whole attention to
simple numbers and imaginary figures, as if we ought to stop at
such trifles, without extending our views beyond them. He
even saw in them something worse than useless ; he looked upon
it as dangerous to apply too assiduously to those superficial de
monstrations which are less frequently the result of industry and
experience than of accident. 1 His maxim was that this applica
tion weans us by degrees from the use of our reason, and renders
us liable to lose the track which its light directs us to pursue."*
This opinion of the author of the application of algebra to geo
metry is worthy of serious attention.

Father Castel, also, who has written on the subject of the ma
thematics, has not. hesitated to express his conviction of the over-
importance attached to it. " In general," says he, u the science

of mathematics is too highly esteemed Geometry has

sublime truths ; it embraces objects but little developed, and
points of view that have, as it were, passed unobserved : but why
should we be afraid to speak out ? It contains paradoxes, appa
rent contradictions, conclusions of system and concessions,
opinions of sects, conjectures, and even false arguments." 3

According to Buffon, " what are called mathematical truths are
nothing more than identities of ideas, and have no reality." 4
Lastly, the Abbe" Condillac, affecting the same contempt for ma
thematicians as Hobbes, says, " that when they quit their calcu
lations to pursue researches of a different nature, we find in them
neither the same perspicuity, nor the same precision, nor the
same depth of understanding. We have four celebrated meta
physicians, Descartes, Mallebranche, Leibnitz, and Locke; the
last is the only one who was not a mathematician, and how supe
rior is he to the three others !" 5

This opinion is not correct. In pure metaphysics, Mallebranche
and Leibnitz far surpassed the English philosopher. Mathema
tical geniuses, it is true, are often wrong in the ordinary affairs

1 Letters of 1638, p. 412; Cartes, lib. de direct, inyen. reyulu, n. 5.

2 OEuvres de Dec., tome i. p. 112. 3 Math, univ., pp. 3, 4.

4 Hist, not., tome i. prem. disc. p. 77.

5 Essai BUT I Oriyine den Connoisaancea kumaines, tonic ii. sect. 2, ch. 4, p. 239,
edit. Arast. 1788.

394 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

of life ; but this proceeds from their extreme accuracy. They
would everywhere discover absolute truths; whereas, in morals
and in politics, all truths are relative. It is strictly true that two
and two make four ; it is an identical proposition, one and all,
independent of time and place. But it is not equally clear that
a good law at Athens is a good law at Paris. It is a fact that
liberty is an excellent thing; but ought we, for this reason, to
shed torrents of blood to establish it among a people, how unfit
soever that people may be to enjoy the blessing ?

In mathematics, we ought to consider nothing but the prin
ciple ; in morals, nothing but the consequence. The one is a
simple, the other a compound, truth. Besides, nothing deranges
the compasses of the mathematician, whereas every thing de
ranges the heart of the philosopher. When tho instrument of the
latter will be as true as that of the former, we may hope to pene
trate to the bottom of things. Till that time we must expect
errors. He who would introduce mathematical strictness into
the social relations must be either the most stupid or the most
wicked of men.

The mathematics, moreover, far from proving vastness of un
derstanding in most of those who employ them, should, on the
contrary, be considered as the prop of their weakness, as a sup
plement to their insufficient capacity, as a method of abbreviation
adapted to the classing of results in heads incapable of accom
plishing this of themselves. They are, in fact, but general signs
of ideas, which spare us the trouble of thinking ; the numbered
tickets of a treasure which we have not counted; the instruments
with which we work, and not the things on which we operate.
Let us suppose one idea to be represented by A, and another by
B. What a prodigious difference will there be between the man
who develops these two ideas in all their bearings, moral, political,
and religious, and him who, with pen in hand, patiently multi
plies A by B, finding curious combinations, but without having
any thing else before his mind than the properties of tw& barren
letters !

But if, excluding every other science, you instruct a boy in
this, which certainly furnishes very few ideas, you run the -risk
of drying up the very source of his ideas, of spoiling the finest
genius, of extinguishing the most fertile imagination, of circum-

ASTRONOMY AND MATHEMATICS. 395

scribing the most extensive understanding. You fill his young
head with a multitude of numbers and unmeaning figures, which
represent nothing at all ; you accustom him to be satisfied with
a given sum, not to take a single step without the aid of a theory,
never to put forth his strength ; you teach him to relieve .his
memory and his mind by artificial operations, to know and even
tually to love none but those strict principles and those absolute
truths which overturn society.

It has been asserted that the mathematics serve to rectify the
errors of the reasoning faculty in youth. To this a very ingenious,
and at the same time a very sound, answer has been given : that
you must first have the ideas before you can class them ; that to
pretend to arrange the understanding of a boy would amount to
the same thing as to pretend to set in order an empty room.
First give him clear notions of his moral and religious duties ;
store his mind with knowledge, human and divine ; and when
you have bestowed the necessary attention on the education of
his heart, when his mind is sufficiently furnished with objects of
comparison and sound principles, then place them in order, if you
please, by means of geometry. 1

But is it true that the study of the mathematics is so necessary
in life? If you must have magistrates, ministers, civil and re
ligious classes, what have the properties of a circle or of a tri
angle to do with their respective professions ? Every thing must
be of a positive nature, you will say. 3ut what is less positive
than the sciences, the theories of which change several times
in a century ? Of what consequence is it to the husbandman
that the element of the earth be not homogeneous, or to the wood
cutter that the wood be of a pyroliyncom substance ? One elo
quent page of Bossuet on morals is more useful and more difficult
to be written than a volume of philosophical abstractions. But,

1 These remarks are fully confirmed by Dr. Johnson. " Whether we provide
for action or conversation, whether wo wish to be useful or pleasing, the first
requisite is the religious and moral knowledge of right and wrong; the next
is an acquaintance with the history of mankind, and with those examples
which may be said to embody truth and prove by events the reasonableness
of opinions. Prudence and justice are virtues and excellences of all times and
of all places; we are perpetually moralists, but we are geometricians only b*
chance." Johns n s Life of Milton,

396 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

you will say, we apply the discoveries of the sciences to the
mechanical arts. All these notable discoveries scarcely ever pro
duce the effects that are expected from them. The high perfec
tion of agriculture in England is not so much the result of
scientific experiments, as of the patient toil and industry of the
farmer, obliged to bestow incessant pains upon an ungrateful
soil.

We erroneously ascribe to our science what belongs to the
natural progress of society. The number of hands and of rustic
animals has increased; the manufactures and products of the
earth must have been proportionably augmented and improved.
To have lighter ploughs and more perfect machines for the
various classes of artisans is certainly an advantage; but to
imagine that the whole of genius, the whole of human wisdom,
is comprised in the circle of mechanical inventions, is an egre
gious mistake.

As to the mathematics, properly so called, it has been proved
that a person may in a short time learn as much of them, as is
requisite to make him a good engineer. All beyond this prac
tical geometry is but speculative geometry, which has its fancies,
its inutilities, and, if we may be allowed the expression, its
romances, like the other sciences. " A proper distinction should
be made/ says Voltaire, " between useful geometry and curious
geometry. Square curves as long as you please, and you may
display a good deal of sagacity ; but you will resemble an arithme
tician who investigates the properties of numbers instead of cal
culating his fortune When Archimedes discovered the

specific gravity of bodies, he rendered a service to mankind; biit
of what service would it be to find three numbers, such that the
difference between the squares of two of them, added to the
number three, will always form a square, and the sum of their
three differences, added to the same cube, will still produce a
square? Nugse. difficiles!" 1

Unpleasant as this truth may be to mathematicians, it must,
however, be told : nature has not destined them to hold the first
rank. With the exception of a few distinguished for their dis
coveries, she has doomed them all to a melancholy obscurity; and

1 Quest, sur I Encyc. Geom.

ASTRONOMY AND MATHEMATICS. 397

those geniuses themselves would be threatened with oblivion, did
not the historian undertake the task of introducing- them to the
world. Archimedes owes his glory to Polybius, and Voltaire
laid the foundation of Newton s fame. Plato and Pythagoras
survive as moralists and legislators, and Leibnitz and Descartes
as metaphysicians, rather, perhaps, than as mathematicians.
D Alembert would, at the present day, share the fate of Varig-
non and Duhamel, whose names, though still respected in the
schools, are scarcely known to the world except by academic
eulogies, had he not combined the reputation of a scholar with
that of a man of science. A poet, by means of a few verses, lives
to the remotest posterity, immortalizes his age, and transmits to
future times those whom he deigns to celebrate in his composi
tions; the man of science, scarcely known during his lifetime,
is forgotten the day after his death. Involuntarily ungrateful,
he can do nothing for the great man or the hero by whom he is
patronized. To no purpose will he give his name to a chemical
furnace or a philosophical machine; such expedients, however
praiseworthy, will not confer distinguished fame. Glory is born
without wings; she is obliged to borrow those of the Muses when
she would soar to the skies. Corneille, Racine, Boileau, the
orators and artists, contributed to immortalize Louis XIV. much
more than the celebrated men of science who flourished during
his time. All ages, all countries, present the same example.
Let mathematicians then cease to complain, if nations, by one
general instinct, give to letters the precedence over the sciences;
because the man who has bequeathed to the world one single
moral precept, one single affecting sentiment, renders a greater
service to society than the mathematician who discovered the
beautiful properties of the triangle. .

After all, it is, perhaps, no very difficult task to reconcile those
who declaim against mathematics and those who prefer them to
all the other sciences. This difference of opinion proceeds from
a very common error, which is to confound a great with a skilful
mathematician. There is a material geometry composed of lines,
of points, of A-fB, with which a very inferior understanding
can, with time and perseverance, perform prodigies. It is then
a species of geometrical machine which executes of itself highly-
complicated operations, like the arithmetical machine invented

398 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

by Pascal. In the sciences, he who comes last is sure to know
the most, so that many a scholar of the present day seems to bo
a greater proficient than Newton; and, for the same reason, many
a one who now passes for a man of science will be deemed igno
rant by the next generation. Proud of their calculations, me
chanical geometricians hold the arts of the imagination in sove
reign contempt; they smile with pity when you talk to them of
literature, of morals, of religion ; they are intimately acquainted,
they will tell you, with all nature. Are you not as much pleased
with the ignorance of Plato, who terms this same nature a mys
terious poetry ?

Fortunately, there exists another geometry, an intellectual
geometry. It is necessary to have studied this in order to obtain
admission among the disciples of Socrates ; it is this that beholds
the Deity behind the circle and the triangle, and has formed
such men as Pascal, Leibnitz, Descartes, and Newton. In
general, all the inventive mathematical geniuses have been
religious. 1

But it cannot be denied that this geometry of great minds is
very rare. For one single genius who pursues his course through
the higher regions of science, how many others are bewildered in
its inextricable mazes ! Here we may notice one of those re
actions so frequent in the laws of Providence : the irreligious
ages necessarily lead to the sciences, and the sciences necessarily
produce irreligious ages. When, in an impious age, man pro
ceeds so far as to disbelieve the existence of God, this truth
being the only one which he cannot shake off, and feeling an
imperious necessity for positive truths, he seeks to create new
ones, and imagines that he discovers them in the abstractions of
the sciences. On the other hand, it is natural that ordinary
minds, or young and unthinking persons, on meeting with mathe-

1 This remark, so just and so honorable to science, recalls to our minds tha
beautiful lines of Ovid.

Felices animae ! quibus base cognoscere primis,
Inque domos superas scandere cura fuit.
Credibile est illas paviter vitiisque locisque
Aldus humanis exseruisse caput.
Non Venua et Vinum sublimia pectora fregit,
Officiumve fori, militiaeve labor. Ovid, Fasti, lib. i.

CHEMISTRY AND NATURAL HISTORY. 399

inatical truths throughout the whole universe, on discovering
them in the heavens with Newton, in chemistry with Lavoisier,
in minerals with the Abbe" Haiiy, it is natural, we say, that they
should take them for the principles of things, and not see any
object beyond them. That beautiful simplicity of nature which
should lead them to recognise, with Aristotle, a primary moving
principle, and with Plato, an eternal geometrician, serves but to
bewilder them. God soon becomes for them nothing more than
the properties of bodies, and the very chain of numbers conceals
from their view the grand unity of being.

CHAPTER II.

CHEMISTRY AND NATURAL HISTORY.

SUCH are the abuses that have given so many advantages to
the enemies of the sciences, and produced the eloquent declama
tions of Rousseau and his followers. Nothing is more admirable,
say they, than the beautiful discoveries of a Spullanzani, a La
voisier, and a Lagrange ; but all is spoiled by the consequences
which perverted minds pretend to draw from them. What!
because men have demonstrated the simplicity of the digestive
juices and varied those of generation; because chemistry has
increased, or, if you please, diminished, the number of the ele
ments ; because every student comprehends the laws of gravita
tion, and every schoolboy can scrawl geometrical figures; because
this or that writer is a subtle metaphysician, are we thence to
conclude that there is neither God nor true religion ? What an
abuse of reasoning !

Disgust for philosophic studies has been strengthened in timid
minds by another consideration. "If," say they, "all these dis
coveries were certain and invariable, we could understand the
pride which they engender, not in the estimable men by whom
they were made, but in the multitude who enjoy the benefit of
them. But, in those sciences termed positive, does not the cxperi-

400 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

ence of to-day destroy the experience of yesterday ? All the error*
of ancient physics have had their partisans and their defenders
A literary work of high merit will enjoy repute in every age;
nay, time only adds to its lustre. But the sciences which are
engaged solely with the properties of bodies cannot maintain their
systems; the most renowned theories soon become antiquated.
Chemists, for instance, imagined that they had obtained a regular
nomenclature, 1 and now they find themselves mistaken. A few
more facts, and it will be necessary to break up the drawers of
modern chemistry. Of what use has it been to introduce such
confusion in names, calling the atmospheric air oxygen, &c. ?
The sciences are a labyrinth in which you find yourself more
than ever bewildered at the very moment when you imagine that
you are just at the end of it.

These objections are plausible, but they are not more appli
cable to chemistry than to the other sciences. To reproach
ch&lt; mists with undeceiving themselves by their experiments,
would be finding fault with their honesty and accusing them
of being unacquainted with the essence of things. To whom,
then, is this secret known, except to that Supreme Intelligence
which has existed from all eternity ? The shortness of life, the
weakness of our senses, the imperfections of our instruments
and of our means, are so many insurmountable obstacles to the
discovery of that general formula which the Almighty hath for
ever concealed from us. Our sciences, as it is well known, de
compose, and recompose, but they cannot compose. It is this
inability to create that always discovers the weak side and the
insignificance of man. In spite of all his efforts he can do
nothing; he everywhere meets with an invincible resistance.
He cannot make matter subservient to his purposes, without

1 By means of the famous terminations of acids in ous and ic. It has been
recently demonstrated that nitric acid and sulphuric acid were not the result
of the addition of oxygen to nitrous acid and sulphureous acid. There has
been, from the beginning, a chasrn left in the system by the muriatic acid,
which had no positive in ous. M. Bertbolet, we are told, is on the point of prov
ing that azote, hitherto considered as a simple essence combined with caloric, is
a compound substance. There is but one certain fact in chemistry, fixed by
Boerhave and developed by Lavoisier, namely, that caloric, or the substance
which, combined with light, composes fire, has a continual tendency to expand
bodies, or to separate their constituent particles from one another.

CHEMISTRY AND NATURAL HISTORY. 401

hearing its groans and complaints, and he seems to unite hw-, own
sighs and his turbulent heart with all his works.

In the productions of the Creator, on the contrary, all is
silent, because it is not the result of effort ; all is still, because
all is submissive. He spoke; chaos was mute, and the spheres
rolled without noise into the expanse of the firmament. The
united powers of matter are to one single word of God as
nothing is to every thing, as created things are to necessity.
Behold man in the midst of his labors : what a terrible collec
tion of machines ! He whets the steel, he distils the poison,
he summons the elements to his aid ; he causes the water to
roar, the air to hiss, his furnaces are kindled. Armed with fire,
what is this new Prometheus about to attempt ? Is he going to
create a world? No. The end of his work is destruction; all
that he can bring forth is death !

Whether it be from the prejudices of education, or from the
habit of wandering in the deserts and bringing our heart alone
to the study of nature, we must confess that it gives us some
pain to see the spirit of analysis and classification predominating
in the amiable sciences, in which we should look for nothing but
the graces of the Divinity. We think it very pitiful, if we may
be allowed to express the opinion, that mammiferous man should
be classed nowadays, according to the system of Linnaeus, with
monkeys, bats, and sloths. Would it not have been full as well
to have left him at the head of the creation, where he was placed
by Moses, Aristotle, Buffon, and nature ? Connected by his soul
with heaven, and by his body with the earth, we loved to see
him form that link in the chain of beings which unites the
visible with the invisible world and time with eternity.

" Even in this age," says Buffon, "in which the sciences
seem to be cultivated with extraordinary care, it is, in my
opinion, very easy to perceive that philosophy is neglected, and,
perhaps, to a greater degree than in any preceding age ; the arts
which people are pleased to term scientific have usurped its
place; the methods of calculation and of geometry, those of
botany and of natural history, in a word, formulas and diction
aries, engage almost everybody s attention ; we imagine that we
know more because we have increased the number of symbolical
expressions and scientific phrases, without observing that all
34* 2 A

402 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

these arts are but scaffolds to enable us to climb to science, and
are not science itself; that we ought never to employ them
when they can be dispensed with, and ought always to be
afraid lest they should fail us when we would apply them to
the edifice." 1

These remarks are judicious; but, in our opinion, classifica
tions are pregnant with still more danger. Is there not reason
to fear lest this rage for reducing all things to physical signs, for
discovering in the different races of the creation nothing but
claws, teeth, and beaks, may gradually lead youth into mate
rialism? If, however, there is a science in which the incon
veniences of incredulity are felt in their fullest extent, that
science is natural history. You there blight whatever you touch;
the perfumes, the brilliant tints, the elegant forms of plants,
disappear before the botanist who attaches to them neither
morality nor feeling. Without religion the heart is insensible
and dead to beauty ; for beauty is not a thing that exists out
of us ; it is in the heart of man that all the charms of nature
reside.

As for him who studies the nature and properties of animals,
what else is it, if he is an infidel, than studying inanimate
bodies ? Whither do his researches conduct him ? what can be
their end ? It is for him that those cabinets have been formed
schools in which death, with scythe in hand, is the lecturer ;
cemeteries in which clocks have been placed to count the
minutes for skeletons and to mark the hour in eternity !

It is in these tombs where nothingness has collected its
wonders, where the relics of the ape insult the relics of man ;
tis there we must seek the cause of that phenomenon an
atheistical naturalist. By frequenting the atmosphere of sepul
chres, his soul has inhaled death.

When science was poor and solitary, when she roved through
the valley and the forest, when she watched the bird carrying
food to her young or the quadruped returning to his lair, when
her laboratory was all nature, her amphitheatre the heavens and
the earth, wl.en she was simple and marvellous as the wilds
in which she passed her life, then she was religious. Seated

Buffon, Hist. Nat., tome L, prem. disc., p. 79.

CHEMISTRY AND NATURAL HISTORY. 403

beneath a spreading oak, her brow encircled with a wreath of
flowers, which her innocent hands had plucked from the moun
tain, she was content to paint on her tablets the surrounding
scenery. Her books were but catalogues of remedies against
corporeal infirmities, or collections of sacred hymns, whose words
in like manner relieved the sorrows of the soul. But when so
cieties of learned men were formed, when philosophers, seeking
reputation and not nature, attempted to treat of the works of
God without ever having felt a love for them, infidelity sprang
up together with vanity, and science was reduced to the petty
instrument of a petty renown.

The Church has never spoken with such severity against phi
losophic studies as the various philosophers whom we have
quoted in these pages. If you accuse her of having looked
rather coldly upon that knowledge which, to use the words of
Seneca, cures its of nothing, you must also condemn that mul
titude of legislators, statesmen, and moralists, who, in every
age, have protested much more strongly than she has done
against the danger, the uncertainty, and the obscurity of the
sciences. 1

Where will she discover truth ? Is she to seek it in Locke,
so highly extolled by Condillac ? in Leibnitz, who deemed Locke
so weak in metaphysics? or in Kant, who now attacks both
Locke and Condillac ? Must she take up the maxims of Minos,
Lycurgus, Cato, Rousseau, who banish the sciences from their
republics ? or adopt the opinion of the legislators by whom they
are tolerated ? What dreadful lessons, if she but looks around
her ! What an ample subject for reflection, in that well-known
history of the tree of knowledge which produces death ! The
ages of philosophy have invariably bordered upon the ages of
destruction.

In a question, therefore, which divided the world, -^he Church
could adopt no other course than that which she has pursued.

These remarks were never more applicable than at the present day, when
men have dared in the name of philosophy to degrade religion to the level
of their blind reason. While metaphysicians, with their pretended science,
have discarded revelation, geologists have proclaimed man to be but an
improved species of the monkey ! " Professing -hemselves to be wise, thej
became fools :" Rom. i. T.

i04 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

What could she do more than accommodate herself to times and
circumstances : oppose morality to the abuse which man makes
of his knowledge, and endeavor to maintain in him, for the sake
of his own happiness, a simple heart and an humble mind ?

To conclude : the vice of the day consists in separating ab
stract studies rather too much from literary studies. The one
belongs to the understanding, the others to the heart; we
should, therefore, beware of cultivating the former to the exclu
sion of the latter, and of sacrificing the part which loves to the
part which reasons. It is by a happy combination of natural
and moral science, and above all by the inculcation of religious
ideas, that we shall succeed in again giving to our youth that
education which of old produced so many great men. It must
not be supposed that our soil is exhausted. The beautiful
plains of France might again be made to yield abundant har
vests, were they but cultivated somewhat in the manner of our
forefathers : tis one of those happy regions where reign those
tutelar genii of mankind and that divine bi eath which, accord
ing to Plato, distinguish climates favorable to virtue. 1

CHAPTER m.

CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHERS METAPHYSICIANS.

EXAMPLES come to the support of principles ; and a religion
which can claim a Bacon, a Newton, a Boyle, a Clarke, a
Leibnitz, a Grotius, a Pascal, an Arnaud, a Nicole, a Malle-
branche, a La Bruyere, (to say nothing of the fathers of the
Church, or of Bossuet, Fenelon, Massillon, and Bourdaloue,
whom we shall here consider only as orators,) such a religion
may boast of being favorable to philosophy. 3

1 Plat., de Leg., lib. v.

2 As to such men as Pascal, Nicole, and Arnaud, it is much to be lamented
that, while on the one hand they lent their talents to the defence of religion,
on the other they were misled by a sectarian spirit to foment scandals in the
Church. T.

METAPHYSICIANS. 405

Bacon owes his immortality to his essay On the Advancement
of Learning, and to his Novum Oryanum Scicntiarum. In the
former he examines the circle of the sciences, classing each
object under its respective faculty; he admits four faculties
the soul or sensation, the memory, the imagination, and the
understanding. The sciences are here reduced to three : poetry,
history, and philosophy.

In the second work he rejects the mode of reasoning by
syllogism, and proposes experimental physics as the only guide
in nature. We still read with pleasure the profession of faith
of the illustrious Lord-Chancellor, and the prayer which he was
accustomed to repeat before he repaired to business. This
Christian simplicity in a great man is deeply affecting. When
Newton and Bossuet respectfully uncovered their august heads
while pronouncing the name of God, they were perhaps more
worthy of admiration at that moment than when the former
weighed those worlds the dust of which the other taught man
kind to despise.

Clarke in his Treatise on the Existence of God, Leibnitz in his
Jlieodicea, Mallebranche in his Inquiry concerning Truth, have
accomplished so much in metaphysics that they have left nothing
to be done by their successors.

It is very extraordinary that our age should imagine itself
superior to the last in logic and metaphysics. The facts are
against us. Certainly the Abbe* de Condillac, who has said no
thing new, cannot singly counterbalance Locke, Descartes, Malle
branche, and Leibnitz. He merely dissects the first-mentioned
philosopher, and bewilders himself whenever he attempts to ad
vance without his guide. Let us observe, also, that the meta
physical science of the present age differs from that of antiquity
in this particular that it separates the imagination as much as
possible from abstract perceptions. We have insulated all the
faculties of our understanding, reserving thought for one thing,
reason for another, and so of the rest. The consequence is, that
our works have no unity, and our minds, thus divided into chap
ters, are subjected to the inconveniences of those histories in
which every subject is separately treated of. While we are De-
ginning a new article, the preceding one escapes our memory.
We lose the connection which the facts have with each other.

406 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

We fall into confusion from being too methodical^ and the multi
tude of particular conclusions prevents us from arriving at the
general deduction.

When it is the design of a work, like that of Clarke, to attack
men who pride themselves on their powers of reasoning, and to
whom you must prove that you can reason as well as they, you
cannot do better than to adopt the firm and close manner of the
English divine; but in any other case, why should this dry style
be preferred to one that is perspicuous and yet animated ? Why
should you not transfuse your feelings into a serious performance
as well as into a merely entertaining book ? The metaphysical
works of Plato are still read with delight, because they are colored
with a brilliant imagination. Our late metaphysicians have fallen
into an egregious error in separating the history of the human
mind from the history of divine things; in maintaining that the
latter leads to nothing positive, and that the former alone is of
any immediate utility. Where is the necessity for investigating
the operations of the mind of man unless it be to refer them to
God ? Of what advantage is it to me to know whether or not I
receive my ideas by means of the senses? " All metaphysicians,"
exclaims Condillac, "have bewildered themselves in enchanted
worlds. I alone have discovered truth. My science is of the
highest utility. I am going to explain to you the nature of con
science, of attention, of recollection !" And whither will all this
lead me ? Nothing is good, nothing is positive, except inasmuch
as it aims at a moral end. Now, all metaphysical science which
is not, like that of the ancients and of Christians, based upon theo
logy, all metaphysics which interpose an abyss between man
and Glod which assert that, as the latter is but darkness, it
would be absurd to bestow a thought on the subject, such meta
physics are at once futile and dangerous, because they have no
object.

The other kind of knowledge, on the contrary, by associating
me with the divinity, by giving me an immense idea of my great
ness, and of the perfection of my being, disposes me to think
justly and to act virtuously. All moral ends are connected by this
link with the higher metaphysics, which present but a more
sublime road to arrive at virtue. This is what Plato termed, by
way of eminence, the science of the gods, and Pythagoras the

POLITICAL WRITERS. 407

divine geometry. Beyond this, metaphysics are but a microscope
that curiously displays some minute objects which would have
escaped the naked eye, but the ignorance or knowledge of which
will neither create nor fill up a chasm in our existence.

CHAPTER IV.

CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHERS, CONTINUED

Political Writers.

WE have, of late years, made an extraordinary parade of our
political knowledge. It might almost be imagined that before
our time the modern world had never heard of liberty or of the
different social constitutions. It is probably for this reason that
we have tried them all with such skill and success. Neverthe
less, Machiavel, Sir Thomas More, Mariana, Bodin, Grotius,
Puffendorf, and Locke, all Christian philosophers, had devoted
their attention to the nature of governments long before Mably
and Rousseau.

We shall not enter into any analysis of the works of those pub
licists whose names we need only mention to prove that every
species of literary glory belongs to Christianity. We sh.all else
where show what the liberties of mankind owe to this same reli
gion, which is accused of inculcating the maxims of slavery.

It were sincerely to be wished that, if any writers are yet en
gaged in the discussion of political subjects, (which God forbid !)
they would introduce into works of this kind those graces which
the ancients gave to theirs. Xenophon s Cyropsedia, Plato s Re
public and Laws, are at the same time serious treatises and books
replete with charms. Plato excels in giving an admirable turn
to the most barren discussions. lie possesses the art of in
fusing enchantment into the very exposition of a law. Here we
see three old men conversing on the way from Gnossus to the
cavern of Jupiter, and reposing in flowery meads under lofty
cypresses. There, the involuntary murderer, standing with one foot

408 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

in the sea, offers \ib c tions to Neptune. Farther on, a foreign poet
is received with songs and perfumes. He is greeted with the
appellation of a man wholly divine. He is crowned with laurels
and covered with honors. He is escorted beyond the limits of
the Republic. Thus Plato has a hundred pleasing ways of setting
forth his ideas. He softens down the severest sentences by con
sidering crime in a religious point of view.

It is worthy of remark that modern political writers have ex
tolled the republican form of government, whereas those of
Greece generally gave the preference to monarchy. What is the
reason of this? Both were dissatisfied with what tlipy had, and
conceived a predilection for what they had not. Such is the
history of all mankind.

We may observe, also, that the sages of Greece viewed society
in its moral relations; but our latest philosophers have considered
it in its political bearings. The former insisted that the govern
ment should flow from the manners of the people; the latter,
that the manners should be derived from the government. The
philosophy of the one was founded on religion; the philosophy
of the others on atheism. "Be virtuous and ye shall be free,"
cried Plato to the people; but they are told nowadays, "Be
free and ye shall be virtuous." Greece, with such sentiments,
was happy. What advantages shall we reap from the contrary
principles ?

CHAPTER V.

MORALISTS.

La Bruybre.

THE writers of the same age, whatever be their difference in
point of genius, have all, nevertheless, something in common with
each other. You may know those of the brilliant era of France
by the energy of their thoughts, the unaffected plainness of their
expressions, and yet a certain Greek and Latin construction of

LA BRUYERE. 4Q9

phrase, which, without injuring the genius of the French lan
guage, denotes the excellent models which those authors had
studied.

Writers are, moreover, divided into groups, if we may be al
lowed the expression, who follow this or that master this or the
other school. Thus the writers of Port Royal may be distin
guished from the writers of the Society. Thus Fenelon, Massil-
lon,and Flechier, correspond in certain points; and Pascal, Bossuet,
and La Bruyere, in others. The latter are particularly remarkable
for a kind of abruptness of thought and style which is peculiar
to them; but it must be admitted that La Bruyere, who is fond
of imitating Pascal, 1 sometimes weakens the proofs and the ori
ginal manner of that great genius. When the author of the
Caracteres, with a view to demonstrate the insignificance of man,
says, You are placed, Lucia, somewhere on this atom, &c., he
remains far behind that famous passage of the author of the
Pem&s: What in a man in the midst of infinity? Who can
form a conception of this?

La Bruyere further observes : There are but three events for
man to be born, to live, and to die. He has no perception of
his birth, he sitffirs at his death, and he forgets to live. Pascal
impresses us much more deeply with our nothingness. Thf fast
act, says he, is always painful, hoicever pleasing all the rest of
the comedy may have been. A little earth is thrown upon our
heads, and tis over with us forever. How terrible are the con
cluding words! You first see the comedy, and then the grave,
and then the earth, and then eternity. The carelessness with
which the expression is thrown out admirably denotes the insig
nificance of life. What freezing indifference in this brief and
cold history of man ! a

1 See in particular his chapter on Freethinkers.

1 This reflection is omitted in the small edition of Pascal, with notes. The
editors probably thought that it was not in a fine style. We have heard the
prose of the age of Louis XIV. censured as deficient in harmony, elegance, and
precision. We have heard people observe, If liomntet and Pancal were to come
to life again, they would not write in that manner. " Tis we," they assert, "who
excel in writing prose, and who far surpass all our predecessors in the art of
arranging words." Is it not true that we express ordinary ideas in a lofty and
elaborate style? whereas, the writers of the age of L uis XIV. conveyed the
grandest conceptions in the most simple language.
36

410 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

La Bruyere is, nevertheless, one of the best writers of the age
of Louis XIV. No man ever understood the art of giving more
variety to his style, a greater diversity of forms to his language,
and more rapid transitions to his ideas. He descends from the
heights of eloquence to familiarity, and passes from pleasantry to
argument, without once offending against taste or shocking the
reader. Irony is his favorite weapon. Equally philosophical
with Theophrastus, his view embraces a greater number of objects,
and h\s remarks are more original and more profound. Theo
phrastus conjectures, La Rochefoucault d vines, and La Bruyere
shows what is passing in the recesses of the heart.

It is a great triumph for Religion that she can number among
her philosophers a Pascal and a La Bruyere; and, after such ex
amples, it should not be quite so readily asserted that none but
persons of shallow understanding can be Christians.

"If my religion be false," says the author of the Caracferes,
"it is, I must own, the most artful snare that could possibly be
devised. It is impossible to avoid falling into it and being caught.
What majesty, what magnificence, in its mysteries! What co
herency, what connection, in all its doctrines ! What sound rea
son ! What candor ! What innocence of morals ! What an in
vincible and overwhelming body of evidence is given successively,
and for three whole centuries, by millions of the most learned
and most considerate persons then in the world, and whom the
conviction of one and the same truth supported in exile, in
fetters, at the approach of death, and under the most cruel
torments V

Could La Bruyere revisit the earth, what would be his astonish
ment to find that religion whose beauty and excellence were
acknowledged by the greatest men of his age, now termed infa
mous, ridiculous, and absurd! He would doubtless imagine
that the new freethinkers are far superior to the writers who
preceded them, and that, in comparison with them, Pascal, Bos-
suet, Fenelon, and Racine, are authors destitute of genius. He
would open their works with profound attention and a respect
mingled with fear. In every line he would expect to find some
important discovery of the human mind, some lofty idea, per-
haps even some historical fact, before unknown, to prove irre-
fragably the fa sehood of Christianity. What then would he say.

PASCAL. 411

what would he think, in his second astonishmeL t, which would
very soon succeed the first ?

We want a La Bruyere. The Revolution has produced a total
change in characters. Avarice, ignorance, selfishness, appear in
a thousand new lights. These vices, in the age of Louis XIV.,
were compounded with religion and politeness; now they are
mixed up with impiety and coarseness of manners. In the
seventeenth century, therefore, they must have had finer tints
and more delicate shades. At that period they might have been
ridiculous; but it is certain that now they are detestable.

CHAPTER VI.

MORALISTS, CONTINUED.

THERE was a genius who, at the age of twelve years, had with
bars and rings created the mathematics ; who, at sixteen, had
composed the ablest treatise on conic sections that had appeared
since the time of the ancients; who, at nineteen, reduced to a
machine a science existing entirely in the understanding; who,
at twenty-three, demonstrated the phenomena of the gravity of
the air, and overthrew one of the great errors of ancient physics;
who, at an age when the intellectual faculties scarcely begin to
expand in others, having gone through the whole circle of human
sciences, discovered their inanity, and turned all his thoughts
toward religion; who, from that moment till his death, (which
happened in his thirty-ninth year,) amid incessant bodily infirmi
ties, fixed the language spoken by Bossuet and Racine, and
furnished a model of the most perfect facetiousness as well as of
the strongest reasoning; finally, who, in the short intervals of
ease, resolved, unassisted, one of the profoundest problems of
geometry, and scattered at random upon paper thoughts not less
indicative of a superhuman than of a human mind. The name
of this stupendous genius was BLAISE PASCAL.*

1 In portraying the genius of Pascal, our author followed the opinion cf
tome authors who appear to have awarded him honors which belonged tc

412 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

It is difficult not to be overwhelmed with astonishment when,
on opening the Thoughts of the Christian philosopher, we light
upon the six chapters in which he treats of the nature of man
The sentiments of Pascal are particularly remarkable for their
profound melancholy and a certain immensity which I cannot
describe : you are suspended among these sentiments as in the
midst of infinity. Metaphysicians speak of that abstract thought
which has none of the properties of matter, which explores all
things without moving from the spot, which lives of itself, whi&lt; h
is imperishable because indivisible, and which positively proves
the immortality of the soul. This definition of thought seems to
have been suggested to metaphysicians by the works of Pascal.

There exists a curious monument of Christian philosophy and
the philosophy of the present day : it is the Thoughts of Pascal
with the annotations of editors. 1 It is like the ruins of Palmyra,
the superb relics of genius .and of past ages, at the foot of which
the Arab of the desert has built his miserable hut.

"Pascal/ says Voltaire, "a sublime madman, born a century
too early." The signification of this century too early must be
obvious to every reader. One single observation will suffice to
show how inferior Pascal the sophist would have been to Pascal
the Christian.

In what part of his works has the recluse of Port Royal soared
above the greatest geniuses? In his six chapters on man. Now
these six chapters, which turn entirely on the original fall of
man, would not exist had Pascal been an unbeliever.

We shall here make an observation of the highest importance.
Among those who have embraced the philosophic opinions, some
are incessantly decrying the age of Louis XIV., while others,
priding themselves on their impartiality, allow that age the
faculties of imagination, but deny it those of reas m. The
eighteenth century, say they, is pre-eminently the thinking age.

Any impartial person who reads with attention the writers of

others. Torricelli and Descartes had preceded him in the demonstration of the
gravity of the atmosphere; and as to his treatise on conic sections, he himself
admitted that he had derived his information from a work of Des-Argues. But,
independently of these discoveries, Pascal has undoubted claims to be ranked
among the profoundest minds that evw existed. T.
1 See note Y.

PASCAL. 413

the age of Louis XIV., will soon discover thai nothing escaped
their sight; but that, contemplating objects from a higher stand
point than we do, they disdained the routes which we pursue,
and at the end of which their piercing eyes discovered a fatal
abyss.

This assertion we might support with a thousand proofs. Was
it from ignorance of the objections against religion that so many
great men were religious ? Was it not at this very period that
Eayle published his doubts and his sophisms? Is it no longer
known that Clarke and Leibnitz were then wholly engaged in
combating infidelity? that Pascal had planned a defence of reli
gion? that La Bruyere composed his chapter on Freethinkers,
and Massillon his sermon on the Reality of a Future State f that,
finally, Bossuet hurled at the heads of atheists those overwhelming
words : " What have they seen these extraordinary geniuses,
what have they seen more than others f What ignorance is
theirs ! and how easy it would be to confound them, if, weak and
presumptuous, they were not afraid of being instructed ! For
do they think that they have more clearly perceived the diffi
culties because they sink under them and because others who
have seen them have despised them? They have seen nothing;
they know nothing; they have not even the means to establish
that annihilation for which they hope after this life, and which,
miserable lot as it is, they are not sure of enjoying."

And what relations, moral, political, or religious, escaped the
observation of Pascal? What aspect of things has he not
examined? If he considers human nature in general, he draws
that well-known and astonishing picture: "The first thing that
presents itself to man, when he surveys himself, is his body,"
&c In another place he says, "Man is but a thinking reed,"
&c. Has Pascal, we would ask, shown himself in all this a
shallow thinker f

Modern writers have expatiated much on the power of opinion,
and Pascal was the first who made the observation. One of the
strongest political reflections thrown out by Rousseau is found
in his discourse on the Inequality of Conditions: "The first,"
says he, "who, having enclosed a piece of ground, took it into
his head to say, This is mine, was the real founder of civil
society." Now this is almost word for word the awful idea

35*

414 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

which the recluse of Port Royal has expressed with a very dif
ferent kind of energy: "This dog is mine, said those poor chil
dren; that is my place in the sunshine; such was the com
mencement and the image of the usurpation of the whole earth."

This, too, is one of those thoughts which make us tremble
for Pascal. What would have become of that great man had he
not been a Christian ? How adorable is that curb of religion,
which, without restraining our comprehensive views, holds us
back from the brink of the precipice !

Tis the same Pascal who has also observed : " Three degrees
of latitude overthrow all jurisprudence. A meridian determines
truth, or a few years of possession. Fundamental law changes;
right has its epochs; a pretty sort of justice that is bounded by
a river or a mountain ! Truth on this side of the Pyrenees may
be error on the other."

Surely, the boldest spectator of the present age, the writer
most intent on generalizing ideas in order to convulse the world,
never pronounced a keener satire on the justice of governments
and the prejudices of nations.

All the insults which by means of philosophy we have heaped
upon human nature have been in a greater or lesser degree de
rived from the works of Pascal. But in robbing this extraor
dinary genius of his ideas on the miseries of man, we have not
known, like him, how to discover the greatness of man. Bossuet
and Fene*lon, the former in his Histtrire Universelle, his Avertisse-
mens, and his Politique tire de T Ecriture sainte, the latter in
his TeUmaque, have said every thing essential on the subject of
governments. Montesquieu himself, as it has very justly been
remarked, has often done no more than develop the principles of
the Bishop of Meaux. "We might fill volumes were we to select
all the passages favorable to liberty and the love of country
which occur in the authors of the seventeenth century.

What improvement was unattempted in that age ?* The
equalization of weights and measures, the abolition of provincial
customs, the reformation of the civil and criminal code, the
equal division of taxes, all those plans of which we so loudly
boast, were proposed, discussed, and even executed when tho

1 See note Z.

PASCAL. 415

advantages of the reform appeared to counterbalance its incon-
veniencies. Did not Bossuet even project a union between the
Protestant Church and that of Rome? When we consider that
Bagnoli, Le Maitre, Arnaud, Nicole, and Pascal, devoted them
selves to the education of youth, we shall scarcely imagine that
education at the present day is better understood or more scientifi
cally conducted. The best classical books that we even now
possess are those of Port Royal, and in all our elementary works
we do no more than repeat them, often taking especial care to
conceal our thefts.

Our superiority, then, is reduced to some little progress in the
natural sciences, a progress resulting from that of time, and by
no means compensating for the loss of the imagination which is
the consequence of it. The mind is the same in all ages; but
it is more particularly accompanied either by the arts or by the
sciences : it is only with the former that it possesses all its poetic
grandeur and moral beauty.

But it may be asked, if the age of Louis XIV. conceived all
kinds of liberal ideas, how happens it that it neglected to make
the same use of them as we have done ? Ah ! let us not boast of
our experiments. Pascal, Bossuet, Fe*ne"lon, saw much farther
than we do ; for, at the same time that they were as well ac
quainted with the nature of things as we are, and even better,
they were aware of the danger of innovations. Did their works
furnish no evidence of philosophical thought, yet could we sup
pose that these great men were not struck with the abuses which
creep in on every side, and that they were unacquainted with the
weak and the strong side of human affairs ? But their principle
was that a small evil owjht not to be done even for the sake of a
great yood, 1 and still less in behalf of vain systems, which are
almost invariably productive of deplorable results. It was cer
tainly not from any want of genius that this same Pascal, who,
as we have already shown, understood so well the defect of laws
in the absolute sense, observed in the relative sense, " How wise
it is to distinguish men by external qualities ! Which of us two
shall give way to the other ? the least clever ? But I am as
clever as he is ; we must fight it out. He has four lacqueys, and

Hittory of Port Royal.

416 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

I have but one ; that is clear, if I will but count : I must give
way, and I am a fool if I dispute the point."

Here is a reply to volumes of sophisms. The author of the
Thoughts submitting to four lacqueys is a very different sort of
philosopher from all those thinkers whom the four lacqueys have
shocked.

In a word, the age of Louis XIV. continued tranquil, not be
cause this or that thing was unperceived by it, but because, on
making a discovery, it examined it thoroughly, considering it on
every side and exploring all its dangers. If it did not plunge
into the ideas of the times, the reason is that it was superior to
them. We take its strength for its weakness ; its secret and ours
are comprised in this reflection of Pascal :

" The sciences have two extremities, which touch one another :
the first is pure natural ignorance, the state of all mankind at
their birth; the other extremity is that at which all great minds
arrive, who, after traversing the whole circle of human know
ledge, discover that they know nothing, and find themselves in
the same ignorance from which they set out, but it is a scientific
ignorance, which is acquainted with itself. Those who have left
the state of natural ignorance, and have not been able to reach
the other, have some tincture of that self-sufficient science, and
are puffed up with conceit. These are disturbers of society, and
their judgments are more false than those of any of the others.
The vulgar and the real scholars compose the mass of the world ;
the others despise them, and are despised by them."

Here we cannot forbear to make a sorrowful reflection on our
selves. Pascal had undertaken to give to the world the work of
which we now -publish so small a portion. What a master-piece
would such a philosopher have produced ! If God permitted him
not to execute his design, it was, probably, because it is not fit
that all doubts on the subject of faith should be removed; that
there may be matter left for those temptations and trials which
produce saints and martyrs.

BOOK III.

HISTORY.
CHAPTER I.

OF CHRISTIANITY AS IT RELATES TO THE MANNER OF
WRITING HISTORY.

IF Christianity has so greatly conduced to the advancement of
philosophical ideas, it must of course be favorable to the genius
of history, which is but a branch of moral and political philosophy.
Whoever rejects the sublime notions of nature and her Author
which religion inspires wilfully deprives himself of an abundant
source of images and ideas.

He, in fact, will be most intimately acquainted with man who
has long meditated on the designs of Providence ; he will be best
able to fathom human wisdom who has penetrated into the depths
of the divine intelligence. The designs of kings, the vices of
cities, the unjust and crooked measures of civil policy, the rest
lessness of the heart from the secret working of the passions, those
long agitations with which nations are at times seized, those
changes of power from the king to the subject, from the noble to
the plebeian, from the rich to the poor, all these subjects will be
inexplicable to you, if you have not, as it were, attended the
council of the Most High, and considered the spirit of strength,
of prudence, of weakness, or of error, which he dispenses to the
nations whose salvation or whose ruin he decrees.

Eternity, therefore, should be the groundwork of the history
of time, every thing being referred to God as the universal cause.
You may extol, as much as you please, the writer who, penetrat
ing into the secrets of the human heart, deduces the most im
portant events from the most trivial sources : a God watching
over the kingdoms of the earth; impiety, that is to say, the
absence of moral virtues, becoming the immediate cause of the

2B 417

418 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

calamities of nations ; this, in our opinion, is an historical foun
dation far more noble and far more solid than the other.

The French revolution will afford an illustration of this re
mark. Were they any ordinary causes, we would ask, which in
the course of a few years perverted all our affections and banished
from among us that simplicity and greatness peculiar to the heart
of man ? The spirit of God having withdrawn from the people,
no force was left except that of original sin, which resumed its
empire as in the days of Cain and his race. Whoever would
have followed the dictates of reason felt a certain incapability of
good; whoever extended a pacific hand beheld that hand sud
denly withered ; the bloody flag waved over the ramparts of every
city ; war was declared against all nations ; then were fulfilled
the words of the prophet : " They shall cast out the bones of the
kings of Judah, and the bones of the princes thereof, and the
bones of the priests, and the bones of the inhabitants of Jerusa
lem, out of their graves." 1 Streams of blood flowed in all quar
ters : culpable in regard to the past, fanaticism swept away the
old institutions ; culpable in regard to the future, it founded no
thing new for posterity; the tombs of our ancestors and the
rising generation were alike profaned. In that line of life which
was transmitted to us by our ancestors, and which it is our duty
to prolong beyond our own existence, each confined his views to
the present, and, consecrating himself to his own corruption as
to an abominable worship, lived as if nothing had preceded and
as if nothing was to follow him.

But, while this spirit of destruction was internally devouring
France, a spirit of salvation was protecting her against external
injury. She had neither prudence nor greatness except on her
frontiers; within all was devastation, without all was triumph.
The country no longer resided in the homes of her children ; it
exists in a camp on the Rhine, as in the time of the Merovingian
dynasty. You would have imagined that you beheld the Jewish
nation expelled from the land of Gesscn, and subduing the bar
barous nations in the desert.

Such a combination of things has no natural principle in human
events. The religious writer alone can here discover the profound

1 Jerem. viii. 1.

ANCIENT AND MODERN HISTORIANS. 419

counsels of the Most High. Had the combined powers attempted
only to put an end to the excesses of Robespierre, and then left
France entire to repair her calamities and her errors, they had,
perhaps, gained their point. But God beheld the iniquity of
courts, and said to the foreign soldier, " I will break the sword
in thy hand, and thou shall not destroy the people of St. Louis. "
Thus religion seems to lead to the explanation of the most in
comprehensible facts in history. There is, moreover, in the name
of God something sublime, which imparts to the style a certain
wonderful power, so that the most religious writer is almost in
variably the most eloquent. Without religion, it is possible to
have wit, but very difficult to possess genius. Add to this, you
perceive in the Christian historian the tone, we had almost said
the taste, of an honest man, which renders you disposed to give
implicit credit to all that he relates. On the contrary, you mis
trust the sophistical historian ; for, as he almost always represents
society in an unfavorable light, you are inclined to look upon him
as a deceiver.

CHAPTER II.

OF THE GENERAL CAUSES WHICH HAVE PREVENTED MODERN
WRITERS FROM SUCCEEDING IN HISTORY.

First Cause The Beauties of the Ancient Subjects.

A POWERFUL objection here occurs : If Christianity is favor
able to the genius of history, how happens it that modern writers
are in general inferior to those of antiquity in this profound and
important department of literature ?

In the first place, the fact assumed in this objection is not
strictly true, since one of the most beautiful historical monuments
that exists among men the Discourse on Universal History was
dictated by the spirit of Christianity. But, deferring for a mo
ment our considerations on that work, let us inquire into the

420 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

causes of our inferiority in history, if that inferiority actually
exists. These causes are, in our opinion, of two kinds; some be
longing to history, and others to the historian.

Ancient history presents a picture which has no parallel in
modern times. The Greeks were particularly remarkable for the
greatness of men the Romans for the greatness of things.
Rome and Athens, setting out from a state of nature and attain
ing the highest degree of civilization, traversed the entire scale
of the virtues and the vices, of ignorance and the arts. You ob
serve the growth of man and of his intellect. At first a child,
then the sport of all the passions in youth, strong and wise in ma-
turer years, infirm and corrupt in his old age. The state follows
the man, passing from the royal or paternal government to the
republican constitution, and then sinking with decrepitude into
despotism.

Though modern nations exhibit, as we shall presently have oc
casion to observe, some interesting epochs, some celebrated reigns,
some brilliant portraits^ some illustrious actions, yet it must be
confessed that they do not furnish the historian with that combi
nation of things, that sublimity of lessons, which make ancient
history a complete whole and a finished picture. They did not
begin with the first step. They did not form themselves by de
grees. They were suddenly transported from the recesses of
forests and the savage state into the midst of cities and civiliza
tion. They are but young branches engrafted upon an aged
trunk. Thus their origin is involved in darkness. You perceive
there at the same time the greatest virtues and the greatest vices ;
gross ignorance and gleams of light; vague notions of justice and
of government; a confused medley in manners and in language.
These nations have not passed either through that state io
which good manners make the laws, or that in which good laws
make the manners.

These nations having established themselves upon the ruins of
the ancient world, another phenomenon strikes the historian.
Every thing suddenly assumes a regular appearance, a uniform
aspect. He discovers monarchies on every side, while the few
petty republics intermixed with them are either converted intc
principalities or absorbed by the neighboring kingdoms. At the
same time, the arts and sciences are developed ; but in silence

ANCIENT AND MODERN HISTORIANS. 42]

and obscurity. They separate themselves, as it were, from the
destinies of man. They cease to influence the fate of empires.
Confined to a small class of citizens, they become rather an object
of luxury and curiosity than an additional element of national
life.

Thus every thing is consolidated at once. A religious and poli
tical balance keeps all the different parts of Europe upon a level.
None of them is now liable to destruction. The most insignificant

modern state may boast of a duration equal to that of the empire
of a Cyrus or a Caesar. Christianity is the sheet-anchor which
has fixed so many floating nations and kept them in port; but
their ruin is almost certain if they come to break the common
chain by which religion holds them together.

Now, by diffusing over nations that uniformity, and, if we may
so express it, that monotony of manners which the laws produced
in ancient Egypt, and which they still occasion in India and
China, Christianity has of course rendered the colors of history
less vivid. Those general virtues of all ages and of all countries,
such as humanity, modesty, charity, which it has substituted in-
stead of the doubtful political virtues, have also less scope on the
theatre of the world. As they are genuine virtues, they shun the
glare of light and the clamor of fame. Among the modern na
tions there is a certain silence in affairs which disconcerts the
historian. Far be it from us to complain of this! The moral
man among us is far superior to the moral man of the ancients.
Our reason is not perverted by an abominable religion. We
adore no monst-ers. Obscenity walks not forth with unblushing
face among Christians. We have neither gladiators nor slaves.
It is not very long since the sight of blood thrilled us with horror.
Ah ! let us not envy the Romans their Tacitus if it be necessarj
to purchase him with a Tiberius 1

422 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

CHAPTER III.

THE SAME SUBJECT, CONTINUED.

Second Cause The Ancients Exhausted all the Historical
Styles except the Christian Style.

To this first cause of the inferiority of our historians, arising
from the very nature of the subjects, must be added a second,
originating in the manner in which the ancients wrote history.
They exhausted all its colors, and if Christianity had not fur
nished a new order of reflections and ideas, the doors of history
would have been forever closed against the moderns.

Young and brilliant in the time of Herodotus, she held forth
to the view of Greece natural pictures of the birth of society
and the primitive manners of men. The historian of those days
enjoyed the incalculable advantage of writing the annals of fable
while writing those of truth. He needed but to paint, and not
to reflect. The vices and virtues of nations were as yet only in
their poetical age.

Other times brought with them other manners. Thucydides
was deprived of those admirable delineations of the cradle of the
world; but he entered a hitherto uncultivated field of history.
He traced with energy and gravity the evils occasioned by poli
tical dissensions, leaving to posterity examples by which it never
profits.

Xenophon, in his turn, discovered a new path. Without be
coming dull, or sacrificing any portion of Attic elegance, he took
a pious view of the human heart, and became the father of moral
history.

Placed on a more extensive stage, and in the only country
where two species of eloquence that of the bar and that of poli
tics flourished, Livy transfused them both into his works. He
was the orator, as Herodotus was the poet, of history.

Finally, the corruption of mankind the execrable reigns of a
Tiberius and a Nero gave birth to the last species of history,

ANCIENT AND MODERN HISTORIANS. 423

the philosophical. The causes of events which Herodotus had
sought in the gods, Thucydides in political constitutions, Xeno-
phon in morals, and Livy in the concurrence of all these different
circumstances combined Tacitus discovered in the depravity
of the human heart.

We would not, however, be understood to assert that these
great historians shine exclusively in the characters which we
have taken the liberty to assign to them j but it appears to us that
these are the distinctive features of their works. Between these
primitive characters of history there are tints which were
seized by historians of an inferior rank. Thus, Polybius takes
his place between Thucydides the politician and Xenophon the
philosophic soldier. Sallust partakes at once of the respective
manners of Tacitus and Livy ; but the forme* surpasses him in
energy of thought, and the latter in beauty of narration. Sue
tonius wrote biography without reflection and without reserve.
Plutarch added morality to it. Velleius Paterculus learned to
generalize without distorting history. Floras produced a philo
sophical epitome of it. Lastly, Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of
Halicarnassus, Cornelius Nepos, Quintus Curtius, Aurelius Victor,
Ammianus Marcellinus, Justin, Eutropius, and others whom we
forbear to mention or whose names have slipped our memory,
conducted history down to the period when it fell into the hands
of Christian authors, a period when a total change took place in
the minds and in the manners of men.

Between truths and illusions the case is widely different. The
latter are inexhaustible, and the circle of the former is confined.
Poetry is ever new, and this it is that constitutes its charm in
the eyes of men. But in morals and in history you are limited
to the narrow sphere of truth. Do what you will, you cannot
avoid the repetition of known observations. What historical
field, then, was left for the moderns which had not been previously
explored ? They could do no more than imitate ; and in these
imitations several causes prevented their attaining to the eleva
tion of their originals. As poetry, the origin of the Catti, the
Tencteri, the Mattiaci, in the depths of the Hercynian Forest,
displayed nothing of that brilliant Olympus, of those cities reared
by the sounds of the lyre, and of the whole enchanted infancy of
the Hellenes and of the Pelasgi, planted on the banks of the

424 GENIUS OP CHRISTIANITY.

Achelous and the Eurotas. In politics, the feudal system for
bade important lessons. As to eloquence, there was only that
of the pulpit. As to philosophy, the nations were not yet suf
ficiently miserable or sufficiently corrupt for it to begin to make
its appearance.

Imitations were, however, produced with more or less success.
Bentivoglio in Italy copied Livy, and would be eloquent were he
not affected. Davila, Guicciardini, and Fra Paolo, had more sim
plicity, ad Mariana, in Spain, displayed considerable talents;
but this fiery Jesuit disgraced a department of literature whose
highest merit is impartiality. 1 Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon,
have more or less followed Sallust or Tacitus ; but the latter his
torian has produced two writers not inferior to himself, Machiavel
and Montesquieu.*

Tacitus, however, should not be chosen for a model without
great caution. The adoption of Livy is liable to fewer inconve
niences. The eloquence of the former is too peculiarly his own to
be attempted by any one who is not possessed of his genius. Taci
tus, Machiavel, and Montesquieu, have formed a dangerous school,
by introducing those ambitious expressions, those dry phrases,

1 Mariana, a native of Spain, flourished in the fifteenth and sixteenth cen
turies. Our author very probably borrowed his opinion of Mariana s historical
merit from the Abbe Mably s work on the manner of writing history. Mably,
however, admits that his knowledge of Mariana was not derived from his own
personal reading. What rendered Mariana obnoxious to the French was not
the defect of his style as the historian of Spain, but his fierce denunciation of
tyranny and fearless advocacy of democratic principles in his work, De Rege et
Regis institutione. To men who, like Chateaubriand, had just emerged from
the horrors of the French revolution, an author like Mariana might well have
appeared fiery, though teaching the simple truth. The character of doctrines
depends much upon the times in which they appear. The fact is, the Jesuits
have had a difficult position amid the inconsistencies of the human mind.
When they have vindicated the rights of authority in defending the funda
mental principles of order and law, they have been condemned as the friends
of tyranny ; and when, pursuing the same line of truth, they have denounced
despotism and advocated the rights of the people, they have been held up as
the enemies of social order! Thus, when John the Baptist came, neither eat
ing bread nor drinking wine, the Jews declared that he had a devil; and
when Christ appeared, eating and drinking, the same Jews pronounced him
a glutton. The Jesuits, therefore, will always answer the world as he an
swered the Jews: "And wisdom is justified by all her children." Luk
vii. T.

FRENCH HISTORICAL WRITERS. 425

those abrupt turns, which, under the appearance of brevity, bor-
dur on obscurity and bad taste.

Let us, then, leave this manner to those immortal geniuses
who, from different causes, have created a peculiar style ; a style
which they alone can support, and which it is dangerous to imi
tate. Be it remembered that the writers of the most brilliant
eras of literature were strangers to that studied conciseness of
ideas and language. The ideas of Livy and Bossuet are copious,
and strictly concatenated ; with them, every word arises out of
that which goes before it, and gives birth to the word which is
to follow. Great rivers, if we may be allowed to use this simile,
flow not at intervals in a right line j their currents, slowly rolling
from their distant sources, are continually increasing ; they take
a large and circuitous sweep in the plains, embracing cities and
forests with their mighty arms, and discharging into the ocean
streams of water capable of filling its deepest caverns.

CHAPTER IV.

OP THE REASONS WHY THE FRENCH HAVE NO HISTORICAL
WORKS, BUT ONLY MEMOIRS.

HERE is another question, which relates exclusively to the
French : Why have we nothing but memoirs instead of history,
and why are almost all of these memoirs excellent?

The Frenchman, in all ages, even while yet a barbarian, was
vain, thoughtless, and sociable. He reflects little upon objects in
general, but he is an inquisitive observer of details, and his eye
is quick, penetrating, and accurate. He must always be upon the
stage himself, and even in the quality of an historian he cannot
make up his mind to keep entirely out of sight. Memoirs leave
him at full liberty to follow the bent of his genius. There, with
out quitting the theatre, he introduces his observations, which
are always intelligent and sometimes profound. He is fond of
saying, 1 was there, and the king said to me The prince in
formed me I gave my advice, I foresaw the benefit or the mis
chief. In this manner his vanity gratifies itself; he makes a
36*

426 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

display of his wit to the reader ; and his solicitude to gain credit
for ingenious ideas often leads him to think well. In this kind
of history, moreover, he is not obliged to renounce his passions,
from which he finds it difficult to part. He is an enthusiast in
this or that cause, in behalf of this or that person ; and, some
times insulting the adverse party, at others jeering his own, he
at once indulges his revenge and gives vent to his spleen.

From the Sire de Joinville to the Cardinal de Retz, from the
memoirs of the time of the League to those of the time of the
Fronde, this character is everywhere conspicuous ; it betrays it
self even in the grave Sully. But when you would tranfer to
history this art of details, the whole scene is changed ; for weak
tints are lost in large pictures, like slight undulations on the
surface of the ocean. Compelled in this case to generalize our
observations, we fall into the spirit of system. Add to this that,
being prevented from speaking openly of ourselves, we appear
behind all the characters of our history. In the narrative we
become jejune, prolix, and circumstantial, because we chat much
better than we relate ; in general reflections we are trivial or vul
gar, because we are intimately acquainted with him only with
whom we associate. 1

Finally, the private life of the French is, perhaps, another cir
cumstance unfavorable to the genius of history. Tranquillity of
mind is necessary for him who would write well upon men. Now
our literati, living in general without families, or at least out of
their families, their passions restless and their days miserably
devoted to the gratification of vanity, acquire habits which are
directly at variance with the gravity of history. This practice
of confining our whole existence within a certain circle must, of
course, shorten our sight and contract our ideas. Too attentive
to a nature that is but the creature of compact, genuine nature

i We know that there are exceptions, and that some French writers have
distinguished themselves as historians; we shall presently do justice to their
merit. But it seems to us that it would he unfair to found an objection upon
this fact, which could not affect the truth of our general assertion. Otherwise,
there would be no truth in criticism. General theories partake not of the
nature of man, in which the purest truth contains always some mixture of
error. Truth in man is like a triangle, which can have but one right angle,
afi if nature had wished to impress an image of our defective virtue upon tho
very science which alone we consider certain.

FRENCH HISTORICAL WRITERS. 427

eludes our observation ; we scarcely ever reason upon it. except
by an extraordinary effort, and, as it were, by accident ; and when
we happen to be right, it is the result of conjecture more than of
judgment.

We may therefore safely conclude that to the revolution in
human affairs, to a different order of things and of times, to the
difficulty of striking out new tracks in morals, in politics, and in
philosophy, we must ascribe the inferiority of the moderns in
history ; and as to the French, if they have in general good me
moirs only, it is in their peculiar character that we must seek the
reason of this singularity.

By some, it has been referred to political causes ; if, say they,
history has not risen among us to the standard of antiquity, it is
because her independent genius has always been fettered. This
assertion seems to be flatly contradicted by facts. In no age, in
no country, under no form of government, was greater freedom
of thought enjoyed than in France during the time of the mon
archy. Some acts of oppression, some severe or unjust proceed
ings of the censors of the press, may, no doubt, be adduced ; but
would they counterbalance the numberless contrary examples ?*
Turn to our memoirs, and in every page of them you will find the
severest and often the most offensive truths levelled against kings,
priests, and nobles. The Frenchman has never bowed with abject
servility to the yoke ; he has always indemnified himself by the
independence of his opinion for the constraint imposed upon him
by monarchical forms. The Talcs of Rabelais, the treatise on
Voluntary Slavery by La Beotie, the Essays of Montaigne, the
Morals of Charron, the Republics of Boddin, all the works iii
favor of the League, the treatise in which Mariana even goes so
far as to defend regicide, are sufficient proofs that the privilege
of unlimited discussion belonged to other times as well as to the
present. If the citizen rather than the subject constituted the
historian, how happens it that Tacitus, Livy himself, and among
us the Bishop of Meaux and Montesquieu, gave their severe les
sons under the most absolute masters that ever reigned ? Never
did they imagine, while censuring dishonorable actions and prais
ing the virtuous, that the liberty of writing consisted in abusing

1 See note AA.

428 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

governments and shaking the foundations of duty. Had they made
so pernicious a use of their talents, Augustus, Trajan, and Louis
would most assuredly have compelled them to be silent ; but is
not this kind of dependence a benefit rather than an evil ? When
Voltaire submitted to a lawful censure, he gave us Charles XII.
and the Age of Louis XIV.; when he broke through all restraint,
he produced only the Essay on Manners. There are truths which
prove the source of the greatest disorders, because they inflame
all the passions ; and yet, unless a just authority closes our lips,
it is precisely these that we take the highest pleasure in reveal
ing, because they gratify, at one and the same time, the malignity
of our hearts corrupted by the fall, and our primitive propensity
to the truth.

CHAPTER V.

EXCELLENCE OF MODERN HISTORY.

IT is now but just to consider the reverse of the picture, and
to show that modern history is still capable of being highly in
teresting, if treated by some skilful hand. The establishment of
the Franks in Gaul, Charlemagne, the crusades, chivalry, a battle
of Bouvines, the last branch of an imperial family perishing at
Naples on a scaffold, a battle of Lepanto, a Henry IV. in France,
a Charles I. in England, present at least memorable epochs, sin
gular manners, celebrated events, tragic catastrophes. But the
grand point to be seized in modern history is the change pro
duced by Christianity in social order. By erecting morals on a
new basis, it has modified the character of nations, and created in
Europe a race of men totally different from the ancients in opi
nions, government, customs, manners, arts, and sciences.

And what characteristic traits do the new nations exhibit !
Here are the Germans, a people among whom the radical cor
ruption of the higher classes has never extended its influence to
the lower j where the indifference of the former toward their
country has never prevented the latter from being sincerely at-

EXCELLENCE OF MODERN HISTORY. 429

tached to it ; a people among whom the spirit of revolt and of
fidelity, of slavery and of independence, has never changed since
the days of Tacitus.

There you behold the laborious Batavians, whose information
comes from their good sense, their ingenuity from industry, their
virtues from coldness, and their passions from reason.

Italy, with her hundred princes and magnificent recollections,
forms a strong contrast to obscure and republican Switzerland.

Spain, cut off from other nations, still presents a more original
character to the historian. The kind of stagnation of manners
in which she lies will, perhaps, one day prove of advantage to
her, and, when all the other European nations will have been
exhausted by corruption, she alone will be able to appear with
lustre upon the stage of the world, because there the ground
work of morals will still subsist.

A mixture of German and French blood, the English nation
displays in every thing its double origin. Its government, a
compound of royalty and aristocracy; its religion, less pompous
than the Catholic, but more brilliant than the Lutheran; its
soldiers, at once robust and active; its literature and its arts;
finally, the language, the very features and persons, of the
English, partake of the two sources from which they are de
scended. With German simplicity, sedateucss, good sense, and
deliberation, they combine the fire, impetuosity, levity, vivacity,
and elegance of mind, which distinguish the French.

The English have public spirit, and we have national honor;
our good qualities are rather the gifts of divine favor than the
effects of a political education. Like the demi-gods, we are more
nearly allied to heaven than to earth.

The French, the eldest sons of antiquity, are Romans in
genius and Greeks in character. Restless and fickle in pros
perity, constant and invincible in adversity; formed for all the
arts ; polished even to excess during the tranquillity of the
state; rude and savage in political commotions; tossed, like
ships without ballast, by the vehemence of all the passions,
one moment in the skies, the next in the abyss; enthusiasts
alike in, good and in evil, doing the former without expecting
thanks and the latter without feeling remorse ; remembering
neither their crimes nor their virtues ; pusillanimously attached

430 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

to life in time of peace, prodigal of their blood in battle; vain,
satirical, ambitious, fond at once of old fashions and of innova
tions; despising all mankind except themselves; individually the
most amiable, collectively the most disagreeable of men ; charm
ing in their own country, insupportable abroad ; alternately
more gentle, more innocent than the lamb submitting to the
knife, and more merciless, more ferocious than the tiger spring
ing upon his prey : such were the Athenians of old, and such
are the French of the present day.

Having thus balanced the advantages and the disadvantages
of modern history and of ancient history, it is time to remind
the reader that, if the historians of antiquity are, in general,
superior to ours, this truth is nevertheless liable to great excep
tions. We shall now proceed to show that, thanks to the spirit
of Christianity, French genius has almost attained the same
perfection in this noble department of literature as in its other
branches.

CHAPTER VI.

VOLTAIRE CONSIDERED AS AN HISTORIAN.

" VOLTAIRE," says Montesquieu, " will never compose a good
history; he is like the monks, who write not for the sake of the
subject of which they treat, but for the glory of their order.
Voltaire writes for his convent."

This opinion, applied to the Age of Louis XIV. and the
History of Charles XII., is far too severe, but perfectly accu
rate in regard to the Essay on the Manners of Nations. 1 Two
authors, in particular, were formidable to those who combated
Christianity, Pascal, and Bossuet. These, then, it was necessary
to attack, and to endeavor, indirectly, to destroy their authority.

l An unguarded word in Voltaire s Correspondence shows what was hi?
design, and what the historical truth he aimed at, in writing ftie Essay.
" I have made a burlesque of the whole world: it is a good hit. Corresp.
ffen., tome v. p. 94.

VOLTAIRE AS AN HISTORIAN. 431

Hence the edition of Pascal with notes, and the Essay, which
was held up in opposition to the Discourse on Universal History.
But never did the anti-religious party, in other respects too
successful, commit a grosser error or afford Christianity a greater
triumph. It is scarcely conceivable how Voltaire, with so
much taste and discrimination, should not have understood
the danger of a conflict, hand to hand, with Bossuet and Pascal.
The observation which applies to all his poetical works holds
good in regard to his historical productions : while he declaims
against religion, his finest pages are inspired by Christianity.
Witness the following portrait of St. Louis :

"Louis IX.," says he, "appeared to be a prince destined to
reform Europe, if Europe could have been reformed, to polish
France and render her triumphant, and to be in all things a
pattern to mankind. His piety, which was that of an anchoret,
took from him none of the virtues of a king. A wise economy
lessened not his liberality. He knew how to combine profound
policy with strict justice, and perhaps he is the only monarch
who deserves that encomium. Prudent and firm in council,
intrepid in battle without being rash, compassionate as though
he had all his life been unfortunate, it is not given to man to
carry virtue to a higher pitch. . . . Seized with the plague
before Tunis, he was, by his own command, laid upon ashes, and
expired, at the age of fifty-five years, with all the piety of a
monk and all the fortitude of a truly great man."

Was it the design of Voltaire, in this portrait, which is so
elegantly drawn, to depreciate his hero by introducing an
anchoret ? It can scarcely be denied that such was his inten
tion ; but how egregious was the mistake ! It is precisely the
contrast between the religious and the military virtues, between
Christian humility and royal grandeur, that constitutes the
pathos and the beauty of this picture.

Christianity necessarily heightens the effect of historical deli
neations, by making the characters start, as it were, from the
canvas, and laying the warm colors of the passions on a cold
and tranquil ground. To renounce its grave morality would
be to reject the only new method of eloquence which the
ancients have left us. We have no doubt that Voltaire, had he

432 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

been religious, would have excelled in history. He wants nothing
but seriousness; and, notwithstanding his imperfections, he is
perhaps, with the exception of Bossuet, the best historian that
France has produced.

CHAPTER VII.

PHILIP DE COMMINES AND ROLLIN.

A CHRISTIAN eminently possesses the qualities which one
of the ancients 1 requires in an historian " a quick perception
of the things of the world, and a pleasing way of expressing
himself."

As a biographer, Philip de Commines bears an extraordinary
resemblance to Plutarch ; his simplicity is even more unaffected
than that of the ancient writer, who frequently has no other
merit than that of being simple. Plutarch loves to run after
ideas, and in many of his artle ss turns he is but a very agreeable
impostor.

It must indeed be admitted that he is better informed than
Commines; and yet this old French gentleman, with the gospel
and his confidence in the hermits, has, notwithstanding his
ignorance, left memoirs replete with instruction. Among the
ancients, erudition was indispensably necessary for a writer;
among us, an illiterate Christian, whose only study has been
the love of God, has often produced an admirable volume.
For this reason it is that St. Paul observes, " Though I under
stand all mysteries and all knowledge, and have not charity,
I am nothing/

Rollin is the F&ielon of history, and, like the latter, has
embellished Egypt and Greece. The first volumes of the
Ancient History are fraught with the spirit of antiquity : the
narrative of this virtuous author is full, simple, and tranquil ;
and Christianity, inspiring his writings, has imparted to him
something that deeply affects the mind. His works denote

1 Lucian, in his Inquiry how History ought tc be written.

BOSSUET AS AN HISTORIAN. 433

that good man, whose heart, according to the admirable ex
pression of Scripture, is a continual feast. 1 Rollin has diffused
over the crimes of men the serenity of a conscience void of
reproach, and the grace and charity of an apostle of Christ.
Shall we never witness the return of those times, when the
education of youth and the hopes of posterity were intrusted
to such hands ?

CHAPTER VIII.

BOSSUET CONSIDERED AS AN HISTORIAN.

BUT it is in the Discourse on Universal History that the
influence of the genius of Christianity over the genius of
history appears eminently conspicuous. Political like Thucy-
dides, moral like Xenophon, eloquent like Livy, as profound
and graphic as Tacitus, the Bishop of Meaux has, moreover,
that solemnity and elevation of style of which no example
is to be found except in the admirable exordium of the book
of Maccabees.

Bossuet is more than an historian; he is a father of the Church,
an inspired priest, on whose brow oft plays a lambent flame as
on that of the legislator of the Hebrews. What a survey has
he taken of the earth ! he is in a thousand places at once ! A
patriarch under the palm-tree of Tophel, a minister at the court
of Babylon, a priest at Memphis, a legislator at Sparta, a citizen
at Athens and at Rome, he changes time and place at pleasure;
he passes along with the rapidity and the majesty of ages. With
the rod of the law in hand, and with irresistible authority, he
drives before him pele-mtle both Jews and Gentiles to the grave;
he brings up the rear of the funeral procession of all generations,
and, supported by Isaias and Jeremias, he raises his prophetic
lamentations amid the ruins and the wrecks of the human race.

The first part of the Discourse on Universal History is admi-

1 Ecclesiastic, xxx. 27.
37 2C

434 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

rable for the narration; the second, for sublimity of s yle and
lofty metaphysical ideas; the third, for the profundity of its
in )ral and political views. Have Livy and Sallust any observa
tions on the ancient Romans superior to these words of the
Bishop of Meaux ?

"The groundwork of a Roman, if we may be allowed the
expression, was the love of his liberty and of his country : one
of these principles caused him to love the other; because he
loved his liberty, he also loved his country, as a mother that
brought him up in sentiments equally generous and free.

"Under this name of liberty, the Romans as well as the
Greeks figured to themselves a state in which no individual
was subject to any power but the law, and in which the law was
stronger than any individual."

In hearing people declaim against religion, you would suppose
that a priest is necessarily a slave, and that before our times no
one ever spoke worthily on the subject of liberty; but read the
observations of Bossuet on the Greeks and Romans. Who has
excelled him in treating of the virtues and vices ? Who has
formed a juster estimate of human things ? Some of those
strokes from time to time escape him which have no parallel in
ancient eloquence and which originate in the very spirit of Chris
tianity. For example, after speaking of the pyramids of Egypt,
he adds, "But, in spite of all the efforts of men, their insignifi
cance is invariably apparent: these pyramids were tombs. Nay,
more, the kings by whom they were erected had not the satisfac
tion of being interred in them, and consequently did not enjoy
their sepulchres." 1

In this passage we know not which to admire most, the gran
deur of the idea or the boldness of the expression. The term
enjoy applied to a sepulchre at once proclaims the magnificence
of that sepulchre, the vanity of the Pharaohs by whom it was
erected, the rapidity of our existence, in a word, the incon
ceivable nothingness of man, who, incapable of possessing any
real good here below except a tomb, is sometimes deprived even
of that barren inheritance.

Tacitus, be it observed, has treated of the Pyramids, 3 but all

1 Disc, on Univ. Hist., part iii. 2 AnnaL, lib. ii.

BOSSUET AS AN HISTORIAN. 435

his philosophy suggested to him nothing to be comiAred to the
beautiful reflection with which religion inspired Bossuet. A
striking example of the influence of Christianity on the mind
of a great man !

The most finished historical portrait in Tacitus is that of Ti
berius; but it is eclipsed by the portrait of Cromwell, for in his
Funeral Orations also Bossuet is an historian. What shall we
Bay of the exclamation of joy that escapes from Tacitus when
speaking of the Bructarii who slaughtered one another within
view-of a Roman camp? "By the favor of the gods," says he,
"we had the pleasure to behold this conflict without taking any
part in it. Merely spectators, we witnessed (and an extraordi
nary sight it was) sixty thousand men cutting each other s throats
for our amusement. May the nations not in amity with us con
tinue to cherish in their hearts these mutual animosities I" 1

Now let us hear Bossuet: "After the deluge first appeared
those ravagers of provinces denominated conquerors, who, im
pelled by the thirst of dominion, have exterminated so many in
nocent people. . . . Since that period, ambition has known no
bounds in sporting with human life; and to this point are men
arrived that they slaughter without hating one another. This
business of mutual destruction is even deemed the height of
glory and the most excellent of all the arts." 8

It is difficult to forbear adoring a religion which causes so
wide a difference between the morality of a Bossuet and that of
a Tacitus.

The Roman historian, after relating that Thrasyllus had pre
dicted the elevation of Tiberius to the empire, adds : " From
these circumstances, and some others, I cannot tell whether the
affairs of life be subject to an immutable necessity, or whether
they depend on chance alone." Then come the opinions of the
philosophers, which Tacitus gravely repeats, at the same time
giving the reader clearly to understand that he believes in the
predictions of astrologers.

Reason, sound morality, and eloquence, are also, in our opi
nion, on the side of the Christian prelate. "This long chain
of particular causes which create and dissolve empires is de-

1 Tacitus On the Manners of the Germans. ? Disc, on Univ. History.

436 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

pendent on the secret decrees of Divine Providence. From the
heaven of heavens God guides the reins of every kingdom; all
hearts are in his hand. Sometimes he curbs the passions; at
others he relaxes the bridle, and thereby agitates the whole

human race He knows the extent of human wisdom,

which always falls short in some respect or other; he enlightens
it, he extends its views, and then abandons it to its ignorance.
He blinds, he urges it on, he confounds it; it is involved, it
becomes embarrassed in its own subtleties, and its very precau
tions prove a snare in which it is entrapped He it is

who prepares these effects in the most remote causes, and who
strikes these mighty blows, the rebound of which is felt so far.

But let not men deceive themselves; God, when he

pleases, can restore the bewildered mind; he who exults over
the infatuation of others may himself be plunged into the thick
est darkness, and it often requires no other instrument to derange
his understanding than long prosperity."

How does the eloquence of antiquity shrink from a comparison
with this Christian eloquence I 1

1 It seems almost superfluous to add to this detailed recital of the beauties
of Bossuet. But there is one passage in his Universal History so remarkable
for simple and sublime energy that we wish to treat the reader with the perusal
of it. Speaking of the extent of the Roman empire under Augustus, Bossuet
says, " Their mountains cannot defend the Rhaeti from his arms; Pannonia
acknowledges and Germany dreads him; victorious by sea and by laid, be
shuts the temple of Janus. The whole earth lives in peace under his powtt, and
Je*u* Christ comes into the world."

BOOK IV.

ELOQUENCE.
CHAPTER I.

OP CHRISTIANITY AS IT RELATES TO ELGQUENCK

CHRISTIANITY furnishes so many proofs of its excellence, that,
when you think you have no further subject to treat of, anothei
suddenly starts up under your pen. We have been speaking of
philosophers, and, behold, the orators appear and inquire whether
we have forgotten them ; we have reasoned upon Christianity in
the arts and sciences, and Christianity calls upon us to exhibit to
the world the most powerful effects of eloquence ever known.
To the Catholic religion the moderns owe that oratorical art
which, had our literature been destitute of it, would have given
the genius of antiquity a decided superiority over ours. Here is
one of the proudest triumphs of our religion ; and, notwith
standing all that may be said in praise of Demosthenes and
Cicero, Massillon and Bossuet may, without fear, stand a com-,
parison with them.

The only species of eloquence known to the ancients were
judicial and political eloquence. Moral eloquence that is to
say, the eloquence of every age, of every government, of every
country appeared not upon earth until the gospel dispensation.
Cicero defends a client; Demosthenes combats an adversary, or
endeavors to rekindle the love of country in a degenerate people;
both only know how to rouse the passions, and they found all
their hopes of success on the agitation which they excite in the
heart. The eloquence of the pulpit has sought its hopes in a
higher region. By opposing the movements of the soul, she
hopes to persuade it; by appeasing all the passions, she makes
them listen to her voice. God and charity, such is her text, ever

the same, ever inexhaustible. She needs neither the cabals of a
37* 437

438 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

party, nor popular commotions, nor important events, in order to
shine; in the most profound peace, over the bier of the obscurest
citizen, she exerts her most sublime influences; she knows how
to excite interest in behalf of a virtue that is unknown; she
draws tears from your eyes for a person whose name you nevei
heard. Incapable of fear and of injustice, she gives lessons to
kings, but without insulting them; she comforts the indigent,
but without flattering their vices. She is no stranger to politics
or to any other terrestrial things; but these, though the primary
springs of ancient eloquence, are with her but secondary reasons;
she beholds them from the elevated region where she reigns, as
an eagle from the summit of the mountain perceives the lowly
objects in the plain.

What particularly distinguishes Christian eloquence from the
eloquence of the Greeks and Romans is, in the words of La
Bruyere, that evangelical sadness which is the soul of it, that
majestic melancholy on which it feeds. You read once, perhaps
twice, the orations of Cicero against Verres and Catiline; the
oration for the crown and the philippics of Demosthenes; but
you meditate all your life on the Funeral Orations of Bossuet,
and turn over night and day the sermons of Bourdaloue and
Massillon. The discourses of the Christian orators are so many
books, while those of antiquity are but orations. What wonder
ful taste is displayed by the sacred teachers in their reflections on
the vanities of the world ! "Your whole life," say they, "is but
the intoxication of a day, and you spend that day in the pursuit
of the most empty illusions. Granting that you attain the sum
mit of all your wishes, that you become a king, an emperor, the
master of the world, it is but for a moment, and then death will
sweep away all these vanities together with your nothingness."

This kind of meditation, so grave, so solemn, and tending so
naturally to the sublime, was wholly unknown to the orators of
antiquity. The heathens exhausted themselves in thepursuit of
the shadows of life; 1 they knew not that real existence begins
not until death. The Christian religion has alone founded that
great school of the grave where the apostle of the gospel imbibes
instruction; she no longer allows him, like the demi-sages of

Job.

CHRISTIAN ORATORS. 439

Greece, to squander the immortal intellect of man on things of a
moment.

In short, religion in all ages and in all countries has been the
source of eloquence. If Demosthenes and Cicero were great
orators, the reason is because they were above all religious. 1
The members of the Convention, on the contrary, displayed only
mutilated talents, and scraps, as it were, of eloquence, because
they attacked the faith of their forefathers, and thus cut them-
solves off from all the inspirations of the heart."

CHAPTER II.

CHRISTIAN ORATORS FATHERS OF THE CHURCH.

THE eloquence of the Fathers of the Church has in it some
thing that overawes, something energetic, something royal, as it
were, and whose authority at once confounds and subdues. You
are convinced that their mission comes from on high, and that
they teach by the express command of the Almighty. In the
midst of these inspirations, however, their genius retains its
majesty and serenity.

The names of the gods are incessantly in their mouths. See the apostrophe
of the former to the gods plundered by Verres, and the invocation of the latter
to the manes of the heroes of Marathon.

* Let it not be said that the French had not time to acquire practice in the
new career upon which they had entered. Eloquence is a fruit of revolutions, in
which it grows spontaneously and without culture; the savage and the negro
have sometimes spoken like Demosthenes. There was, besides, no want of
models, since they possessed the master-pieces of the ancient forum and those
also of that facred forum in which the Christian orator explains the eternal
law. When Montlosier, descending from the mountains of Auvergne, where he
had, doubtless, paid but little attention to the study of rhetoric, exclaimed,
when speaking of the clergy in the Constituent Assembly, Drive them from
their palaces, and they will seek refuge in the hut of the indigent whom they
have fed; rob them of their golden crosses, and they will take up wooden ones
in their stead ; it was a cross of wood that saved the world !" this- beautiful
apostrophe was not inspired by anarchy, but by religion. If, finally, Vergniaud
attained the heights of eloquence, in his speech for Louis XVI., it was because
his subject raised him into the region of religious ideas the pyramids &lt;atb,
silence, and the tomb.

440 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

St. Ambrose is the Fenelon of the Latin Fathers. He in
flowery, smooth, and rich; and, with the exception of a few de
fects, which belong to the age in which he lived, his works are
equally entertaining and instructive. To be convinced of this
the reader need only turn to the Treatise on Virginity and the
Praise of the Patriarchs.

At the present day, when you make mention of a saint, people
figure to themselves some rude fanatical monk, addicted, from
weakness of intellect or of character, to a ridiculous superstition.
Augustin, however, exhibits a very different picture. A young
man of an ardent temperament and superior genius, he gives
himself up to the gratification of his passions; he has soon com
pleted the circle of pleasure, and he is astonished that the joys of
the earth should be incapable of filling the void of his heart.
His restless soul turns toward heaven; something whispers that
there dwells that sovereign beauty to which he aspires. God
himself speaks to him; and this man of the world, whom the
world was unable to satisfy, at length finds repose and the fulfil
ment of his desires in the bosom of religion.

Montaigne and Rousseau have left us their confessions. The
former has imposed upon the credulity of the reader; the latter
has revealed his shameful depravity, at the same time holding
himself forth, even to the divine judgment, as a model of virtue.
In the confessions of St. Augustin we are made acquainted with
man as he is. He confesses his sins not to earth, but to heaven :
he conceals nothing from Him who is omniscient. A Christian
on his knees in the tribunal of penance, he deplores his infirmi
ties, and discloses them that the physician of souls may apply a
remedy to the wound. He was not afraid of tiring, by prolixity,
Him of whom he wrote those sublime words : He is patient be
cause he is eternal. And what a magnificent portrait has he
drawn of the God to whom he confesses his errors !

"Thou art infinitely great/ says he, " infinitely good, merciful,
just; thy beauty is incomparable, thy might irresistible, thy
power unbounded. Ever in action, ever at rest, thou upholdest,
thou fiHest, thou preservest, the universe; thou lovest without
passion, thou art jealous without pain; thou changest thine ope
rations, but never thy designs. But what am I saying, my
God and what can any one say unto thee !"

CHRISTIAN ORATORS. 441

The same individual who drew this brilliant image of t le true
God will now speak to us with the most amiable simplicity of his
youthful errors:

"I finally set out for Carthage. I was no sooner arrived there
than I found myself besieged by a crowd of culpable attractions,
that pressed upon me from every side. ... A quiet life appeared
to me intolerable, and I followed a path which was covered with
snares and precipices. My happiness was then to be loved as
well as to love, because man desires to find life in that which he
loves. ... At length I fell into the net in which I had wished to
be caught : I was loved, and I possessed what 1 loved. But,
my God ! thou didst then make me sensible of thy goodness and
mercy, in filling my soul with bitterness: for, instead of the de
lights I had anticipated, I experienced only jealousy, suspicion,
fear, anger, quarrelling, and excitement."

The simple, melancholy, and impassioned tone of this n arrative,
that return to God and the peace of heaven at a moment when
the saint seems most agitated by the illusions of the world and
the recollection of his past follies, all this mixture of regret and
repentance is replete with charms. We are acquainted with no
expression of feeling more delicate than the following: " My
happiness was to be loved as well as to love, for man wishes to
find life in the object of his love." It was St. Augustin also that

gaid: "A contemplative soul finds a solitude in herself." The

City of God, the Epistles, and some of the Treatises of the same
Father, abound with thoughts of this kind.

St. Jerome is particularly distinguished for a vigorous imagi
nation, which his immense learning was incapable of extinguish
ing. The collection of his letters is one of the most curious
monuments of patristic literature. As in the case of St. Augustin,
the pleasures of the world proved the rock upon which he struck.
He loves to dwell on the nature and delights of solitude.
From the recess of his cell at Bethlehem he beheld the fall of the
Roman empire. What a vast subject of reflection for a holy
anchoret ! Accordingly, death and the vanity of human life are
ever present to his view.

"We are dying, we are changing every hour," says, he, in a
letter to one of his friends, "and yet we live as if we were im
mortal. The very time which it takes to pen these lines must

442 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

be retrenched from my days. We often write to one another, uy
dear Heliodorus; our letters traverse the seas, and as the ship
scuds along so life flies : a moment of it passes with every wave." 1

As Ambrose is the Fenelon of the Fathers, so Tertullian is the
Bossuet. Part of his vindication of religion might, even at the
present day, be of service to the same cause. How wonderful
that Christianity should now be obliged to defend herself before
her own children as she formerly defended herself before her
executioners, and that the Apology to the GENTILES should have
become the Apology to the CHRISTIANS !

The most remarkable feature of this work is the intellectual
development which it displays. You are ushered into a new
order of ideas; you feel that what you hear is not the language
of early antiquity or the scarcely-articulate accents of man.
Tertullian speaks like a modern; the subjects of his eloquence
are derived from the circle of eternal truths, and not from the
reasons of passion and circumstance employed in the Roman tri
bune or in the public place at Athens. This progress of the
genius of philosophy is evidently the effect of our holy religion
Had not the false deities been overthrown and the true worship
of God been established, man would have continued in endless
infancy; for, persevering in error in regard to the first principle,
all his other notions would have been more or less tinctured with
the fundamental vice.

The other tracts of Tertullian, particularly those on Patienct,
the Shows, the Martyrs, the Ornaments of Women, and the
Resurrection of the Body, contain numberless beautiful passages.
"/ doubt," says the orator, reproaching the Christian females
with their luxury, " I doubt whether hands accustomed to brace
lets will be able to endure the weight of chains; whether feet
adorned with fillets will become habituated to galling fetters. I
much question whether a head covered with a network of pearls
and diamonds would not yield to the sword." These words,
addressed to the women who were daily conducted to the scaffold,
glow with courage and with faith.

We regret that we cannot here quote the whole of the beautiful
epistle to the martyrs, which has acquired additional interest

1 ffieron. Epixt.

CHRISTIAN ORATORS. 443

with us since the persecution of Robespierre. " Illustrious con
fessors of Jesus Christ," exclaims Tertullian, "a Christian finds
in prison the same joys as the prophets tasted in the desert.
Call it not a dungeon, but a solitude. When the soul is in hea
ven, the body feels not the weight of fetters ; it carries the whole
man along with it." This concluding sentiment is sublime.

From the priest of Carthage Bossuet borrowed that thrilling
passage which has been so much admired in his funeral discourse
on the Duchess of Orleans. "Our flesh soon changes its nature j
our body takes another name : even that of corpse, says Tertullian,
as it still leaves some trace of human form, will not long be
applicable to it. It becomes I know not what, something for
which no language has a name : so true is it that every thing in
him dies, even those doleful words which convey an idea of his
earthly remains/

Tertullian possessed extensive erudition, though he accuses
himself of ignorance ; and in his works we find particulars respect
ing the private life of the Romans which we would elsewhere
seek in vain. A barbarous and African Latinity disfigures the
works of this great orator. He often falls into declamation, and
his taste is not always correct. " Tertullian s is an iron style/ 1
says Balzac, "but it must be allowed that with this metal he has
forged excellent weapons."

According to Lactantius, surnamed the Christian Cicero,
Cyprian was tbcjirst eloquent Father of the Latin Church. But
Cyprian almost everywhere imitates Tertullian, diminishing alike
the beauties and the defects of his model. Such is the judgment
of La Harpe, whose authority should be always quoted in matters
of criticism.

Among the Fathers of the Greek Church, two only are highly
eloquent, SS. Chrysostom and Basil. The homilies of the former
on Death, and the Disgrace of Eutropius, are real master-pieces. 1
The diction of St. Chrysostom is pure but labored, and his style
is rather forced, after the manner of Isocrates. Before the young
orator embraced Christianity, 8 Libanius had selected him for his
successor in the chair of rhetoric.

1 See note 8B.

2 That is, before he had received the sacrament of baptism. Born of Chris
tian parents, he studied rhetoric and philosophy, after which he embraced the

444 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY

With greater simplicity, St. Basil possesses less elevation than
St. Chrysostom. He closely adheres to the mystical tone and
the paraphrase of the Scripture. 1 St. Gregory Nazianzen, 2 sur-
named the Theologian, has left, besides his prose works, several
poetical pieces on the mysteries of Christianity.

"He always resided at his solitary retreat of Arianzum in his
native country," says the Abbe Fleury. A garden, a fountain,
and trees which afforded him shade, constituted his whole

delight. He fasted, he prayed with abundance of tears

These sacred poems were the occupations of St. Gregory in his
last retirement. He there relates the history of his life and

sufferings He prays, he teaches, he explains the

mysteries, and gives rules of moral conduct He designed

to furnish those who are fond of poetry and music with useful
subjects of amusement, and not to yield to the pagans the advan
tage of deeming themselves alone capable of succeeding in the
belles-lettres. 3

Finally, St. Bernard, who before the appearance of Bossuet
was called the last of the fathers, combined with extensive
talents extensive learning. He was particularly successful in
the delineation of manners, and was endowed with something
of the genius of Theophrastus and La Bruyere.

" The proud man," says he, " is loud when he talks and sullen
in silence; he is dissolute in prosperity, furious in adversity;
dishonest within, honest without ; he is rude in his behaviour,
morose in his replies, always strong in attack, always feeble in
defence ; he yields with an ill grace, he importunes to gain his
point ; he does not what he can and what he ought to do, but he
is ready to do what he ought not and what he cannot perform/ 4

legal profession j but, having resolved to devote himself entirely to the service
of God, he was instructed, baptized, and ordained lector by St. Meletius. T.

1 He has written a celebrated Letter on Solitude j it is the first of his epistles,
and furnished the groundwork of his Rule.

2 In the different French editions of the Genie du Christianiome, a singular
historical error occurs in a note appended to this passage, which states that
St. Gregory the Theologian had a son of the same name and sanctity with him
self. But it should be observed that St. Gregory the Theologian, of whom our
author speaks in the text, was the son, and not the father, of St. Gregory, Bishop
of Nazianzum. T.

3 Fleury s Keel. Hist., vol. iv. book xix. c. 9. 4 De Mor., lib. xxxiv. c. 16.

M \SSILLON. 445

We must not forget that phenomenon of the thirteenth
century, the book &lt;-n the Following of Christ. How did a
monk, shut up in his convent, acquire that propriety of expres
sion, that exquisite knowledge of man, in an age when the
passions were rude and taste still more unpolished ? Who
revealed to him in his solitude those mysteries of the heart and
of eloquence ? One master, and one alone JESUS CHRIST.

CHAPTER III.

MASSILLON.

IP we now leap over several centuries, we shall come to
orators whose names alone throw a certain class of people into
great embarrassment; for full w^l they know that all their
sophistry avails nothing when opposed to Bossuet, Fe"ne"lon,
Massillon, Bourdaloue, Fleshier, Mascaron. and Poulle.

It is painful to be obliged to pass with such rapidity over such
stores of wealth, and to be unable to pause at each of these great
orators. But how shall we select from among all these treasures,
or how point out to the reader excellences which he has not
observed? Would we not swell these pages too much by tilling
them with these illustrious proofs of the beauty of Christianity ?
We shall not, therefore, make use of all our weapons ; we will
not abuse our advantages, lest, by pressing the evidence too
closely, we should urge the enemies of Christianity to an obsti
nate rejection of its truths, the last refuge of the spirit of
sophistry when driven to extremities.

We shall not adduce, in support of our arguments, F6nlon,
so sweet and so full of grace in Christian meditations j nor the
great Bourdaloue, a tower of strength and victory to the doc
trines of the gospel ; we shall not avail ourselves of the learned
compositions of Fleshier, nor of the brilliant imaginations of
Poulle, the last of the Christian orators. religion, how great
have been thy triumphs ! Who could doubt thy beauty when
FeVlon and Bossuet occupied thy episcopal chairs ? when Bour-

446 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

daloue, in solemn accents, instructed a monarch then blest with
prosperity, but who, in his misfortunes, was favored by a merciful
Heaven with the soothing counsels of Massillon ?

It must not, however, be supposed that the Bishop of Cler-
inont possesses only the sensibility of genius : he has also a
masculine and nervous language at his command. In our opi
nion, his Petit Careme has been too exclusively extolled. The
author, indeed, there displays an intimate knowledge of the
human heart, just views respecting the vices of courts. He
there inculcates moral truths, written with elegance and yet
with simplicity; but there is certainly a higher eloquence, a
bolder style, more pathetic movements, and more profound ideas,
in some of his other sermons, such as those on Death, on Final
Impenitence, on the Small Number of the Elect, on the Death
of the Sinner, on the Necessity of a Future State, and on the
Passion of Christ. Read, for example, this description of the
dying sinner :

" At length, amid all thes* painful struggles, his eyes become
fixed, his features altered, his face distorted, and his livid lips
involuntarily open a shivering seizes his whole frame, and by
this last effort his soul is reluctantly disengaged from this
body of clay, and finds itself alone at the foot of the awful
tribunal." 1

To this picture of the death of the wicked let us subjoin that
of the vanity of human things :

" Look at the world such as you saw it in early life and such
as you now behold it. A new court has succeeded that which
your first years witnessed; new characters have occupied the
stage, and the principal parts are filled by new actors. There
are new events, new intrigues, new passions, new heroes in
virtue as in vice which are the subjects of applause, of derision,
of public censure. Nothing is lasting; all things change, wear
out, and become extinct ; Grod alone remains forever the same.
The torrent of time, which carries away each succeeding age,
flows before his eyes, and with indignation he sees feeble
mortals, hurried along by its rapid current, insult him as they

i Advent Sermon on the Death of the Sinner, part i.

MASSILLON. 447

This example of the vanity of earthly things, taken from the
age of Louis XIV., which was drawing to a close, and presented,
perhaps, to the consideration of aged Christians who had beheld
all its glory, is highly pathetic. The expression which termi
nates the period seems as if it had dropped from the lips of
Bossuet, such is its frankness and at the same time its sublimity.

We shall give another example of that nervous eloquence
which Massillon might be supposed not to have possessed, as his
richness and sweetness are in general the only topics of praise
We shall select a passage in which the orator quits his favorite
style that is to say, sentiment and imagery for mere argu
ment. In his sermon on the Truth of a Future State he thus
addresses the unbeliever :

" What shall I say more ? If all dies with us, our anxiety foi
reputation and posterity must be frivolous; the honor paid to
the memory of illustrious men a puerile error, since it is ridi
culous to honor that which no longer has existence ; our venera
tion for the tomb a vulgar illusion j the ashes of our ancestors
and of our friends no more than vile dust, which ought to be given
to the winds and which belongs to none; the injunctions of the
dying, held so sacred among the most barbarous nations, merely
the last sounds of a machine that is falling to pieces. And, if we
must speak out, the laws are, in this case, a senseless servitude ;
kings and sovereigns only phantoms set up by the weakness of
nations ; justice is an encroachment upon the liberty of man ;
the law of marriage a vain scruple ; chastity a prejudice ; honor
and integrity chimeras; incest, parricide, the blackest perfidy,
sports of nature, and names which the policy of legislators has
invented.

" Such is the point to which the philosophy of the wicked is
reduced ; such is that energy, that reason, that wisdom, of which
they are eternally boasting. Admit their maxims, and the uni
verse returns to a frightful chaos; all things are thrown into
disorder upon the earth ; all the notions of virtue and vice are
overthrown ; and the most inviolable laws of society are abolish
ed ; and the discipline of morality is swept away ; and the go
vernment of states and empires ceases to be subject to any rule;
and the whole harmony of political institutions is dissolved ; and
the human race becomes an assemblage of madmen, barbarians,

448 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

cheats, unnatural wretches who have no other laws than force,
no other curb than their passions and the dread of authority, nc
other tie than irreligion and independence, no other gods than
themselves. Such is the world of the impious ; and, it you are
pleased with this scheme of a republic, form, if you can, a
society of these monsters; all we shall say is that you are worthy
to fill a place in it."

Compare Massillon with Cicero, and Bossuet with Demos
thenes, and you will always find the differences that we have
specified between their styles of eloquence. In the Christian
orators there is a more general order of ideas, a more profound
knowledge of the human heart, a stron/^r chain of reasoning,
a religious and solemn tone of eloquence, unknown to antiquity.
Massillon has written some funeral orations, but they are inferior
to his other discourses. His eulogy on Louis XIV. is not
remarkable, except for the sentence with which it opens :
God alone is great, my brethren I How beautiful is this ex
pression pronounced before the coffin of Louis the Great I 1

CHAPTER IV.

BOSSUET AS AN ORATOR.

BUT what shall we say of Bossuet as an orator ? To whom
shall we compare him ? and which of the harangues of Cicero
and Demosthenes are not eclipsed by his Funeral Orations?
The Christian orator seems to be indicated in those words of a
King : " There is gold, and a multitude of jewels ; but the lips
of knowledge are a precious vessel " a Looking always upon the
grave, and bending as it were over the gulf of futurity, Bossuet
is incessantly dropping the awful words of time and death, which
are re-echoed in the silent abysses of eternity. He gathers
around him an indescribable sadness; he becomes merged in
sorrows inconceivable. The heart, after an interval of more
than a century, is yet struck with that celebrated exclamation :

1 Se&lt;i note CO. 2 Prov. xx. 15.

BOSSUET AS AN ORATOR. 449

" The princess is dying ; the princess is dead ! Did monarchs
ever receive such lessons? Did philosophy ever express itself
with greater independence ? The diadem is as Lothing in the
eyes of the preacher; by him the poor are raised to an equality
with the monarch, and the most absolute potentate in the world
must .submit to be told, before thousands of witnesses, that all
his grandeur is but vanity, that his power is but a dream, and
himself is but dust.

There are three things continually succeeding one another in
Bossuet s discourses : the stroke of genius or of eloquence; the
quotation so admirably blended with the text as to form but one
piece with it; lastly, the reflection, or the survey taken with eagle
eye of the causes of the event of which he treats. Often, too,
does this star of the Church throw a light upon discussions in
the most abstruse metaphysics or the most sublime theology. To
him nothing is obscure. He has created a language employed by
himself alone, in which frequently the simplest term and the
loftiest idea, the most common expression and the most tremen
dous image, serve, as in Scripture, to produce the most striking
effect.

Thus, when pointing to the coffin of the Duchess of Orleans,
he exclaims, There you see, notwithstanding her great heart, that
princess so admired and so beloved ! There you behold her, such
as Death has made her! Why do we shudder at the simple ex
pression such as Death has made her? Tis^on account of the
opposition between that great heart, that princess so admired, and
the inevitable stroke of death, which has laid her low as the
meanest of mankind. Tis because the verb make, applied to
death, which unmakes all, produces a contradiction in the words
and a clashing of the ideas which agitate the whole soul ; as if,
to describe an event so sudden and so afflicting, the terms had
changed their signification, and the language itself were thrown
into confusion as well as the heart.

We have already remarked that, with the exception of Pascal,
Bossuet, Massillon, and La Fontaine, the writers of the age of
Louis XIV., from having lived too little in retirement, were stran
gers to that species of melancholy sentiment which, at the present
day, is so strangely abused.

How happens it, then, that the Bishop of Meaux, incessantly
38* 2D

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

surrounded with the splendors of Versailles, is remarkable foi
such profound contemplations ? It is because he enjoyed a soli
tude in religion because his body was in the world and his mind
in the desert because he had found a refuge for his heart in the
secret tabernacles of the Lord because, as he himself said of
Maria Theresa of Austria, "he repaired to the altars, there to
enjoy with David an humble tranquillity, and retired to his ora
tory, where, in spite of the bustle of the court, he found the Car-
mel of Elias, the desert of John, and the mountain which so often
witnessed the sorrows of Jesus."

All of Bossuet s funeral orations are not equal in merit; but
they are all in some respect sublime. That on the Queen of
England is a master-piece of style and a model of philosophical
and political composition.

The oration on the Duchess of Orleans is the most remarkable
of all, because it is wholly created by genius. Here are none of
those pictures of the troubles of nations, none of those develop
ments of public affairs which commonly keep up the tone of the
orator. It seems natural to suppose that the interest excited by
a princess expiring in the prime of life would be speedily ex
hausted. The whole subject is limited to a few commonplace
topics of beauty, youth, grandeur, and death ; and yet upon this
slender foundation Bossuet has reared one of the most solid and
splendid monuments of his eloquence. From this point he sets
out to display the misery of man by his perishable part, and his
greatness by the immortal portion of his being. He first debases
him below the worms which prey upon him in the grave, and
then describes him resplendent with virtue in the regions of in
corruptibility.

Every reader knows with what genius he has, in the funeral
oration on the Princess Palatine, descended, without derogating
from the majesty of the rhetorical art, even to the simple inter
pretation of a dream ; though he has evinced in the same discouse
his high capacity for philosophical abstractions.

If, in his sermons on Maria Theresa and the Chancellor of
France, the panegyrist dwells not on the usual subjects of eulogy,
his thoughts move in a more enlarged sphere in more profound
contemplations. Alluding to Le Tellier and Lamoignon, he says :
" Now do those two pious souls who on earth were desirous of

BOSSUET AS AN ORATOR. 451

effecting the ascendency of the laws behold clearly those eternal
laws from which ours are derived j and, if any trace whatever of
our short-sighted distinctions is apparent in this simple and lumi
nous vision, they adore God in the attribute of supreme justice
and rule."

In this theology of Bossuet how many other beautiful features
present themselves, as the sublime, the graceful, the sad, or the
pleasing ! Turn to the picture of the Fronde. 1 " The monarchy
shaken to its very foundations, war at home, war abroad, fire and

sword within and without Was this one of those

storms in which Heaven sometimes finds it necessary to pour forth
its wrath ? . . . . or may it be considered as the throes of France
ready to bring forth the miraculous reign of Louis?" 3 This is
followed by some reflections on the illusions of earthly friendships,
which " expire with years and interests," and on the profound
obscurity of the human heart, " which never knows what it will
in future desire ; which frequently cannot tell what it at present
wishes, and which uses not less concealment and deceit with itself
than with others." 8

"But the trumpet sounds, and G.ustavus appears. He appears
to surprised and betrayed Poland like a lion holding his prey in
his talons, and ready to tear it in pieces. What has become of
that formidable cavalry which once was seen to rush upon the
enemy with the swiftness of the eagle ? Where are those martial
spirits, those vaunted battle-axes, and those bows which used
never to be bent in vain ? The horses are now swift, the men are
now active, only to flee before the conqueror."*

As we advance, our ears tingle with the words of a prophet.
Is it Isaias or Jercmias who apostrophizes the island of conference
and the nuptial ceremonies of the Fourteenth Louis? "Sacred
festival! auspicious marriage ! nuptial veil, benediction, sacrifice!
Let me this day mingle your ceremonies and your splendor with
this funeral pomp, and the height of grandeur with its ruins." 5

The poet it will not be taken amiss if we apply to Bossuet an
appellation which constitutes the glory of David the poet con

1 The party opposed to the Court was called the Fronde.

2 Fun. Orat. for An. de Cfonz. 3 Fun. Orat. for An. de Gonz.

* Ibid. 6 Fun. Orat. on Mar. Ther. of Autt.

452 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

tinues his strains. He no longer touches the inspired chords ;
but, lowering the tone of his lyre to the mode which Solomon
adopted to celebrate the flocks of Mount Gilead, he chants those
peaceful words: "In the solitude of St. Fare, as far removed
from the ways of secular life as it is separated by its happy situa
tion from all commerce with the world, on that sacred moun
tain chosen by Grod above a thousand years ago where the
spouses of Jesus Christ renewed the charms of ancient days
where the joys of the earth were unknown where the footsteps
of the man of the world, the inquisitive, and the lawless wan
derer, never appear, under the superintendence of the holy
abbess, who knew how to dispense milk to babes as well as bread
to the strong, the life of the Princess Anne dawned auspi
ciously." 1

This passage, which you would almost suppose to have been
extracted from the book of Ruth, does not exhaust the pencil of
Bossuet. He has still enough of those antique and soft colors
left to delineate a happy death "Michael Le Tellier," says he,
"began the hymn in celebration of the divine mercies. I will
sing forever the mercies of the Lord. With these words upon
his lips he expires, and continues the sacred song with the angels
of the Most High."

We were for some time of opinion that the funeral oration
on the Prince of Conde, with the exception of the incomparable
passage with which it concludes, had generally been too highly
extolled. We considered it more easy, as it really is, to reach the
form of eloquence which appears in the exordium of that eulogy
than that in the oration on the Princess Henrietta. But when
we re-perused that discourse with attention, when we beheld
the orator blowing the epic trumpet during one half of his narra
tive, and, as it were, sounding an Homeric strain, when, retiring
to Chantilly, he resumes the Christian tone, and recovers all the
grand and solemn ideas with which the above-mentioned funeral
orations are replete, when, after having followed Conde to the
coffin, he summons nations, princes, prelates, and warriors, around
the cenotaph of the hero, when, finally, advancing with his hoarj
locks, like a majestic spirit of another world, he exhibits Bossuet

1 Fun. Orat.for An. de Gone.

INFIDELITY THE DECLINE OF GENIUS. 453

declining to the tomb, and the age of Louis XIV. (whose obse
quies you would almost conceive him to be celebrating) on the
brink of eternity, at this utmost effort of human eloquence tears
of admiration flowed from our eyes and the book dropped from
our hands.

CHAPTER V.

INFIDELITY THE PRINCIPAL CAUSE OF THE DECLINE OF TASTE
AND THE DEGENERACY OF GENIUS.

THE preceding observations may have led the reader to this
reflection, that infidelity is the principal cause of the decline of
taste and the degeneracy of yenius. When the national religion
had lost its influence at Athens and at Rome, talents disappeared
with the gods, and the Muses consigned to barbarism those who
no longer had any faith in them

In an enlightened age one would scarcely believe to what a
degree good morals depend on good taste, and good taste on good
morals. The works of Racine, gradually becoming more pure in
proportion as the author became more religious, at last concluded
with his Athalia. Take notice, on the contrary, how the impiety
and the genius of Voltaire discover themselves at one and the
same time in his productions by a mixture of delightful and dis
agreeable subjects. Bad taste, when incorrigible, is a perversion
of judgment, a natural bias in the ideas. Now, as the mind acts
upon the heart, the ways of the latter can scarcely be upright
when those of the former are not so. He who is fond of deformity
at a time when a thousand master-pieces might apprise him of his
error and rectify his taste is not far from loving vice; and tis no
wonder if he who is insensible to beauty should also be blind to
virtue.

Every writer who refuses to believe in a God, the author of
the universe and the judge of men, whose soul he has made im-
mortal, in the first place excludes infinity from his works. He

454 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

confines his intellect within a circle of clay, from which it has
then no means of escaping. He sees nothing noble in nature.
All her operations are, in his infatuated opinion, effected by im
pure means of corruption and regeneration. The vast abyss is
but a little bituminous water ; the mountains are small protuber
ances of calcareous or verifiable rock; and the heavens, where
the day produces an immense solitude, as if to serve as a camp for
the host of stars which the night leads forth in silence, the
heavens are but a petty vault thrown over us for a moment by
the capricious hand of Chance.

If the unbeliever is thus limited in regard to physical objects,
how can he describe with eloquence the dignity of man ? For
him language has no richness, and from the treasures of expres
sion he is irrevocably excluded. Contemplate the corpse interred
in f yonder grave, that statue of nothing, wrapt in a winding-
sheet. There is man according to the atheist ! Sprung from the
impure body of a woman ; inferior to the animals in point of
instinct; dust like them, and returning, as they do, to dust;
having no passions, but impelled by appetites; obeying not moral
laws, but only physical influences ; looking forward to no other
end than a sepulchre and worms, there is that being who had
fancied himself animated by an immortal spirit ! Talk no more
of the mysteries of the soul, of the secret delights of virtue ! Ye
graces of infancy, ye loves of truth, generous friendship, elevation
of sentiment, charms of the tombs and of our native country, all
your enchantments are destroyed !

By a necessary consequence, infidelity also introduced a spirit
of cavilling and disputation, abstract definitions, the scientific
style, and with it the practice of coining new words, all deadly
foes to taste and eloquence.

It is possible that the amount of talent among the authors of
the eighteenth century equalled that of the writers in the seven
teenth. 1 Why, then, does the latter rank so much above the
former ? for we can no longer dissemble the fact that the writers
of our age have been, in general, placed too high. If, as it is

1 We make this admission to give the greater weight to the argument; but
we are far from being of that opinion. Pascal and Bossuet, Moliere and La
Fontaine, were four writers absolutely incomparable, and such as we shall
never again possess. If we omit Racine, it is because he has a rival in Virgil.

INFIDELITY THE DECLINE OF GENIUS. 455

agreed, there are so many faults in the works of Rousseau and
Voltaire, what shall we say of those of Raynal and Diderot ?*
The luminous method of our late metaphysicians has, no doubt
with reason, been extolled. It should, nevertheless, have been
remarked that there are two sorts of perspicuity : the one belongs
to a vulgar order of ideas, (a commonplace notion, for example,
may be clearly comprehended;) the other proceeds from an
admirable faculty of conceiving and expressing with precision a
strong and complex idea. The pebbles at the bottom of a brook
may easily be seen, because the stream is shallow ; but amber,
coral, pearls, attract the eye of the diver at immense depths
beneath the pellucid waters of the abyss.

If our age, in a literary point of view, is inferior to tjiat of
Louis XIV., let us seek no other cause for it than our irreligion.
We have already shown how much Voltaire would have gained
by being a Christian ; he would, at this day, dispute the palm of
the Muses with Racine. His works would have acquired that
moral tint without which nothing is perfect; we should also
find in them those charming allusions to other times the want
of which occasions so great a void. He who denies the God of
his country is almost always destitute of respect for the memory
of his forefathers ; for him the tombs are without interest, and
he considers the institutions of his ancestors as barbarous cus
toms ; he takes no pleasure in calling to mind the sentiments,
the wisdom, and the manners, of his antique mother.

Religion is the most powerful motive of the love of country;
pious writers have invariably disseminated that noble sentiment
in their works. With what respect, in what magnificent terms,
do the writers of the age of Louis XIV. always mention France !
Wo be to him who insults his country ! Let our country become
weary of being ungrateful before we are weary of loving her; let
our heart be greater than her injustice !

If the religious man loves his country, it is because his mind
is simple, and the natural sentiments which attach us to the land
of our nativity are the ground, as it were, and the habit of his
heart. He gives the hand to his. forefathers and to his children ;
he is planted in his native soil, like the oak which sees its aged

1 See note DD.

456 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

roots below striking deep into the earth, while at its top young
shoots are aspiring to heaven.

Rousseau is one of the writers of the eighteenth century whose
style is the most fascinating, because, designedly eccentric, he
created for himself a shadow, at least, of religion. He believed
in something, which was not Christ, but yet was the gospel.
This phantom of Christianity, such as it is, has sometimes im
parted ineffable graces to his genius. Would not he, who has
inveighed with such energy against sophists, have done better to
give full scope to the tenderness of his soul, than to bewilder
himself, like them, in empty systems, whose obsolete errors he
has merely dressed up in the garb of youth ?*

Buffon would be deficient in nothing, were his sensibility equal
to his eloquence. We frequently have occasion to make the re
mark, which cannot be sufficiently impressed upon the present
age, that without religion there can be no feeling. Buffon de
lights us by his style, but seldom excites our sensibility. Read,
for instance, his admirable description of the dog: every kind
of dog is depicted there the hunter s dog, the shepherd s dog,
the wild dog, the master dog, the foppish dog, &c. But what is
wanting to complete the list ? The blind man s dog. This is
the first that would have struck the mind of a Christian.

Buffon has paid little attention to the tender relations of life.
We must, however, do justice to this great painter of nature,
who possesses a rare excellence of style. He who can observe
such an exact propriety, who is never either too high or too low,
must have a great command over his mind and conduct. It is
well known that Buffon respected whatever it becomes a man to
respect. He did not think that philosophy consisted in the pub
lic profession of infidelity and in wantonly insulting the altars of
twenty-four millions of men. He was regular in the performance
of his duties as a Christian, and set an excellent example to his
domestics. Rousseau, embracing the groundwork and rejecting
the forms of Christianity, displays in his performances the tender
ness of religion, together with the bad tone of the sophist ; Buf
fon, for the. contrary reason, has the dry ness of philosophy, with
the decorum of piety. Christianity has infused into the style of

1 See note EE.

INFIDELITY THE DECLINE OF GENIUS. 457

the former its charm, its ease, its warmth, and inv-ested the style
of the latter with order, perspicuity, and magnificence. Thus the
works of both these celebrated men bear, in their good as well as
in their bad qualities, the stamp of what they themselves chose
and rejected in religion.

In naming Montesquieu, we call to mind the truly great man
of the eighteenth century. The Spirit of Laws, and the essay
on the Causes of the Greatness and Decline of the Roman Empire,
will live as long as the language in which they are written. If
Montesquieu, in a production of his youth, unfortunately assailed
religion with some of those shafts which he aimed at our man
ners, this was but a transient error, a species of tribute paid to
the corruption of the regency. 1 But in the work which has
placed Montesquieu in the rank of illustrious men. he has made
a magnificent reparation for the injury by the panegyric he pro
nounces on that religion which he had the imprudence to attack.
The maturity of his years, and even an interest for his fame,
taught him that in order to erect a durable monument he must

lay its foundations in a more stable soil than the dust of this
world ; his genius, which embraced all ages, rested upon religion
alone, to which all ages are promised.

From all our observations we conclude that the writers of the
eighteenth century owe most of their defects to a delusive system
of philosophy, and that, if they had been more religious, they
would have approached nearer to perfection.

There has been in our age, with some few exceptions, a sort of
general abortion of talents. You would even say that impiety,
which renders every thing barren, is also manifested in the im
poverishment of physical nature. Cast your eyes on the genera
tions which immediately succeeded the age of Louis XIV. Where
are those men with countenances serene and majestic, with digni
fied port and noble attire, with polished language and air at once
military and classical the air of conquerors and lovers of the
arts? You look for them, but you find them not. The dimi
nutive, obscure mortals of the present times walk like pigmies
beneath the lofty porticos of the structures raised by a former
age. On their harsh brows sit selfishness and the contempt of

1 See note FF.
39

458 GENIUS OP CHRISTIANITY

God ; they have lost both the dignity of dress and the purity of
language. You would take them not for the descendants, but
for the buffoons, of the heroic race which preceded them.

The disciples of the new school blast the imagination with I
know not what truth, which is not the real truth. The style of
these men is dry, their mode of expression devoid of sincerity,
their imagination destitute of love and of warmth they have no
unction, no richness, no simplicity. You find in their works no
thing that fills, nothing that satisfies; immensity is not there,
because the Divinity is wanting. Instead of that tender religion,
that harmonious instrument which the authors of the age of Louis
XIV. made use of to pitch the tone of their eloquence, modern
writers have recourse to a contracted philosophy, which goes on
dividing and subdividing all things, measuring sentiments with
compasses, subjecting the soul to calculation, and reducing the
universe, God himself included, to a transient subtraction from
nothing.

Thus, the eighteenth century is daily fading away in the per
spective, while the seventeenth is gradually magnified, in propor
tion as we recede from it : the one grovels on the earth, the other
soars to the skies. In vain would you strive to depreciate the
genius of a Bossuet or a Racine; it will share the immortality of
that venerable form of Homer which is seen behind the long lapse
of centuries. Sometimes it is obscured by the dust which a crum
bling age raises in its fall ; but no sooner is the cloud dispersed
than you again perceive the majestic figure, but of augmented
size, to overlook the new ruins. 1

1 See note 3GK

BOOK V.

HE HARMONIES OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION WITH
THE SCENES OF NATURE AND THE PASSIONS OF THE
HUMAN HEART.

CHAPTER I.

DIVISION OF THE HARMONIES.

BEFORE we proceed to the ceremonies of religion, we have
yet to examine some subjects which we could not sufficiently
develop in the preceding books. These subjects relate either tc
the physical or the moral side of the arts. Thus, for example,
the sites of monasteries and the ruins of religious monuments
belong to the material part of architecture; while the effects of
the Christian doctrine, with the passions of the human heart and
the scenery of nature, are referable to the dramatic and descriptive
departments of poetry.

Such are the subjects which we comprehend in this book under
the general head of Harmonies.

CHAPTER II.

PHYSICAL HARMONIES.

The Sites of Religious Monuments The Convents of Maronites,
Copts, &c.

THERE are in human things two kinds of nature, placed the
one at the beginning, the other at the end, of society. Were not
this the case, man, advancing farther and farther from his origin,
would have become a sort of monster : but, by a particular law of
Providence, the more civilized he grows the nearer he approaches

459

460 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

to his first state ; and to this cause is it owing that science, carried
to its highest pitch, is ignorance, and that the perfection of the
arts is nature.

This last nature this nature of society is the most beautiful:
genius is its instinct, and virtue its innocence : for the genius and
virtue of the civilized man are but the improved instinct and
innocence of the savage. Now, no one can compare an Indian
of Canada with Socrates, though the former may be, strictly
speaking, as moral as the latter : you might as well maintain that
the peace of the unfolded passions of the infant has equal excel
lence with the peace of the subdued passions of the man; that
the being who has but mere sensations is equal to the being en
dued with reason, which would be tantamount to the assertion
that weakness is as desirable as strength. A petty lake never
lays waste its banks, and at this you are not astonished; its im
potence occasions its calmness; but the serenity of the ocean fills
you with pleasure, because it possesses the power to be tempes
tuous, and you admire the silence of the abyss, because it arises
from the very profundity of its waters.

Between the ages of nature and those of civilization intervene
others, which we have denominated barbarous ages. These
were unknown to the ancients. They resulted from the sudden
reunion of a polished people and a savage people. These ages
must of course be remarkable for depravity of taste. On the one
hand, the savage, applying himself to the arts, could not carry
them to a degree of elegance, while the social man had not sim
plicity enough to follow nature alone.

In such a case nothing pure can be expected, except where a
moral cause acts of itself independently of temporary causes.
Owing to this, the first recluses, following that delicate and sure
religious taste which never deceives when nothing foreign is
blended with it, have selected, in every region of the globe, the
most striking situations for the erection of their monasteries.*
There is not a hermit who does not know, as well as Claude
Lorrain or Le Notre, on what rock he ought to form his cell.

In the chain of Lebanon are seen here and there Maronite con
vents erected on the brink of precipices. Into some of these you

1 See note HH,

PHYSICAL HARMONIES. 461

penetrate through long caverns, the entrance to whicl is closed
by masses of rock : to others you cannot gain access but by means
of a basket let down from the edifice. The sacred river gushes
from the foot of the mountain ; the forest of black cedars over
looks the picture, and is itself surmounted by rounded peaks
clothed with a mantle of snow. The wonder is not complete till
the moment you reach the monastery. Within are vineyards,
streams, groves; without, a dreary nature, and the earth, with
its rivers and plains and seas, sunk and lost in the azure abyss.
Nourished by religion on these precipitous rocks, between earth
and sky, the pious recluses soar aloft to heaven, like the eagles of
the mountain.

The circular and detached cells of the Egyptian convents are
surrounded by one common wall, which protects them from the
Arabs. From the top of the tower erected in the midst of these
convents, you behold deserts of sand above which the pyramids
rear their gray heads, or stones that direct the traveller on his
way. Sometimes an Abyssinian caravan, a troup of roving Be
douins, pass in the distance along one of the horizons of the
moving expanse ; at others, a southern blast envelops the whole
perspective in an atmosphere of dust. The moon illumines a
naked soil, where the breezes find not even a blade of grass where
with to form a sound. No shadows diversify the treeless desert,
and amid the buildings of the monastery alone you meet with a
semblance of the shades of night.

At the isthmus of Panama, in America, the cenobite may con
template from the roof of his convent the two seas which bathe
either shore of the New World; the one often agitated when the
other is at rest, and offering to meditation the twofold picture of
calm and tempest.

The convents seated on the Andes behold the waves of the
Pacific Ocean subsidiug in the distance. A transparent sky rests
upon the earth and upon the seas, and seems to enclose the edi
fice of religion in a concave of crystal. The nasturtium, taking
the place of the religious ivy, lines the sacred walls with its red
flowers; the lama crosses the torrent on a floating bridge of lianas,
and the unfortunate Peruvian comes to offer up his prayers to the
God of Las Casas.

In Europe, we find ancient abbeys embosomed in woods, and

39*

462 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

revealing themselves to the traveller only by their towers which
soar above the lofty oaks. Ordinary edifices receive their gran
deur from the scenery which surrounds them the Christian re
ligion, on the contrary, embellishes the site where she erects her
altars and suspends her sacred decorations. We have alluded
elsewhere to the convents of Europe and their effect amid the
scenery of nature. To complete our observations, we shall pre
sent the reader with the following beautiful poem, the production
of a friend, which will prove to our poets that their muse would
gain much more in wandering through the cloister than io
becoming the echo of impiety :

LA CHARTREUSE DE PARIS.

Vieux cloitre ou de Bruno les disciples caches
Renfei-ment tous leurs vceux sur le ciel attaches ;
Cloitre saint, ouvre-moi tes modestes pordques !
Laisse-moi m egarer dans ces jardins rustiques
Ou venait Catinat mediter quelquefois,
Heureux de fuir la cour et d oublier les rois.
J ai trop connu Paris : mes legeres penses,
Dans son enceinte immense au hasard disperses,
Veulent enfin rejoindre et Her tous les jours
Leur fil derni forme, qui se brise toujours.
Seul, je viens recueillir mes vagues reveries,
Fuyez, bruyants remparts, pompeuses Tuileries,
Louvre, dont le portique a mes yeux eblouis
Vante apres cent hivers la grandeur de Louis!
Je prefere ces lieux oil Tame, moins distraite,
Meme au sein de Paris peut gouter la retraite :
La retraite me plait, elle eut mes premiers vers.
Deja, de feux moins vifs eclairant I univers,
Septembre loin de nous s enfuit et decoloro
Get eclat dont 1 annee un moment brille encore.
II redouble la paix qui m attache en ces lieux ;
Son jour melancolique, et si doux a nos yeux,
Son vert plus rembruni, son grave caractere,
Semblent se conforiner au deuil du monastere.
Sous ces bois jaunissants j aime a m ensevelir.
Couche sur un gazon qui commence a palir,
Je jouis d un air pur, de 1 ombre, et du silence.

Ces chars tumultueux ou s assied 1 opulence,
Tous ces travaux, ce peuple a grands flots agit6,
Ces sons confus qu eleve une vaste cite",
Des enfants de Bruno ne troublent point 1 asile;

PHYSICAL HARMONIES. 463

Le bruit les environne et leur ame est tranquille.

Tous les jours, reproduit sous des traits inconstanta,

Le fantome du siecle eraporte par le temps

Passe et roule autour d eux ses pompes mensonge res.

Mais c est en vain : du si&cle ils ont fui les ehimCrres;

Hormis I e"ternit6 tout est songe pour eux.

Vous deplorez pourtant leur destin malheureux !

Quel prejugg funeste a des lois si rigides

Attacha, dites-vous, ces pieux suicides ?

Ils meurent longuement, rouge s d un noir chagrin :

L autel garde leurs vreux sur des tables d airain ;

Et le seul desespoir habite leurs cellules.

Eh bien ! vous qui plaignez ces victimes cr6dules,

P6n6trez avec moi ces murs religieux :

N y respirez-vous pas 1 air paisible des cieux?

Vos chagrins ne sout plus, vos passions so taisent,

Et du cloitre uiuet les t6nebres vous pluisent.

Mais quel lugubre son, du haut de cetto tour,

Descend et fait frtfinir les dortoirs d alentour?

C est 1 airain qui, du temps formidable interpre te,

Dans chaque heure qui fuit, a 1 humble anachorete

Redit en longs 6chos: "Songe au dernier moment!"

Le son sous cette voute expire lentement;

Et, quand il a cesse, 1 ame en fremit encore.

La Meditation, qui, seule des 1 aurore,

Dans ces sombres parvis march e en baissnnt son ceil,

A ce signal s arrete, et lit sur un cercueil

L e"pitaphe a demi par les ans effacee,

Qu un gothique 6crivain dans la pierre a traced

tableaux eloquents ! oh ! combien a mon coeur

Plait ce dome noirci d une divine horreur,

Et le lierre embrassant oes debris de murailles

Ou croasse 1 oisean, chantre des funerailles ;

Les approches du soir et oes ifs attrist^a

Oil gli.sent du soleil les dernieres clart^s;

Et ce buste pieux que la mousse environne,

Et la cloche d airain a 1 accent monotone;

*7e temple ou chaque aurore en tend de saints concert!

Sortir d un long silence et monter dans les airs;

Un martyr dont 1 autel a conserve" les restes,

Et le gazon qui croit sur ces tombeaux modestes

Ou 1 heureux cenobite a passe sans remord

Du silence du cloitre a celui de la mort!

Cependant sur ces murs I obscurit6 s abaisse,

Leur douil est redouble", leur ombre est plus gpaisse

Les hauteurs de Meudon me cachont le soleil,

Le jour meurt, la nuit vient: le couchant, moins vermeil,

VoJ , palir do ses feux la derniere 6Uncelle.

GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Tout a coup se rallume une aurore nouvelle

Qui monte avec lenteur sur les domes noircis

De ce palais voisin qu eleva Me"dicis;

Elle en blanchit le faite, et ma vue enchante"e

Recoit par ces vitraux la lueur argentee.

L astre touchant des nuits verse du haut des cieux

Sur les tombes du cloitre un jour mysterieux,

Et semble y refle chir cette douce lumiere

Qui des morts bienheureux doit charmer la paupieTe.

Ici, je ne vois plus les horreurs du tre pas :

Son aspect attendrit et n epouvante pas.

Me trompe"-je? Ecoutons: sous ces voutes antiques

Parviennent jusqu a moi d invisibles cantiques,

Et la Religion, le front voile", descend :

Elle approche: deja son calme attendrissant

Jusqu au fond de votre ame en secret s insinue f

Entendez-vous un Dieu dont la voix inconnue

Vous dit tout bas: "Mon fils, viens ici, viens a moi;

Marche au fond du desert, j y serai pres de toi."

Maintenant, du milieu de cette paix profonde,

Tournez les yeux: voyez, dans les routes du monde,

S agiter les humains que travaille sans fruit,

Get espoir obstine du bonheur qui les fuit.

Rappelez-vous les moeurs de ces siecles sauvages

Ou, sur 1 Europe entiere apportant les ravages,

Des Vandales obscurs, de farouches Lombards,

Des Goths se disputaient le sceptre des Cesars.

La force etait sans frein, le faible sans asile :

Parlez, blamerez-vous les Benoit, les Basile,

Qui, loin du siecle impie, en ces temps abhorred,

Ouvrirent au rnalheur des refuges sacres ?

D6serts de 1 Orient, sables, sommets arides,

Catacombes, forets, sauvages Thebaides,

Oh ! que d infortunes votre noire e"paisseur

A dgrobes jadis au fer de 1 oppresseur !

C est la qu ils se cachaient; et les Chretiens fideles,

Que la religion protegeait de ses ailes,

Vivant avec Dieu seul dans leurs pieux tombeaux,

Pouvaient au moins prier sans craindre les bourreaux.

Le tyran n osait plus y ohercher ses victimes.

Et que dis-je ? accable de Thorreur de ses crimes,

Souvent dans ces lieux saints 1 oppresseur de"sarm6

Venait demander grace aux pieds de 1 opprime".

D heroiques vertus habitaient 1 ermitage.

Je vois dans les debris de Thebes, de Carthage,

Au creux des souterrains, au fond des vieilles toura,

D illustres penitents fuir le monde et les cours.

La voix des passions se tait sous leurs cilices j

Mais leurs aus .Srites ne sont point sans delices :

PHYSICAL HARMONIES. 465

Celui qu ils ont cherche" ne les oubliera pas ;
Dieu commande au desert de fleurir sous leurs pas.
Palmier, qui rafraichis la plaine de Syrie,
Us veuaient reposer sous tou ombre che"rie !
Propbe"tique Jourdain, ils erraient sur tes bordes!
Et vous, qu un roi charinait de ses divins accords,
Cadres du haul Liban, sur votre cime altiere
Vous portiez jusqu au ciel leur ardeute priere!
Get antre prote"geait leur paisible somineil;
Souvent le cri de 1 aigle avana leur re" veil;
Ils chantaient 1 Eterncl sur le roc solitaire,
Au bruit sourd du torrent dont 1 eau les de salte re,
Quand tout a coup un ange, en de"voilant ses traits,
Leur porte, au nom du ciel, un message de paix.
Et ccpendant leurs jours u e" taient point sans orages.
Get eloquent J6r6me, honueur des premiers ages,
Voyait sous le cilice, et de cendres couvert,
Les volupt6s de Rome as.ie"ger son d6sert.
Leurs combats exer^aient son austere sagesse.
Peut-etre comme lui, d6plorant sa faiblesse,
Un rnortel trop sensible habita ce sejour.
He"las ! plus d une fois les soupirs de 1 atnour
S 61evaient dans la nuit du fond des monastics;
En vain le repoussant de ses regards austdres,
La penitence veille i cot6 d un cercueil :
11 entre de guise* sous les voiles du deuil;
Au Dieu consolateur en pleurant il se donne;
A Comminge, a Ranee", Dieu sans doute pardonne:
A Comminge, i Ranee", qui ne doit quelqnes pleurs?
Qui n en sait les amours? qui n en plaint les malheun
Et toi, dont le nom seul trouble 1 ame amoureuse,
Des bois du Paraclet vestale malheureuse,
Toi qui, sans prononcer de vulgaires serments,
Fis connaitre a 1 amour de nouveaux sentiments;
Toi que 1 homme sensible, abuse" par lui-mgrne,
Se plait i retrouver dans la femme qu il aime;
H61oise ! i ton nom quel coaur ne s attendrit?
Tel qu un autre Abailard ton amant te che&gt;it.
Qne de fois j ai cherche", loin d un nionde volage,
L asile ou dans Paris s 6coula ton jeune age !
Cos v^ne rables tours qu nllonge vers les cieux
La cath^drale antique oii priaient nos aieux,
Ces tours ont conserve" ton amoureuse histoire.
Li tout m en parle encor: li revit ta m6moire;
Li du toit de Fulbert j ai revu les de"bris.
On dit mfirae, en cos lieux, par ton ombre churls,
Qu un long gemissement s glevc chaque ann6e
A 1 heure oil ce forma ton funeste hym6ne"e.
La jcune fille alors lit, au dcclin du jour,
CHte lettre 61oquente oil brftle ton an^our:
2E

466 . GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

Son trouble est apercu de 1 amant qu elle adore,

Et des feux que tu peins pon feu s accroit encore.

Mais que fais-je, imprudent? quoi! dans ce lieu sacre"

J ose parler d amour, et je marche entoure

Des lemons du tombeau, des menaces supremes !

Ces murs, ces longs dortoirs, se couvrent d anathSmes

De sentences de mort qu aux yeux epouvante"s

L ange exterminateur ecrit de tous cotes;

Je lis a chaque pas : Dieu, I enfer, la vengeance.

Partout est la rigueur, nulle part la clemence.

Cloitre sombre, ou 1 amour est proscrit par le ciel,

Oil 1 instinct le plus cher est le plus criminel,

Deja, deja ton deuil plait moins a ma pens6e.

L imagination, vers tes murs fiancee,

Chercha le saint repos, leur long recueillement;

Mais mon ame a besoin d un plus doux sentiment.

Ces devoirs rigoureux font trembler ma faiblesse.

Toutefois quand le temps, qui detrompe sans cesse,

Pour moi des passions de"truira les erreurs,

Et leurs plaisirs trop courts souvent mele s de pleura;

Quand mon coeur nourrira quelque peine secrete,

Dans ces moments plus doux et si chers au poe te,

Ou, fatigue du monde, il veut, libre du moins,

Et jouir de lui-meme et rever sans temoins,

Alors je reviendrai, solitude tranquille,

Oublier dans ton sein les ennuis de la ville,

Et retrouver encor, sous ces lambris deserts,

Les memes sentiments retraces dans ces vers.

CHAPTER III.

OF RUINS IN GENERAL.
Ruins are of two kinds.

FROM the consideration of the sites of Christian monuments
we proceed to the effects of the ruins of those monuments. They
furnish the heart with magnificent recollections and the arts
with pathetic compositions.

All men take a secret delight in beholding ruins. This senti
ment arises from the frailty of our nature, and a secret conformity
between these destroyed monuments and the caducity of our own
existence. We find moreover something consoling to OUT little-

OF KUINS. 46 r

ness in observing that whole nations, and men once so renjwnedj
could not live beyond the span allotted to our own obscurity.
Ruins, therefore, produce a highly moral effect amid the scenery
of nature; and, when they are introduced into a picture, in vain
does the eye attempt to stray to some other object; they soon attract
it again, and rivet it upon themselves. And why should not the
works of men pass away, when the sun which shines upon them
must one day fall from its exalted station in the heavens? He
who placed it in the firmament is the only sovereign whose
empire knows no decay.

There are two species of ruins, the one the work of years, the
other that of men. In the former there is nothing disagreeable,
because the operations of nature keep pace with those of time.
Does time bring forth aheap of ruins? Nature bestrews them
with flowers. Does time cause a rent in a tomb? Nature places
within it the nest of a dove. Incessantly engaged in the work of
reproduction, she surrounds death itself with the sweetest illu
sions of life.

The ruins of the second class are rather devastations than
ruins ; they exhibit nothing but the image of annihilation, with
out any reparative power. The effect of calamity, and not of
years, they resemble hoary hair on the head of youth. The de
structions of men are, besides, much more violent and much
more complete than those of time : the latter undermine, the
former demolish. When God, for reasons unknown to us, decrees
the acceleration of ruin in the world, he commands time to lend
his scythe to man; and time with astonishment beholds us lay
waste in the twinkling of an eye what it would have taken him
whole age to destroy.

We were one day walking behind the palace of the Luxem
bourg, and were accidentally led to the very same Carthusian
convent which Fontanes has celebrated. We beheld a church
the roof of which had fallen in; the lead had been stripped from
the windows, and the doorways blocked with upright planks.
Most of the other buildings of the monastery no longer existed.
Long did we stroll among the sepulchral stones of black marble
scattered here and there upon the ground; some were completely
dashed in pieces, others still exhibited some vestiges of inscrip
tions. We advanced into the inner cloister; there grew two

168 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

wild plum-trees amid high grass and rubbish. On the walls
were to be seen paintings half effaced, representing events in the
life of St. Bruno ; a dial-plate was left on one of the sides of the
church; and in the sanctuary, instead of that hymn of peace for
merly chanted in honor of the dead, was heard the grating of
instruments employed in sawing the tombstones.

The reflections which occurred to us in this place may be made
by any of our readers. We left it with a wounded heart, and
entered the contiguous suburb without knowing whither we went.
Night came on. As we were passing between two lofty walls in a
lonely street, all at once the sound of an organ struck our ear,
and the words of that triumphal hymn, Laudato Dominum omnes
yentes, issued from a neighboring church ; it happened to be the
octave of Corpus Christi. It is impossible to express the emotion
excited in us by these religious strains; it seemed as if we heard
a voice from heaven saying, " thou of little faith, why mournest
thou as those without hope? Thinkest thou that I change my
mind like men? that I forsake because I punish? Instead of
arraigning my decrees, follow the example of these faithful ser
vants, who bless my chastening hand even under the ruins
beneath which I crush them."

We entered the church just at the moment when the priest
was pronouncing the benediction. Old men, poor women, and
children, were on their knees. We knelt down among them;
our tears flowed, and from the bottom of our heart we said,
" Forgive us, Lord, if we murmured on beholding the desola
tion of thy temple; forgive our overwhelmed reason! Man
himself is but a decayed edifice, a wreck of sin and death; his
lukewarm love, his wavering faith, his limited charity, his im
perfect sentiments, his insufficient thoughts, his broken heart,
in short, all things about him, are but ruins !"

PICTURESQUE EFFECT OF RUINS. 469

CHAPTER IV.

PICTURESQUE EFFECT OF RUINS.

Ruins of Palmyra, Eyypt, &c.

RUINS, considered under the aspect of scenery, produce a
more magical effect in a picture than the uninjured and entire
monument. In temples which the hand of time has not shaken,
the walls intercept the view of the surrounding scenery and pre
vent you from distinguishing the colonnades and arches of the
edifice; but when these temples crumble into ruins, nothing is
left but detached masses between which the eye discerns, above
and in the distance, the stars, the clouds, mountains, rivers, and
forests. Then, by a natural effect of optics, the horizon recedes,
and the galleries suspended in the air appear painted on the
ground of the sky and of the earth. These beautiful effects were
not unknown to the ancients; if they erected a circus, it was not
an uninterrupted mass of masonry, but constructed with such
openings as to admit the illusions of perspective.

Ruins have, in the next place, particular conformities with
their desert localities, according to the style of their architecture
and the character of the places in which the} are situated.

In hot climates, unfavorable to herbage and mosses, they are
destitute of those grasses which decorate our Gothic mansions
and ancient castles; but then larger vegetables are intermixed
with the more massive proportions of their architecture. At
Palmyra the date-tree cleaves the heads of the men and the lions
which support the capitals of the Temple of the Sun; the palm,
with its column, supplies the place of the broken pillar, and the
peach-tree, consecrated by the ancients to Harpocrates, flourishes
in the abode of silence. Here, too, you see a different kind of
trees, which, by their dishevelled foliage and fruit hanging in
crystals, harmonize admirably with the pendent ruins. A cam-
van, halting in these deserts, heightens their picturesque effects.

The dignity of the oriental dress accords with the dignity of

40 J

470 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

these ruins, and the camels seem to swell their dimensions,
when, reposing between fragments of masonry, they exhibit only
their russet heads and their protuberant backs.

In Egypt ruins assume a different character; there, in a small
space, are frequently comprised various styles of architecture and
various kinds of recollections. The pillars in the ancient Egyp
tian style rise by the side of the elegant Corinthian column; i
fabric of the Tuscan order stands contiguous to an Arabic tower
a monument of the pastoral age near a structure of the Roman
period. Fragments of the Sphinx, the Anubis, with broken
statues and obelisks, are rolled into the Nile and buried in the
earth amid rice-grounds, bean-fields, and plains of clover. Some
times, in the overflowing of the river, these ruins have the ap
pearance of a large fleet on the water ; sometimes clouds, pour
ing like waves over the sides of the ruins, seem to cut them in
halves; the jackal, mounted on a vacant pedestal, stretches forth
his wolf-like head behind the bust of a Pan with a ram s head;
the antelope, the ostrich, the ibis, the jerboa, 1 leap among the
rubbish, while the sultana-hen stands motionless upon them, like
a hieroglyphic bird of granite and porphyry.

The vale of Tempe, the woods of Olympus, the hills of Attica
and of the Peloponnesus, are everywhere bestrewed with the
ruins of Greece. There the mosses, the creeping plants, and
the rock-flowers, flourish in abundance. A flaunting garland of
jessamine entwines an antique Venus, as if to replace her cestus ;
a beard of white moss hangs from the chin of Hebe ; the poppy
shoots up on the leaves of the book of Mnemosyne, a lovely
emblem of the past renown and the present oblivion of these
regions. The waves of the -ZEgean Sea, which only advance to
subside beneath crumbling porticos; Philomela chanting her
plaintive notes; Alcyon heaving his sighs; Cadmus rolling his
rings around an altar ; the swan building her nest in the lap of
a Leda, all these accidents, produced, as it were, by the Graces,
pour a magic spell over these poetic ruins. You would say that

1 An animal about the size of a rat, with two very short fore-legs, and two
long hind-legs resembling a kangaroo, and a long tail tufted at the extremity.
There are various species of the jerboa, that are natives of Egypt, Siberia,
the Cape, India, Ac. Ac.

RUINS OF CHRISTIAN MONUMENTS. 471

a divine breath yet animates the dust of the temples of Apollo
and the Muses, and the whole landscape bathed in the sea re
sembles a beautiful picture of Apelles, consecrated to Neptune
and suspended over his shores.

CHAPTER V.

EUINS OF CHRISTIAN MONUMENTS.

THE ruins of Christian monuments have not an equal degree
of elegance, but in other respects will sustain a comparison with
the ruins of Rome and Greece. The finest of this kind that we
know of are to be found in England, principally toward the
north, near the lakes of Cumberland, on the mountains of Scot
land, and even in the Qrkuey Islands. The walls of the choir,
the pointed arches of the window, the sculptured vaultings, the
pilasters of the cloisters, and some fragments of the towers, .are
the portions that have most effectually withstood the ravages of
time.

In the Grecian orders, the vaults and the arches follow in a
parallel direction the curves of the sky; so that on the gray
hangings of the clouds or in a darkened landscape they are lost
in the grounds. In the Gothic style, the points universally form
a contrast with the circular arches of the sky and the curva
tures of the horizon. The Gothic being, moreover, entirely
composed of voids, the more readily admits of the decoration of
herbage and flowers than the fulness of the Grecian orders. The
clustered columns, the domes carved into foliage or scooped out
in the form of a fruit-basket, afford so many receptacles into
which the winds carry with the dust the seeds of vegetation.
The house-leek fixes itself in the mortar; the mosses cover some
rugged parts with their elastic coating; the thistle projects it**
brown burrs from the embrasure of a window; and the ivy, creep-
fag along the northern cloisters, falls in festoons over the arches

No kind of ruin produces a mow picturesque effect than these

472 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

relics. Under a cloudy sky, amid wind and storm, on the coast
of that sea whose tempests were sung by Ossian, their Gothic
architecture has something grand and sombre, like the God of
Sinai of whom they remind you. Seated on a shattered altar in
the Orkneys, the traveller is astonished at the dreariness of those
places : a raging sea, sudden fogs, vales where rises the sepul
chral stone, streams flowing through wild heaths, a few reddish
pine-trees scattered over a naked desert studded with patches of
snow, such are the only objects which present themselves to his
view. The wind circulates among the ruius, and their innu
merable crevices are so many tubes which heave a thousand sighs.
The organ of old did not lament so much in these religious edi
fices. Long grasses wave in the apertures of the domes, and
beyond these apertures you behold the flitting clouds and the
soaring sea-eagle. Sometimes, mistaking her course, a ship,
hidden by her swelling sails, like a spirit of the waters curtained
by his wings, ploughs the black bosom of ocean. Bending under
the northern blast, she seems to bow as she advances, and to kiss
the seas that wash the relics of the temple of God.

On these unknown shores have passed away the men who
adored that Wisdom which walked beneath the waves. Some
times in their sacred solemnities they marched in procession along
the beach, singing, with the Psalmist, How vast is this sea which
stretchefh wide its arms! 1 At others, seated in the cave of Fin-
gal on the brink of ocean, they imagined they heard that voice
from on high which said to Job, Who shut up the sea with
doors lohen it brake forth as issuing out of the womb?* At
night, when the tempests of winter swept the earth, when the
monastery was enveloped in clouds of spray, the peaceful ceno-
bites, retiring within their cells, slept amid the howling of the
storm, congratulating themselves on having embarked in that
vessel of the Lord which will never perish.

Sacred relics of Christian monuments, ye remind us not, liko
so many other ruins of blood, of injustice and of violence ye
relate only a peaceful history, or at most the mysterious suffer
ings of the Son of man ! And ye holy hermits, who, to secure a
place in happier regions, exiled yourselves to the ices of the pole,

1 Ps. ciii. 2 Job xxxviii.

POPULAR DEVOTIONS. 478

ye now enjoy the fruit of your sacrifices; and if, among angels,
as among men, there are inhabited plains and desert tracts, in
like manner as ye buried your virtues in the solitudes of the
earth, so ye have doubtless chosen the celestial solitudes, therein
to conceal your ineffable felicity !

CHAPTER VI.

MORAL HARMONIES.

Popular Devotions.

WE now take leave of the physical harmonies of religious
monuments and the scenes of nature, and enter upon the moral
harmonies of Christianity. The first to be considered are those
2^opular devotions which consist in certain opinions and practices
of the multitude which are neither enjoined nor absolutely pro
hibited by the Church. They are, in fact, but harmonies of
religion and of nature. When the common people fancy that
they hear the voices of the dead in the winds, when they talk
of nocturnal apparitions, when they undertake pilgrimages to
obtain relief from their afflictions, it is evident that these opi
nions are only affecting relations between certain scenes of nature,
certain sacred doctrines, and the sorrows of our hearts. Hence
it follows that the more of these popular devotions a religion
embraces, the more poetical it must be ; since poetry is founded
on the emotions of the soul and the accidents of nature rendered
mysterious by the intervention of religious ideas.

We should indeed be deserving of pity, if, subjecting every
thing to the rules of reason, we rigorously condemned these no
tions which assist the common people to endure the woes of life
and teach them a morality which the best laws will never give. 1
It is good, anl it is. something beautiful at the same time, that

1 The object of the author in this chapter is not to examine the philosophical
or theological accuracy of certain popular actions and practices, but merely to
40*

474 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

all our actions should be full of God, and that we should be in
cessantly surrounded by his miracles.

The vulgar are wiser than philosophers. Every fountain, every
cross beside a road, every sigh of the wind at night, brings with
it a prodigy. For him who possesses faith, nature is a continual
wonder. Is he afflicted ? he looks at his little picture or medal,
and finds relief. Is he anxious once more to behold a relative, a
friend ? he makes a vow, seizes the pilgrim s staff, climbs the
Alps or the Pyrenees, visits Our Lady of Loretto, or St. James in
Galicia ; on his knees he implores the saint to restore to him a
son, (a poor sailor, wandering, perhaps, on the high seas,) to pro
long the life of a parent or of a virtuous wife. His heart is
lightened. He sets out on his return to his cottage : laden with
shells, he makes the hamlets resound with his joy, and celebrates,
in simple strains, the beneficence of the blessed Virgin, the mo
ther of God. Everybody wishes to have something belonging tc
the pilgrim. How many ailments have been cured merely by a
blessed ribbon ! The pilgrim at length reaches home, and the first
person that greets him on his arrival is his wife after a happy
delivery, a son returned home, or a father restored to health.

Happy, thrice happy they who possess faith ! They cannot
smile, without thinking that they will rejoice in the eternal smiles
of Heaven they cannot weep, without thinking that the time of
their sorrowing will soon be over. Their tears are not lost : reli
gion collects them in her urn, and presents them to the Most High.

The steps of the true believer are never solitary ; a good angel

show the superiority of convictions that have a religious basis over sentiments
of infidelity. The general principle which he wishes to establish is well ex
pressed in the following passage of Paley s Moral Philosophy, p. 391 :

" Whilst the infidel mocks at the superstition of the vulgar, insults over their
credulous fear, their childish errors and fantastic rites, it does not occur to him
to observe that the most preposterous device by which the weakest devotee
ever believed he was securing the happiness of a future life is more rational
that unconcern about it Upon this subject nothing is so absurd as indiffer
ence, no folly so contemptible as thoughtlessness and levity."

It must be admitted, however, that the phraseology of our author has not
the precision and perspicuity which are desirable in treating such a subject.
The invocation of the Blessed Virgin, pilgrimages, the devotional use of holy
pictures and other objects blessed by the Church, &c., are not to be ranked
among fhings which she "neither enjoins nor absolutely prohibits;" for such
nractico* are at least approved and encouraged by her. T.

TOPULAR DEVOTIONS. 475

watches by his side, counsels him in his dreams, and protects him
from the evil spirit. This heavenly friend is so devoted to his
interests that he consents for his sake to be an exile upon earth.

Did there exist among the ancients any thing more admirable
than the many customs that prevailed among our religious fore
fathers ? If they discovered the body of a murdered man in a
forest, they erected a cross on the spot in token of pity. This
cross demanded of the Samaritan a tear for the unfortunate tra
veller, and of the inhabitant of the faithful city a prayer for his
brother. And then, this traveller was,^perhaps, a poor stranger,
who had fallen at a great distance from his native land, like that
illustrious Unknown sacrificed by the hands of men far away from
his celestial country ! What an intercourse between us and God !
What prodigious elevation was thus given to human nature ! How
astonishing that we should thus discover a resemblance be
tween our fleeting days and the eternal duration of the Sovereign
of the universe !

We shall say nothing of those jubilees which, substituted for
secular games, plunge all Christendom into the bath of repent
ance, purify the conscience, and offer a religious amnesty to re
penting sinners. Neither shall we relate how, in public cala
mities, both high and low walked barefoot from church to church,
to endeavor to avert the wrath of God. The pastor headed the
solemn procession with a cord about his neck, the humble victim
devoted for the welfare of his flock. The fear of these evils was
not encouraged among the people by an ebony crucifix, a bit of
blessed laurel, or an image of the patron saint. How often has
the Christian knelt before these religious symbols to ask of God
that assistance which could not be obtained from man !

Who has not heard of our Lady of the W T oods, who inhabits
the aged thorn or the mossy cavity of a spring, and is so cele
brated in the hamlet for her miracles ? Many a matron will tell
you, that after having invoked the good Mary of the Woods she
suffered less from the pains of childbirth. The maiden who had
losi her lover would often fancy in the moonlight that she saw
the spirit of her young betrothed in this solitary spot, or heard
his voice in the low murmur of the stream. The doves that
drink from these waters have always the power of generation,
and the flowers that grow on their borders never cease to bloom

4 G GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

It was fitting that the tutelar saint of the forest should aecom
plish effects as tender in their nature as the moss amid which
she dwells, and as charming as the fountain that veils her from
human sight.

It is particularly in the great events of life that religious cus
toms impart their consolations to the unfortunate. We once
were spectators of a shipwreck. The mariners, on reaching the
shore, stripped off all their clothes, with the exception of their
wet trousers and shirts. They had made a vow to the Virgin
during the storm. The^ repaired in procession to a little chapel
dedicated to St. Thomas, preceded by the captain, and followed
by the people, who joined them in singing the Ave Maris Stella.
The priest said the mass appointed for the shipwrecked, and the
sailors hung their garments, dripping with sea- water, as votive
offerings, against the walls of the chapel. 1 Philosophy may fill
her pages with high-sounding words, but we question whether
the unfortunate ever go to hang up their garments in her temple.

Death, so poetical because of its bordering upon things immor
tal, so mysterious on account of its silence, could not but have a
thousand ways of announcing itself to the vulgar. Sometimes its
token was heard in the ringing of a distant bell ; at others, the
person whose dissolution drew nigh heard three knocks upon the
flour of his chamber. A nun of St. Benedict, on the point of
quitting the world, found a crown of white thorn at the entrance
of her cell. Did a mother lose her son abroad, her dreams im
mediately apprised her of this misfortune. Those who withhold
their belief in presentiments will never know the secret channels
by which two hearts, bound by the ties of love, hold mutual in
tercourse from one end of the world to the other. Frequently
would some cherished departed one appear to a friend on earth,
soliciting prayers for the rescue of his soul from the purgatorial
flame, and its admission to the company of the elect. Thus did
religion accord to friendship some share in the sublime pre
rogative which belongs only to God, of imparting eternal happi
ness.

Opinions of a different kind, but still of a religious character,
inspired feelings of humanity ; and such is their simplicity that

1 See note II.

POPULAR DEVOTIONS. 477

they embarrass the writer. To destroy the nest of a swallow, to
kill a robin redbreast, a wren, a cricket the attendant on the
rural hearth, a dog grown old in the service of a family, was a
deed which never failed, it was said, to be followed by some visi
tation. From an admirable respect for age, it was thought that
persons advanced in years were of propitious influence in a house,
and that an old servant brought good luck to his master. Here
we meet with some traces of the affecting worship of the Lares,
and are reminded of the daughter of Laban carrying her house
hold gods along with her.

The vulgar were persuaded that no person could commit a
wicked action without being haunted all the rest of his life by
frightful apparitions. Antiquity, wiser than we, would have for
borne to destroy these useful accordances of religion, of con
science, and of morality. Neither would it have rejected another
opinion, according to which it was deemed certain that every
man possessing ill-gotten wealth had entered into a covenant
with the spirit of darkness and made over his soul to hell.

Finally, wind, rain, sunshine, the seasons, agriculture, birth,
infancy, marriage, old age, death, had all their respective saints
and images, and never were people so surrounded with friendly
divinities as were the Christian people.

It is not the question now to enter into a rigid examination of
these opinions. So far from laying any injunctions on the sub
ject, religion served, on the contrary, to prevent the abuse of
them, and to check their extravagancies. The only question is
whether their aim be moral, whether they have a stronger ten
dency than the laws themselves to keep the multitude in the paths
of virtue. What sensible man has any doubt of this ? By your
incessant declamations against superstition, you will at length
open a door for every species of crime. A circumstance that
cannot fail to surprise the sophists is, that, amid all the evils
which they will have occasioned, they will not even enjoy the
satisfaction of seeing the common man more incredulous. If he
shakes off the influence of religion, he will supply its place with
monstrous opinions. He will be seized with a terror the more
strange as he will be ignorant of its object : he will shudder in a
churchyard, where he has set up the inscription, Death is an
eternal deep; and, while affecting to despise the Divine power,

478 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

he will go to consult the gipsy, and, trembling, seek his destinies
in the motley figures of a card.

The marvellous, a future state, and hope, are required by man,
because he feels himself formed to survive this terrestrial exist
ence. Conjuration, sorcery, are with the vulgar but the instinct
of religion, and one of the most striking proofs of the necessity
of a public worship. He who believes nothing is not far from
believing every thing \ you have conjurors when you cease to
have prophets, enchantments when you renounce religious cere
monies, and you open the dens of sorcerers when you shut up
the temples of the Lord. 1

1 These remarks are confirmed by indisputable facts. Julian the apostate,
who thought himself very wise, after rejecting Christianity, was a complete
dupe of magicians. Another instance may be mentioned, which it is a greater
wonder our author omitted, as it occurred in his own country at a period with
which he was well acquainted. The Duke of Orleans, the Regent of France^
a hardened infidel, had great faith in astrology. Pope s assertion was not leas
true than poetical, when he said,

"The godless regent trembled at a star,"

WORSHIP.

BOOK I.

CHURCHES, ORNAMENTS, SINGING, PRAYERS, ETC.
CHAPTER I.

OF BELLS.

THE subject which will now occupy us the worship of the
Christian Church is as interesting as any that we have consi
dered, and forms the concluding part of this work. As we are
about to enter the temple, let us first speak of the bell which
summons us thither.

To us it seems not a little surprising that a method should have
been found, by a single stroke of a hammer, to excite the same
sentiment, at one and the same instant, in thousands of hearts, and
to make the winds and clouds the bearers of the thoughts of men.
Considered merely as harmony, the bell possesses a beauty of the
highest kind, that which by artists is styled the yrand. Thun
der is sublime ; but only by its grandeur. Thus it is, also, with
the wind, the sea, the volcano, the cataract, or the voice of a whole
assembled nation.

With what transport would Pythagoras, who listened to the
hummer of the smith, have henrkened to the sound of our bells
on the vigil of some religious solemnity ! The soul may be moved
by the tones of the lyre; but it will not be rapt into enthusiasm
as when roused by the thunders of the combat, or when a power
ful peal proclaims in the region of the clouds the triumphs ot
the God of battles.

479

480 GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY.

This, however, is not the most remarkable character of the sound
of bells. This sound has a thousand secret relations with man.
How oft, amid the profound tranquillity of night, has the heavy
tolling of the death-bell, like the slow pulsations of an expiring
heart, startled the adultress in her guilty pleasures ! How often
has it caught the ear of the atheist who, in his impious vigils, had
perhaps the presumption to write that there is no God ! The pen
drops from his fingers. He hears with consternation the funeral
knell which seems to say^to him, And is there indeed no God? Oh,
how such sounds disturbed the slumbers of our tyrants I 1 Extra
ordinary religion, which, by the mere percussion of the magic
metal, can change pleasures into torments, appal the atheist, and
cause the dagger to drop from the hand of the assassin !

But more pleasing sentiments have also attached us to the
sound of bells. When, about the time for cutting the grain, the
tinkling of the little bells of our hamlets was heard intermingled
with the sprightly strains of the lark, you would have thought
that the angel of harvest was proclaiming the story of Sephora
or of Noemi. It seems to us that were we a poet we should not
reject the idea of a bell tolled by spectres in the ancient chapel
of the forest, that which religious fear set in motion in our fields
to keep off the lightning, or that which was rung at night in cer
tain sea-ports to direct the pilot in his passage among the rocks.
On our festivals the lively peals of our bells seemed to heighten
the public joy. In great calamities, on the contrary, their voice
became truly awful. The hair yet stands erect at the remem
brance of those days of murder and conflagration, all vibrating
with the dismal noise of the tocsin. Who has forgotten those
yells those piercing shrieks succeeded by intervals of sudden
silence, during which was now and then heard the discharge of a
musket, some doleful and solitary voice, and, above all, the heavy
tolling of the alarm-bell, or the clock that calmly struck the hour
which had just elapsed?

But, in a well-regulated society, the sound of the tocsin, sug
gesting the idea of succor, filled the soul with pity and terror, and
thus touched the two great springs of tragical sensation.

1 The author alludes, in this chapter, to the incidents of the revolutionary
period and of that which preceded it. T.

ORNAMENTS OF THE CHURCH. 481

Such were something like the sentiments awakened by the bells
of our temples, sentiments the more exquisite as a vague recol
lection of heaven was always blended with them. Had bells been
attached to any other edifice than to our churches they would
have lost their moral sympathy with our hearts. It was God
himself who commanded the angel of victory to strike up the
peals that proclaimed our triumphs, or the angel of death to sound
forth the departure of a soul that had just returned to him. Thus,
by numberless secret ways, a Christian society corresponded with
the Divinity, and its institutions were mysteriously lost in the
Source of all mystery.

Let bells, then, call the faithful together; for the voice of man
is not sufficiently pure to summon penitence, innocence, and mis
fortune to the foot of the altar. Among the savages of America,
when suppliants appear at the door of a cabin, it is the child be
longing to it that ushers these distressed strangers into the habi
tation of his father ; so, if the use of bells were forbidden us, a
child should be chosen to call us to the house of the Lord.

CHAPTER II.

VESTMENTS OF THE CLERGY AND ORNAMENTS OP THE CHURCH.

PEOPLE are incessantly extolling the institutions of antiquity, and
they will not perceive that the Christian worship is the only relic
of that antiquity whi