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THE 


Sprit  nA  grants  nf  %  Christian  Jdigim. 


VISCOUNT  DE  CHATEAUBRIAND, 

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


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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 

15 


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 
ters—Character  of  Satan 32] 

X.  Poetical  Machinery— Venus  in  the  woods  of  Carthage— Raphael 

in  the  bowers  of  Eden 324 

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->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,  <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,<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..  ...............................................  5gg 

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  ....................................  ....'  '  3g5 

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> 

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. 

23 


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.  2r> 


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,  uto  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£>  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 
:>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 

43 


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  Julian8  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,  0  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. 

5* 


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<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  0£0j,  fjt£T£n£ira  Xdyoj  KO.I  itvcv^a  ai>i>  aiiroif. 
^Vfifpvra  <3>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  flrt[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  gods4  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  Milton1  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>  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  I1 

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 
>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. 

7* 


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, 
0  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 
cients1  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,"  <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 


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,  0  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- 

93 


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  I1 


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,  0  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  Jehovahr<%  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. 

10 


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  Actian11  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,  <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< -: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. 

t 


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 ; 
Agrotes3  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.,  Hi»t.  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. 

12 


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> 

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. 


U4  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>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 


14g  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  £<pi\r]ff£,  hfav  <5'  ayaSov  re,  KUKOVTC, 
O^a\fjiwv  ptv,  a^pac,  <5«5ou  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 


162  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY 

wind,  this  intrepid  race  boldly  tempt  the  inconstant  waves.  0 
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,  "  0  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 
bility—such  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  rillv 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,  aa  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.  30A 


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,  "  0 
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  fl  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 
glory — ke  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. 

WTe  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. 

18 


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(i£v  If  $aoj  c\6civ 
omot\ont.vu>i>'  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. 

0  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  r1  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  twelve1  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<  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,  0  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  pathetic1  and  even  sublime  touches  in 
the  details  of  his  poem,  and  that  after  all  the  bard  of  the  Ta<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°Pment8  of  whi<*  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 

P 


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 

Lucretius1  in  his  charming  lines  beginning — 

Sai  che  la  torre  in  mondo,  ove  piu  versi 
Di  sue  dolcezze  il  lusinghier  Parnasso,  <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  "A3  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,  <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  devouring1  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 

'<  Remember  thy  father,  0  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, 
0  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- 
clus — 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,  0  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,  0  my  daughter!  thou  dear,  lovely  object 
Of  all  my  cares,  0  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:  0  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<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<u<5  Cfidv,  w{  KOI  eyo>  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 


0  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.    0  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  of  "Roui1ae'r 
protector.  Such  is  the  ferocity  of  man  without  religion  ! 

:  Voltaire's  Works,  translated  by  Franklin,  vol.  vi.  pp.  260,  261. 


S 


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  jijffinft  can  forgive  the  wrong,  and  bid  thee  live. 

~ ' 

-ancients  *'• 
f 

\ 


IPHIGENIA  AND   ZARA.  253 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   DAUGHTER. 

Iphigenia   and   Zara. 

4 

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  au«w«, 

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,  0  Heavens!  thou  Earth,  attention  keep! 
0  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  I1 

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>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  remarked1  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,  <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 :  "  0  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. 

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  ti  oral.  T. 


THE   WARRILE.  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! 
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<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. 

S 


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,  0  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,  0 
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,  0  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,  0  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 !  0  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.  <'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>  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  manneir,  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 
Athanasius1  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  j1  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  Psalmsy 
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,  0  my  soul !  0  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,  0  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. 

27 


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,  0  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>  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  messages3  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, 

0  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. 

28 


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  : 

0  light  of  Trojans  and  support  of  Troy, 

Thy  father's  champion  and  thy  country's  joy  ! 

0  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 : 

0  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. 
0  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 

>  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  observed1  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>  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>lin<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>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>  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. 


o±b  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  isaias  xxii>  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 : — 

0  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\ovf  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  j0b  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; 
andv  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. 

31 


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  yAuW»j;  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. 

MUSK1.. 

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.  0  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 : — uty 
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,  <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  <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  j5  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,  0  religion  of  Jesus  Christ,  that  hast  repre 
sented  in  the  Louvre1  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,  0  grave,  where  u  thy  victory?  0 
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  >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  philosophers3  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. 

33» 


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  treatises8  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  De»c.,  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 

34 


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<  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  \ibc  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,  0  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<  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 

O 

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,  a»d  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  ancients1  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  I1 

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  <«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,  0  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,  0 
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  <-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,  F6n£lon, 
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.  0  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  I1 


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<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 

O 

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  pens«es, 
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 

0  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  avan£a  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>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,  "  0  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,  0  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  WToods,  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  I1  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  which  has  been  transmitted  to  us.  Every  thing 
in  the  Church  retraces  those  remote  ages  which  men  have  left  so 
far  behind  them,  and  on  which  they  still  love  to  expatiate  in  idea. 
Fix  your  eyes  on  the  Christian  priest,  and  you  are  instantly  trans 
ported  to  the  country  of  Numa,  Lycurgus,  or  Zoroaster.  The 
tiara  shows  us  the  Mede  roving  among  the  ruins  of  Suza  and 
Ecbatan.  The  all — the  Latin  name  of  which  reminds  us  of  the 
dawn  of  day  and  of  virginal  whiteness — presents  charming  con 
formities  with  religious  ideas.  A  sublime  recollection  or  an 
agreeable  harmony  is  invariably  attached  to  the  decorations  of 
41  2P 


482  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


our  altars.  Is  there  any  thing  offensive  to  the  eye  or  repugnant 
to  good  taste  in  those  altars  formed  after  the  model  of  an  ancient 
tomb,  or  in  those  images  of  the  Living  Sun  which  are  enclosed 
in  our  tabernacles  ?  Our  chalices  sought  their  names  among  the 
plants,  and  the  lily  lent  them  her  shape.  Charming  concordance 
between  the  Lamb  and  flowers  ! 

The  cross,  as  the  most  direct  mark  of  faith,  is  also,  in  the  eyes 
of  certain  persons,  the  most  ridiculous  of  objects.  The  Romans 
scoffed  at  it,  like  the  new  enemies  of  Christianity;  but  Tertullian 
showed  them  that  they  themselves  employed  this  sign  in  their 
fasces.  The  attitude  in  which  the  cross  exhibits  the  Son  of  man 
is  sublime.  The  sinking  body  and  the  inclined  head  form  a 
divine  contrast  with  the  arms  outstretched  toward  heaven.  Na 
ture,  however,  has  not  been  so  fastidious  as  unbelievers.  She  has 
not  scrupled  to  introduce  the  form  of  a  cross  into  a  multitude  of 
her  works.  There  is  a  whole  family  of  flowers  which  partakes  of 
this  form,  and  this  family  is  distinguished  by  an  inclination  to 
solitude.1  The  hand  of  the  Most  High  has  also  placed  the  stand 
ard  of  our  salvation  among  the  stars  of  heaven." 

The  urn  which  contained  the  perfumes  resembled  a  bo  it  in 
shape.  Flames  and  odoriferous  vapors  floated  in  a  censer  at  the 
extremity  of  a  long  chain.  Here  were  seen  candelabra  of  gilded 
bronze, — the  work  of  a  Cafieri  or  a  Yasse, — and  images  of  the 
mystic  chandeliers  of  the  royal  poet.  There  the  Cardinal  Virtues, 
in  a  sitting  posture,  supported  the  triangular  music-desk.  Its 
sides  were  adorned  with  lyres;  it  was  crowned  with  a  terrestrial 
globe  ]  and  an  eagle  of  brass,  hovering  over  these  beautiful  alle 
gories,  seemed  to  be  wafting  our  prayers  on  his  expanded  wings 
toward  heaven.  On  every  side  were  seen  pulpits  of  an  airy  con 
struction,  vases  surmounted  with  flames,  balconies,  lofty  stands, 
marble  balustrades,  stalls  sculptured  by  the  Charpentiers  and 
Dugoulons,  brackets  manufactured  by  the  Ballins,  and  remon 
strances  designed  by  the  Bertrands  and  the  Cottes.  Sometimes 
the  relics  of  heathen  temples  served  to  decorate  the  temples  of 

1  These  flowers  are  called  cruciform,  and  they  belong  to  the  tetradynamia 
class  of  Linnaeus. 

2  Our  author   probably  alludes  to  the  constellation  el  cruzero,  or    croisiers, 
south  of  the  zodiac.     It  consists  of  six  stars,  and  was  discovered  by  the  navi- 
gaUrs  to  the  New  World. 


SINGING  AND  PRAYER.  483 

ihe  living  God.  The  holy-water  vases  of  the  church  of  St. 
Sulpice  were  two  sepulchral  urns  brought  from  Alexandria.  The 
basins,  the  patens,  the  lustral  water,  called  to  your  mind  every 
moment  the  ancient  sacrifices,  and  incessantly  mingled,  without 
confounding,  the  remembrance  of  whatever  Greece  possessed  most 
beautiful  with  the  sublime  recollections  of  Israel. 

Finally,  the  lamps  and  the  flowers  which  decorated  our  churches 
served  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  those  times  of  persecution 
when  the  faithful  assembled  in  tombs  for  the  purpose  of  prayer. 
You  might  almost  imagine  that  you  beheld  those  primitive  Chris 
tians  secretly  lighting  their  torch  beneath  the  sepulchral  arches, 
and  young  virgins  bringing  flowers  to  deck  the  altar  of  the  cata 
combs,  where  a  pastor,  distinguished  only  by  poverty  and  good 
works,  consecrated  offerings  to  the  Lord.  This  was  truly  the 
reign  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  God  of  the  humble  and  the  afflicted. 
His  altar  was  as  poor  as  his  servants ;  but  if  the  chalices  in  those 
days  were  made  of  wood,  says  St.  Boniface,  the  priests  were  of 
gold  j  and  never  were  such  exalted  virtues  seen  among  Christians 
as  in  those  ages  when,  in  order  to  worship  the  Lord  of  light  and 
life,  they  were  obliged  to  secrete  themselves  in  the  bosom  of 
darkness  and  of  death. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF    SINGING   AND    PRAYER. 

IT  is  objected  against  the  Catholic  Church  that  she  employs  in 
her  liturgy  an  unknown  tongue  j  as  if  the  clergy  preached  in 
Latin,  or  the  service  were  not  translated  in  our  prayer-books.  If 
Religion  had  changed  her  language  according  to  the  caprice  or 
customs  of  men,  how  could  we  have  known  the  works  of  anti 
quity  ?  Such  is  the  inconsistency  of  our  nature  that  we  censure 
the  very  practices  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  a  portion  of  our 
knowledge  and  our  pleasure.  But,  even  considering  the  custom 
of  the  Church  in  itself,  we  see  not  why  the  language  of  Virgil 
(and,  under  certain  circumstances  of  time  and  place,  the  language 


484  GENIUS   OF    CHRISTIANITY. 

of  Homer)  should  appear  so  offensive  in  our  liturgy.  It  seenis 
to  us  that  an  ancient  and  mysterious  language — a  language  which 
changes  not  with  the  world — is  well  adapted  to  the  worship  of 
the  Eternal,  Incomprehensible,  and  Immutable  Being ;  and,  as  the 
sense  of  our  miseries  compels  us  to  raise  a  suppliant  cry  to  the 
King  of  kings,  is  it  not  natural  to  address  Him  in  the  most  beau 
tiful  idiom  known  to  man?  that  in  which  prostrate  nations  once 
presented  their  petitions  to  the  Caesars?  Moreover,  it  is  worthy 
of  remark  that  the  prayers  in  Latin  seem  to  increase  the  religious 
sentiment  of  the  people.  May  not  this  be  the  effect  of  our  natural 
disposition  to  secrecy  ?  Amid  the  confusion  of  his  thoughts  and 
various  trials,  man  fancies  that  he  asks  what  he  has  need  of,  and 
what  he  is  ignorant  of,  when  he  pronounces  words  with  which  he 
is  not  familiar  or  which  he  does  not  even  understand.  The 
vagueness  of  his  prayer  is  its  charm  j  and  his  disquieted  soul, 
little  acquainted  with  its  own  desires,  delights  in  offering  up 
prayers  as  mysterious  as  its  own  wants. 

We  have  now  to  examine  what  some  have  been  pleased  to  call 
the  barbarism  of  the  ecclesiastical  chant. 

It  is  generally  admitted  that,  in  lyric  poetry,  the  Hebrews  are 
far  superior  to  the  other  nations  of  antiquity.  The  Church,  then, 
which  sings  every  day  the  psalms  and  prophetic  lessons,  has  an 
excellent  groundwork  to  begin  with.  It  would  be  difficult  to  see 
any  thing  ridiculous  or  barbarous  in  the  hymns  which  are  drawn, 
from  such  a  source.  The  ecclesiastical  chant  is  also  based  upon 
the  Gospels  and  the  Epistles  of  the  apostles.  Racine,  in  imitating 
various  passages  of  them,  thought,  like  Malherbe  and  Rousseau, 
that  they  were  worthy  of  the  highest  efforts  of  his  Muse.1 
Chrysostom,  Ambrose,  Coffin,  and  Santeuil,  alternately  swept  the 
Greek  and  Latin  lyre  on  the  tombs  of  Alcaeus  and  of  Horace. 
Vigilant  in  praising  the  great  Creator,  Religion  mingles  her  matin 
concerts  with  those  of  Aurora  : — 

Image  of  the  Eternal  Sire, 

Arise,  resplendent  source  of  light ! 

Thou  dayspring  from  on  high,  thy  glories  bright 

Eclipse  the  sun's  meridian  fire, 

Whose  purest  rays 
Are  but  the  reflex  of  thy  beauty's  blaze. 


1  See  the  canticle  taken  from  St.  Paul. 


SINGING   AND   PRAYER.  485 


With  the  setting  sun  the  Church  again  sings  :* — 

Great  God,  whose  glistening  throne  is  fixed 

High  in  the  star-bespangled  skies; 
Who  paint'st  the  glowing  firmament 

With  all  its  variegated  dies ! 

This  music  of  Israel  on  the  lyre  of  Racine  cannot  be  pro- 
oounced  destitute  of  charms.  We  imagine  that  it  is  not  so 
much  a  real  sound  that  we  hear,  as  that  interior  and  melodious 
voice,  which,  according  to  Plato,  awakes  in  the  morning  those 
who  are  captivated  with  virtue  by  sinyiny  with  all  its  power  in 
their  hearts. 

But,  without  having  recourse  to  these  hymns,  the  common 
prayers  of  the  Church  arc  admirable;  it  is  only  the  habit  of  re 
peating  them  from  our  infancy  that  renders  us  insensible  to  their 
beauty.  The  world  would  resound  with  the  praises  of  Plato  or 
Seneca  if  their  works  contained  a  profession  of  faith  so  simple, 
30  pure,  so  luminous,  as  that  article  of  the  creed — 

"I  believe  in  one  God,  the  Father  Almighty,  Maker  of  hea 
ven  and  earth,  and  of  all  things  visible  and  invisible." 

The  Lord's  prayer  is  the  production  of  a  God  who  understood 
all  our  wants".  Let  us  duly  consider  its  words : — 

Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven : — Here  is  an  acknowledgment 
of  one  only  God. 

Hallowed  be  thy  name: — These  words  indicate  the  duty  of 
worshipping  God;  the  vanity  of  earthly  things:  God  alone  is 
worthy  of  being  hallowed. 

Thy  kingdom  come : — The  immortality  of  the  soul  is  pointed  out. 

Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  a*  it  is  heaven : — This  expression 
of  pious  resignation,  while  it  implies  the  attributes  of  the  Deity, 
embraces  the  whole  moral  and  physical  order  of  the  universe. 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread: — How  impressive  and  phi 
losophical  !  *  What  is  the  only  real  want  of  man  ?  a  little  bread ; 
and  that  he  only  requires  for  this  day ;  for,  will  he  be  alive  to 
morrow  ? 

And  foryive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  foryive  them  that  trespass 
against  us: — A  code  of  morality  and  charity  comprised  in  the 
smallest  compass. 

i  See  note  KK. 
41* 


486  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

And  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil : — 
Behold  the  human  heart  exposed  without  reserve !  behold  man 
and  all  his  weakness  !  Let  him  not  ask  for  strength  to  overcome; 
let  him  pray  only  that  he  may  not  be  attacked  and  may  not 
suffer.  None  but  the  author  of  human  nature  could  be  so  tho 
roughly  acquainted  with  his  work. 

We  shall  not  speak  here  of  the  angelical  salutation, — that 
prayer  so  truly  full  of  grace, — nor  of  the  confession  which  the 
Christian  utters  every  day  in  the  presence  of  the  Almighty. 
Never  will  the  laws  provide  a  substitute  of  equal  moral  efficacy 
with  the  performance  of  these  devotions.  Consider  only  what  a 
curb  man  must  find  in  that  humiliating  acknowledgment  which 
he  makes  at  morning  and  at  night : — /  have  sinned  in  thought, 
word,  and  deed.  Pythagoras  recommended  a  similar  confession 
to  his  disciples ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  Christianity  to  realize  all 
those  pleasing  visions  of  virtue  in  which  the  sages  of  Rome  and 
Athens  indulged. 

Christianity,  in  fact,  is  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  kind  of. 
philosophic  sect  and  an  antique  system  of  legislation.  Hence 
the  abstinences,  the  fasts,  the  vigils',  of  which  we  find  traces  in 
the  ancient  republics  and  which  were  practised  by  the  learned 
schools  of  India,  Egypt,  and  Greece.  The  more  closely  we 
scrutinize  this  question,  the  more  we  are  convinced  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  insults  aimed  at  the  Christian  worship  must 
recoil  upon  antiquity.  But  to  return  to  the  subject  of  prayer. 

The  acts  of  faith,  hope,  charity,  and  repentance,  also  dispose 
the  heart  to  virtue ;  while  the  prayers  used  at  the  different  Chris 
tian  ceremonies  relative  to  civil  or  religious  matters,  or  only  to 
the  mere  accidents  of  life,  have  a  perfect  appropriateness,  are 
distinguished  for  elevated  sentiment,  awaken  grand  recollections, 
and  are  marked  by  a  style  at  once  simple  and  magnificent. 

At  the  nuptial  mass  the  priest  reads  from  the  Epistle  of 
St.  Paul  to  the  Ephesians: — "Let  women  be  subject  to  their 
husbands  as  to  the  Lord;"  and  at  the  gospel  he  says,  "There 
came  to  Jesus  the  Pharisees  tempting  him,  and  saying,  Is  it  law 
ful  for  a  man  to  put  away  his  wife  for  every  cause  ?  Who, 
answering,  said  to  them,  ....  for  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave 
father  and  mother,  and  shall  cleave  to  his  wife,  and  they  two 
shall  be  in  one  flesh !" 


SINGING  AND   TRAYER.  487 

At  the  nuptial  benediction,  the  priest,  after  repeating  the  words 
which  Grod  himself  pronounced  over  Adam  and  Eve, — Increase 
and  multiply, — adds,  "  Look,  0  Lord,  we  beseech  thee,  upon  these 
thy  servants ;  .  .  .  .  look  mercifully  upon  this  thy  handmaid ; 
may  this  wedlock  be  to  her  a  yoke  of  love  and  peace !  may  she 
marry  in  Christ  faithful  and  chaste,  and  remain  a  follower  of 
holy  women !  May  she  be  amiable  to  her  husband  like  Rachel, 
wise  like  Rebecca,  long-lived  and  faithful  like  Sara !  .  .  .  .  May 
she  be  fruitful  in  offspring,  approved  and  innocent,  and  attain 
unto  the  rest  of  the  blessed  and  unto  the  heavenly  kingdom ! — 
that  they  both  may  see  their  children's  children  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation,  and  arrive  at  a  desired  old  age." 

At  the  ceremony  of  churching  is  repeated  the  psalm,  "  Un 
less  the  Lord  build  the  house,  they  labor  in  vain  who  build  it." 

At  the  commencement  of  Lent,  in  the  ceremony  of  threatening 
sinners  with  the  auger  of  heaven,  the  following  maledictions  from 
Deuteronomy  were  formerly  used  : — 

"Cursed  be  he  who  despiseth  his  father  and  mother.  Cursed 
be  he  who  puts  the  blind  out  of  his  way,"  &c. 

In  visiting  the  sick,  the  priest,  on  entering  the  house,  says, 
"  Peace  be  to  this  house  and  to  all  who  dwell  therein!"  Afterward, 
beside  the  pillow  of  the  sick  person,  he  pronounces  this  prayer: — 
"0  most  merciful  God,  open  thine  eye  of  mercy  upon  this  thy 
servant;  preserve  and  continue  him  in  the  unity  of  the  Church; 
consider  his  contrition,  accept  his  tears,  assuage  his  pain  as  shall 
seem  to  thee  most  expedient  for  him."  He  then  reads  the 
psalm,  "In  thee,  0  Lord,  I  have  put  my  trust;  deliver  me  in 
thy  righteousness." 

When  we  recollect  that  it  is  almost  always  the  POOR  whom  the 
priest  thus  goes  to  visit  on  their  couches  of  straw,  these  Chris 
tian  supplications  appear  still  more  divine. 

Every  Christian  knows  the  beautiful  prayers  recited  for  those, 
who  are  in  their  agony: — "Bepart,  Christian  soul,  out  of  this 
world,"  &c.  Then  a  passage  from  the  gospel  is  read,  which 
describes  the  agony  of  our  Lord  in  the  garden.  Afterward 
follow  the  psalm  Miserere,  a  part  of  the  Apocalypse  which  repre 
sents  the  glorification  of  the  elect,  and  finally  Ezechiel's  vision — an 
emblematical  allusion*  to  the  resurrection  of  the  dead: — "The 
hand  of  the  Lord  was  upon  me,  and  brought  me  forth  in  the 


488  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

spirit  of  the  Lord ;  and  set  me  down  in  the  midst  of  a  plain  that 
was  fill  of  bones.  .  .  .  And  he  said  to  me,  Prophesy  to  the 
spirit,  prophesy,  0  Son  of  man,  and  say  to  the  spirit,  Thus  saith 
the  Lord  God;  come,  spirit,  from  the  four  winds,  and  blow  upon 
these  slain,  and  let  them  live  again." 

For  conflagrations,  for  pestilence,  for  war,  and  all  kinds  of 
calamities,  there  are  particular  prayers.  Never,  while  we  live, 
shall  we  forget  the  impression  produced  by  the  reading  of  the 
psalm,  "Give  glory  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  good/'  during  a 
shipwreck  in  which  we  were  ourselves  involved.  "  He  said  the 
word,  and  there  arose  a  storm  of  wind,  and  the  waves  thereof 
were  lifted  up.  And  they  cried  to  the  Lord  in  their  affliction, 
and  he  brought  them  out  of  their  distresses.  And  he  turned 
the  storm  into  a  breeze,  and  its  waves  were  still." 

Toward  the  paschal  solemnity  Jeremias,  with  his  lamentations, 
issues  from  the  dust  of  Sion  to  deplore  the  fate  of  the  Son  of 
man.  The  Church  selects  whatever  is  most  beautiful  and  most 
solemn  in  the  Old  and  New  Testament  to  compose  the  service 
of  that  week,  consecrated  by  the  greatest  of  mysteries,  which 
heralds  the  greatest  of  griefs.  Even  the  litanies  which  are  used 
by  the  people  in  their  devotions  express  the  most  admirable  senti 
ments  and  aspirations.  Witness  the  following  from  the  Litany 
of  Providence : — 

"  Providence  of  God,  consolation  of  the  pilgrim  soul; 
Providence  of  God,  hope  of  the  abandoned  sinner; 
Providence  of  God,  calmer  of  the  storm; 
Providence  of  God,  repose  of  the  heart, 
Have  mercy  on  us  !" 

Lastly,  our  ancient  songs,  even  the  Christmas  carols  of  our  fore 
fathers,  have  also  their  merits;  they  breathe  the  unaffected  sim 
plicity,  and,  as  it  were,  the  freshness,  of  faith.  Why  have  we 
been  so  much  affected  during  our  country  missions  in  hearing 
the  laboring  people  sing  at  the  Benediction  of  the  Blessed  Sacra 
ment?  Those  artless  strains  produced  a  profound  emotion, 
because  they  arose  from  truth  and  conviction.  The  carols  which 
describe  rural  scenes  have  a  peculiarly  graceful  expression  in  the 
mouth  of  the  female  peasant.  When  the  sound  of  the  spinning- 
wheel  accompanies  her  song,  when  her  children,  leaning  upon 


SUNDAY.  489 

her  knees,  listen  with  silent  attention  to  the  story  of  the  infant 
Jesus  and  his  manger,  in  vain  would  you  seek  sweeter  melodies 
and  a  religion  better  adapted  to  a  mother. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SOLEMNITIES    OF   THE    CHURCH. 
Sunday. 

WE  have  already  remarked1  the  beauty  of  this  seventh  day 
which  corresponds  with  that  when  the  Creator  rested  from  his 
work.  This  division  of  time  is  of  the  highest  antiquity.  It  is  a 
question  of  little  importance  to  us  here  whether  it  was  an  obscure 
tradition  of  the  creation  transmitted  by  the  children  of  Noah  to 
their  posterity,  or  whether  some  pastoral  people  invented  this 
division  from  the  observation  of  the  planets;  but  so  much,  at 
least,  is  certain,  that  it  is  the  most  perfect  that  was  ever  employed 
by  any  legislator.  Exclusively  of  its  exact  correspondence  with 
the  strength  of  man  and  animals,  it  has  th6se  great  geometrical 
harmonies  which  the  ancients  always  sought  to  establish  between 
the  particular  and  the  general  laws  of  the  universe.  It  gives  the 
number  six  for  labor;  and  six,  by  two  simple  multiplications,  pro 
duces  the  360  days  of  the  ancient  year,  and  the  360  degrees  of 
the  circumference  of  the  globe.  We  may,  then,  perceive  both 
magnificence  and  philosophy  in  this  religious  law  which  divided 
the  circle  of  our  labors  as  well  as  the  circle  described  by  the 
plauets  in  their  revolutions;  as  if  man  had  no  other  period  to 
his  fatigues  than  the  consummation  of  ages,  nor  any  smaller 
space  to  fill  with  his  sorrows  than  the  vast  abyss  of  time. 

The  decimal  calculation  may  suit  a  mercantile  people ;  but  it 
is  neither  beautiful  nor  convenient  in  the  other  concerns  of  life 
or  in  the  great  celestial  equations.  It  is  rarely  employed  by 
nature ;  it  does  not  harmonize  with  the  year  and  the  course  of 

Part  i.  book  ii.  chap.  i. 


490  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


the  sun;  and  the  law  of  gravity  (perhaps  the  only  law  of  the 
universe)  is  accomplished  by  the  square  and  not  by  the  quintuple 
of  the  distances.  Neither  does  it  agree  with  the  birth,  the 
growth,  and  the  development  of  the  different  species;  almost  all 
females  go  by  three,  nine,  or  twelve,  which  belong  to  the  calcu 
lation  by  six.1 

We  know  by  experience  that  the  fifth  day  conies  too  soon  and 
the  tenth  too  late  for  a  period  of  rest.  Terror,  which  was  all- 
powerful  in  France,  never  could  compel  the  peasant  to  observe 
the  decade,  because  the  strength  of  man,  and,  as  it  has  been 
remarked,  even  that  of  animals,  is  inadequate  to  the  exertion. 
The  ox  cannot  labor  nine  successive  days ;  at  the  end  of  the 
sixth,  his  lowing  seems  to  demand  the  hours  marked  by  the 
Creator  for  the  general  rest  of  nature.3 

Sunday  combines  every  advantage,  for  it  is  at  the  same  time 
a  day  of  pleasure  and  of  religion.  It  is  doubtless  necessary  that 
man  should  have  some  recreation  after  his  labors;  but,  as  his 
leisure  is  beyond  the  reach  of  the  civil  law,  to  release  him  at 
that  moment  from  the  influence  of  the  religious  law  is  to  remove 
every  curb,  to  plunge  him  again  into  a  state  of  nature,  and  tc 
let  loose  all  at  once  a  kind  of  savage  upon  society.  It  was  to 
prevent  this  danger  that  the  ancients  themselves  made  the  day 
of  rest  a  religious  day;  and  Christianity  consecrated  this  example. 

Nevertheless,  this  great  day  of  the  benediction  of  the  earth, 
this  mysterious  day  of  the  rest  of  Jehovah,  shocked  the  enlight 
ened  understandings  of  the  members  of  that  convention  "who 
had  made  a  covenant  with  death,  because  they  were  worthy  to 
be  of  the  part  thereof."3  After  a  universal  consent  of  six  thou 
sand  years,  after  sixty  ages  of  Hosannas,  the  wisdom  of  Danton 
presumed  to  condemn  the  work  which  the  Almighty  had  deemed 
good.  He  fancied  that,  by  plunging  us  back  into  chaos,  he 
could  substitute  the  tradition  of  its  ruins  and  its  darkness  for 
that  of  the  origin  of  light  and  the  creation  of  the  spheres:  he 
wanted  to  separate  the  French  people  from  all  other  nations,  and 
to  make  it,  like  the  Jews,  a  caste  hostile  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 

1  See  Btiffon. 

2  The  peasants  said,  "  Our  oxen  know  when   Sunday  comes,  and  will  not 
work  on  that  day." 

3  Wisd.  i.  16. 


EXPLANATION   OF   THE   MASS.  491 

A  tenth  day,  which  had  no  other  honor  than  that  of  heralding 
the  memory  of  Robespierre,  usurped  the  place  of  that  ancient 
sabbath,  so  intimately  connected  with  the  birth  of  ages;  that 
day,  sanctified  by  the  religion  of  our  forefathers,  hallowed  by  a 
hundred  millions  of  Christians  on  the  surface  of  the  globe,  cele 
brated  by  the  saints  and  the  hosts  of  heaven,  and,  if  we  may  so 
express  it,  observed  by  the  great  Creator  himself  in  the  ages  of 
eternity. 


CHAPTER  V. 

EXPLANATION    OP   THE    MASS. 

THE  ceremonial  of  the  mass  may  be  defended  by  an  argument 
at  once  so  simple  and  so  natural,  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive 
how  it  could  have  been  overlooked  in  the  controversy  between 
Catholics  and  Protestants.  What  is  it  that  constitutes  the 
essence  of  religious  worship?  It  is  sacrifice.  A  religion  that 
has  no  sacrifice  has  no  worship,  properly  so  called.  This  truth 
cannot  be  questioned,  since  among  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
the  ceremonies  of  religion  have  sprung  from  the  sacrifice,  and 
not  the  sacrifice  from  the  ceremonies  of  religion.  It  follows, 
therefore,  that  worship  exists  only  among  that  Christian  people 
who  have  an  external  oblation. 

Some  may  admit  this  principle  without  admitting  the  justness 
of  its  application  to  the  mass;  but,  if  the  objection  turned  upon 
this  point,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  prove  that  the  eucharistic 
offering  is  the  most  admirable,  the  most  mysterious,  and  the 
most  divine,  of  all  sacrifices. 

A  universal  tradition  informs  us  that  the  creature  formerly 
became  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  the  Creator.  All  nations  endeavored 
to  appease  the  anger  of  heaven,  and  believed  that  a  victim  was 
necessary  for  this  purpose.  So  convinced  were  they  of  this  that 
they  began  by  offering  man  himself  as  a  holocaust.  Such  was 
the  terrible  sacrifice  to  which  the  savage  had  recourse,  because 
by  its  very  nature  it  was  more  conformable  to  the  original  sentence 
which  condemned  man  to  death 


4y'2  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  blood  of  animals  was  substituted  in 
the  place  of  human  victims;  but  on  the  occasion  of  some  great 
calamity  the  former  practice  was  revived.  The  oracles  demanded 
even  the  children  of  kings;  the  daughter  of  Jephte,  Isaac, 
Iphigenia,  were  claimed  by  heaven,  while  Curtius  and  Codrus 
devoted  themselves  to  death  in  behalf  of  Athens  and  Rome. 

Human  sacrifices,  however,  were  the  first  to  be  abolished, 
because  they  belonged  to  the  state  of  nature,  when  man  was 
almost  entirely  merged  in  the  physical  order.  The  offering  of 
animals  continued  for  a  long  time;  but,  when  society  began  to 
grow  old,  when  people  reflected  upon  the  relations  between  God 
and  man,  they  recognised  the  inemcacy  of  the  material  sacrifice, 
and  understood  that  the  blood  of  goats  and  heifers  could  not  re 
deem  a  being  endowed  with  intelligence  and  a  capability  of 
virtue.  A  victim,  therefore,  more  worthy  the  nature  of  manx 
was  sought  after;  and,  while  philosophers  taught  that  the  gods 
could  not  be  moved  by  the  blood  of  hecatombs,  and  would  accept 
only  the  offering  of  an  humble  heart,  Jesus  Christ  confirmed  these 
vague  notions  of  reason.  The  mystic  Lamb  succeeded  to  the  first 
ling  of  the  flock,  and  the  immolation  of  physical  man  was  forever 
superseded  by  the  immolation  of  the  passions,  or  the  sacrifice  of 
moral  man. 

The  more  deeply  we  study  Christianity,  the  more  clearly  shall 
we  perceive  that  it  is  but  the  development  of  our  natural  light, 
and  the  necessary  result  of  the  advancement  of  society.1  Who 
nowadays  could  endure  at  an  altar  the  infected  blood  of  an  ani 
mal,  or  believe  that  the  skin  of  an  ox  will  render  Heaven  atten 
tive  to  our  prayers?  But  it  is  easily  conceived  that  a  spiritual 
victim  daily  offered  for  the  sins  of  men  may  be  acceptable  to 
God. 

For  the  preservation,  however,  of  exterior  worship,  some  sign 
was  necessary  as  a  symbol  of  the  moral  victim;  and  Jesus  Christ, 

1  It  is  manifest,  from  other  portions  of  this  work,  that  the  author  does  not 
mean  in  this  passage  to  favor  the  doctrines  of  transcendentalism  or  the  perfecti 
bility  of  man.  His  expressions,  if  taken  separately  fr»m  the  context,  would 
imply  those  errors  ;  but,  in  their  application  to  the  point  under  consideration,  it 
will  be  seen  that  they  are  intended  only  to  signify  a  necessary  accordance 
between  Christianity  and  right  reason,  between  religion  and  the  advanced  con 
dition  of  society.  In  this,  as  in  s">me  other  passages,  the  language  of  the  writer 
is  not  sufficiently  precise.  T. 


CEREMONIES  AND  PRAYERS  OF  THE  MASS.    493 

before  he  left  the  earth,  provided  for  this  want  of  the  senses^ 
which  cannot  dispense  with  a  material  object.  He  instituted  the 
eucharist,  where  under  the  visible  elements  of  bread  arid  wine  he 
concealed  the  invisible  offering  of  his  blood  and  of  our  hearts. 
Such  is  our  explanation  of  the  Christian  sacrifice, — an  explanation 
which  has  nothing  contrary  to  good  sense  or  to  philosophy;  and 
whoever  reflects  a  moment  on  the  subject  will  perhaps  discover 
some  new  views  in  relation  to  the  sacred  depths  of  this  mystery. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CEREMONIES   AND   PRAYERS   OF   THE    MASS. 

WE  have  now  to  consider  the  ceremonies  of  the  sacrifice.* 
M  the  mass  were  a  rite  the  description  of  which  could  be  found 
in  Horace  or  in  some  Greek  tragedy,  how  admirable  would  the 
intioductory  psalm  appear  to  us! 

V.   I  will  go  into  the  altar  of  God. 

R     To  God  who  giveth  joy  to  my  youth. 

V.  Judge  me,  0  God,  and  distinguish  my  cause  from  the  nation  tlmt  is  not 
holy  deliver  me  from  the  unjust  and  deceitful  man. 

R.  tor  thou  art  God  my  strength  :  why  hast  thou  cast  me  off?  And  why  do 
I  go  borrowful  whilst  the  enemy  afflicteth  me? 

V.  Send  forth  thy  light  and  thy  truth:  they  have  conducted  me,  and 
brougnt  me  into  thy  holy  hill  and  into  thy  tabernacles. 

R.  And  I  will  go  into  the  altar  of  God  :  to  God  who  giveth  joy  to  my  youth. 

V.  To  thee,  0  God,  my  God,  I  will  give  praise  upon  the  harp:  why  art  thou 
sad,  0  my  soul?  and  why  dost  thou  disquiet  me? 

R.  Hope  in  God,  for  I  will  still  give  praise  to  him  :  the  salvation  of  my  counte 
nance  and  my  God. 

This  dialogue  is  a  real  lyric  poem  between  the  priest  and  the 
clerk  who  aiit>wcrs  for  the  faithful.  The  first,  full  of  days  and 
experience,  bemoans  the  misery  of  man  for  whom  he  is  going  tc 
oiler  up  the  adorable  sacrifice;  the  second,  full  of  hupe  and 
youth,  celebrates  the  victim  by  which  he  is  to  be  redeemed. 

Then  follows  the  Conjiteor  Deo,  an  admirable  prayer  of  devo- 


1  See  note  LL. 
42 


494  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


tion    and   humility.      The   priest   implores   the    mercy   of'   the 
Almighty  for  the  congregation  and  himself. 
The  holy  dialogue  recommences.  .  .   , 

V.  0  Lord,  hear  my  prayer ! 

R.  And  let  nay  supplication  come  to  thee. 

Then  the  priest  ascends  the  altar,  and  respectfully  kisses  the 
stone  in  which  are  some  holy  relics  of  the  martyrs, — a  circumstance 
which  reminds  us  of  the  catacombs. 

After  the  introit  or  preliminary  prayer  of  the  mass,  the  cele 
brant,  seized  with  a  divine  fire  like  the  prophets  of  Israel,  begins 
the  canticle  sung  by  angels  over  the  Saviour's  crib,  and  of  which 
Ezechiel  in  ecstasy  heard  a  part  in  the  cloud. 

"  Glory  be  to  God  on  high,  and  peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good  will.  We 
praise  thee,  we  bless  thee,  we  adore  thee,  we  glorify  thee,  we  give  thee  thanks 
for  thy  great  glory,"  &c. 

Then  follows  the  Epistle,  in  which  we  hear  the  mild  and  tender 
language  of  St.  John,  the  friend  of  the  Redeemer,  or  an  expo 
sition  of  the  divine  mysteries  in  the  sublime  words  of  St.  Paul, 
challenging  the  power  of  death.  Before  reading  the  gospel,  the 
priest  calls  upon  God  to  purify  his  lips  with  the  coal  of  fire  with 
which  he  touched  the  lips  of  the  prophet  Isaias.  The  voice  of 
Jesus  Christ  is  now  heard  in  the  assembly,  pronouncing  judgment 
upon  the  adulterous  woman,  or  relating  the  charitable  deeds  of 
the  good  Samaritan,  or  blessing  the  little  children  whom  he  called 
around  him. 

What  may  the  celebrant  and  the  congregation  do,  after  hear 
ing  the  Saviour's  words,  but  declare  their  firm  belief  in  the  exist 
ence  of  a  God  who  gave  such  examples  to  men  ?  The  creed, 
therefore,  is  now  solemnly  chanted.  Philosophy,  which  boasts 
of  being  the  patron  of  every  thing  great,  should  have  observed 
that  Christianity  was  the  first  to  exhibit  the  spectacle  of  a  whole 
people  publicly  professing  their  faith  in  the  unity  of  God  : —  Credo 
in  unum  Dcum. 

Here  follows  the  offertory,  or  the  oblation  of  the  bread  and 
wine.  In  presenting  the  former,  the  priest  begs  the  Almighty 
to  accept  it  for  himself,  for  the  living  and  for  the  dead.  In 
offering  the  latter,  he  says,  "  We  offer  to  thee,  0  Lord,  the  cha 
lice  of  our  salvation."  He  then  blesses  the  bread  and  wine, — 


CEREMONIES   AND   PRAYERS   OF   THE   MASS.         495 

"  Come,  6  eternal  God,  and  bless  this  sacrifice."  In  washing 
his  fingers,  he  says,  "  I  will  wash  my  hands  among  the  inno 
cent Take  not  away  my  soul,  0  God,  with  the  wicked, 

nor  my  life  with  bloody  men,"  &c.  We  are  here  reminded  of 
the  persecutions  of  the  Church  in  the  early  ages.  Turning  to 
ward  the  people,  the  celebrant  says,  Orate,  fratrcs,  "  Pray, 
brethren,"  to  which  the  clerk  answers,  in  the  name  of  all,  "  May 
the  Lord  receive  from  thy  hands  this  sacrifice,"  &c.  The  priest 
then  recites  in  a  low  voice  the  prayer  called  Secreta,  in  the  con 
cluding  words  of  which  he  announces  eternity — per  omnia  secula 
seculorum — and  continues,  sursum  corda,  "  lift  up  your  hearts;" 
to  which  all  answer,  habemus  ad  Dommum,  "  we  lift  them  to  the 
Lord." 

The  Preface  is  now  sung  to  an  ancient  and  solemn  air,  con 
cluding  with  an  invocation  to  the  Dominations,  the  Powers,  the 
Virtues,  the  Angels,  Archangels,  Cherubim  and  Seraphim,  to 
descend  with  the  august  victim  of  the  altar,  and  to  repeat  with 
the  faithful  the  trisagium  and  the  eternal  hosanna, — "  Holy,  holy, 
holy,  Lord  God  of  hosts !  the  heavens  and  the  earth  are  full  of 
thy  glory;  hosanna  in  the  highest !" 

Here  follows  the  most  important  part  of  the  sacrifice.  The 
canon,  wherein  is  engraved  the  eternal  law  of  God,  has  com 
menced,  and  the  consecration  of  the  bread  and  wine  is  accom 
plished  by  the  very  words  of  Jesus  Christ.  In  a  posture  of  pro 
found  reverence,  the  priest  says,  "  0  Lord,  may  this  blessed  host 
be  acceptable  to  thee,  as  were  the  offerings  of  Abel  the  Just,  the 
sacrifice  of  our  patriarch  Abraham,  and  that  of  thy  high-priest 
Melchisedech  !  We  beseech  thee  to  grant  that  these  gifts  may  be 
presented  on  thy  holy  altar  by  the  hands  of  thy  angel  in  the  pre 
sence  of  thy  divine  majesty." 

Oh  moment  solennel !  ce  peuple  prostenu', 

Ce  temple  dont  la  mousse  a  couvert  lea  portiques, 

Sea  vieux  murs,  son  jour  sombre,  et  ses  vitraux  gothiquea, 

Cette  lanipe  d'airain,  qui,  dans  1'antiquite 

Syinbole  du  soleil  et  de  I'6ternit6, 

Luit  devant  le  Tres-Haut  jour  et  nuit  auspendue: 

La  majeste  d'un  Dieu  parini  nous  dcacendue, 

Les  pleurs,  les  voeux,  1'encons  qui  montent  vers  1'autal, 

Et  de  jeunes  beautes,  qui  sous  1'oeil  maternel 

Adoucissent  encor  par  leur  voix  innocente 

DC  la  religion  la  pompu  attemlrissante; 


496  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


Get  orgue  qui  se  tait,  ce  silence  pieux, 
L'invisible  union  de  la  terre  et  des  cieux, 
Tout  enflamme,  agrandit,  emeut  1'homme  sensible  : 
II  croit  avoir  franchi  ce  monde  inaccessible, 
Ou  sur  des  harpes  d'or  I'immortel  seraphin, 
Aux  pieds  de  Jehovah,  chante  1'hymne  sans  fin. 
Alors  de  toutes  parts  un  Dieu  se  fait  entendre  ; 
II  se  cache  au  savant,  se  revele  au  coeur  tendre : 
II  doit  moins  se  prouver  qu'il  ne  doit  se  sentir.1 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SOLEMNITY   OF   CORPUS   CHRISTI. 

CHRISTIAN  festivals  are  not  like  the  ceremonies  of  paganism. 
We  do  not  drag  an  ox-god  or  a  sacred  goat  in  triumph ;  neither 
are  we  obliged,  under  pain  of  being  torn  to  pieces,  to  adore  a  cat 
or  crocodile,  or  to  roll  drunk  in  the  streets,  committing  all  sorts 
of  abominations  in  honor  of  Venus,  Flora,  or  Bacchus.  In  our 
solemnities  all  is  essentially  moral.  If  the  Church  has  excluded 
the  dance  from  them,  it  is  because  she  is  aware  of  the  many  pas 
sions  that  are  disguised  under  this  apparently  innocent  amuse 
ment.3  The  God  of  the  Christians  is  satisfied  with  the  emotions 
of  the  heart  and  with  the  uniformity  of  sentiment  which  springs 
from  the  peaceful  reign  of  virtue  in  the  soul.  What  pagan  fes 
tivity  can  be  compared  to  the  solemnity  on  which  we  commemo 
rate  the  eucharistic  institution  ? 

As  soon  as  the  morning  star  announces  the  festival  of  the  King 
of  the  Universe,  all  the  houses  display  their  gold  and  silk  em 
broidery,  the  streets  are  all  covered  with  flowers,  and  the  bells 

1  De  Fontanes,  Le  Jour  des  Marts.    La  Harpe  pronounced  these  twenty  lines 
to  be  as  beautiful  a  specimen  of  versification  as  could  be  found  in  the  French 
language.      We  may  add  that  they  give  a  most  faithful  description  of  the 
Christian  sacrifice.     See  note  MM. 

2  In  some  countries,  however,  it  is  still  customary  to  introduce  the  dance  in 
religious  ceremonies,  as  in  South  America,  where  the  aborigines  converted  to 
the  faith  are  remarkable  for  their  innocence.     This  practice  was  no  doubt  bor 
rowed  from  Spain,  where  even  at  the  present  day  the  dance  is  introduced  with 
a  beautiful  and  impressive  effect  during  the  benediction  of  the  blessed  sacra 
ment.     T. 


SOLEMNITY   OF  CORPUS   CHRISTI.  497 

call  thousands  of  the  faithful  to  the  temple.  The  signal  is  given ; 
all  is  ready  for  the  procession.  The  guilds  first  appear,  with  the 
images  of  their  respective  patron  saints,  and  sometimes  the  relics 
of  those  holy  men  who,  though  born  in  an  obscure  condition,  are 
worthy  of  being  revered  by  kings  for  their  virtue  :  sublime  lesson, 
which  the  Christian  religion  alone  has  given  to  the  world.  After 
these  confraternities  appears  conspicuously  the  standard  of  Jesus 
Christ,  which  is  no  longer  a  sign  of  grief,  but  of  general  exulta 
tion.  Then  advances  at  slow  pace,  in  two  ranks,  a  long  train  of 
solitaries, — those  children  of  the  rivulet  and  the  rock  whose  antique 
costume  revives  the  memory  of  other  times  and  other  manners. 
The  monastic  orders  are  followed  by  the  secular  clergy;  and  some 
times  prelates,  clad  in  the  Roman  purple,  lengthen  the  solemn 
procession.  Finally,  the  pontiff  of  the  festival  appears  in  the 
distance,  bearing  in  his  hands  the  holy  eucharist,  which  is  seen 
radiant  under  a  magnificent  canopy  at  the  end  of  the  train,  like 
the  sun  which  is  sometimes  seen  glittering  under  a  golden  cloud 
at  the  extremity  of  an  avenue  illumined  by  its  splendors. 

A  number  of  graceful  youths  also  take  their  position  in  the 
ranks,  some  holding  baskets  of  flowers,  others  vases  of  perfumes. 
At  a  given  signal,  they  turn  toward  the  image  of  the  eternal  sun, 
and  scatter  rose-leaves  in  handfuls  along  the  way,  while  Levites  in 
white  tunics  skilfully  swing  the  censer  in  presence  of  the  Most 
High.  Now  thousands  of  voices  are  heard  along  the  lines,  pour 
ing  forth  the  hymn  of  praise,  and  bells  and  cannon  announce  that 
the  Lord  of  the  Universe  has  entered  his  holy  temple.  At  inter 
vals  the  sacred  melody  ceases,  and  there  reigns  only  a  majestic 
silence,  like  that  of  the  vast  ocean  in  a  moment  of  calm.  The' 
multitude  are  bowed  in  adoration  before  God  ;  nothing  is  heard 
but  here  and  there  the  cautious  footsteps  of  those  who  are  hasten 
ing  to  swoll  the  pious  throng. 

But  whither  will  they  conduct  the  God  of  heaven,  whose  su 
preme  majesty  is  thus  proclaimed  by  the  powers  of  earth  ?  To  a 
simple  repository,  fitted  up  with  linen  and  green  boughs ;  an  in 
nocent  temple  and  rural  retreat,  like  that  to  which  he  was  wel 
comed  in  the  days  of  the  ancient  covenant.  The  humble  of 
heart,  the  poor,  the  children,  march  foremost;  then  come  judges, 
warriors,  and  other  powerful  ones  of  the  world.  The  Sou  of  (iod 
is  borne  along  between  simplicity  and  grandeur,  as  at  this  time 
42*  2G' 


498  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

of  the  year,  when  his  festival  is  celebrated,  he  displays  h.mself  t« 
man  between  the  season  of  flowers  and  that  of  thunders. 

The  windows  and  walls  of  the  city  are  thronged  with  the  in 
habitants,  whose  hearts  glow  with  joy  and  adoration  on  this 
solemnity  of  the  God  of  their  country.  The  child  in  his  mother's 
arms  lifts  his  hands  to  the  Jesus  of  the  mountain,  and  the  old 
man  bent  toward  the  grave  feels  himself  suddenly  delivered  from 
all  his  anxieties  ]  he  receives  a  new  insurance  of  life  which  fills 
his  soul  with  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  living  God. 

The  festivals  of  Christianity  are  arranged  with  an  admirable 
conformity  to  the  scenes  of  nature.  The  feast  of  Corpus  Christi 
occurs  at  a  time  when  the  heavens  and  earth  proclaim  the  divine 
power,  when  the  woods  and  fields  are  swarming  with  new  genera 
tions  of  beings.  A  charming  bond  unites  all  things  in  creation ; 
not  a  single  plant  is  doomed  to  widowhood.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  the  leaves  begin  to  fall,  the  Church  recalls  the  memory  of 
the  faithful  departed ;  because  man  decays  like  the  foliage  of  the 
trees. 

In  the  spring,  we  have  a  celebration  for  the  rural  population. 
The  feast  of  Corpus  Christi  admits  of  all  the  splendor  which 
worldly  greatness  can  confer,  while  the  Rogation  days  are  more 
particularly  suited  to  our  village  people.  The  soul  of  the  hus 
bandman  expands  with  joy  under  the  influence  of  religion,  as  the 
soil  which  he  cultivates  is  gladdened  by  the  dews  of  heaven. 
Happy  the  man  whose  toils  result  in  a  useful  harvest !  whose 
heart  is  humbly  bowed  down  by  virtue,  as  the  stock  is  bent  by 
the  weight  of  the  grain  that  surmounts  it ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   ROGATION    DAYS. 

THE  bells  of  the  village  church  strike  up,  and  .he  rustics 
immediately  quit  their  various  employments.  The  vine-dresser 
descends  the  hill,  the  husbandman  hastens  from  the  plain,  the 
wood-cutter  leaves  the  forest :  the  mothers,  sallying  from  their 


THE   ROGATION   DAYS.  499 

huts,  arrive  with  their  children ;  and  the  young  maidens  relin 
quish  their  spinning  wheels,  their  sheep,  and  the  fountains,  to 
attend  the  rural  festival. 

They  assemble  in  the  parish  churchyard  on  the  verdant  graves 
of  their  forefathers.  The  only  ecclesiastic  who  is  to  take  part  in 
the  ceremony  soon  appears;  this  is  some  aged  pastor  known  only 
by  the  appellation  of  the  curt,  and  this  venerable  name,  in  which 
his  own  is  lost,  designates  less  the  minister  of  the  temple  than 
the  laborious  father  of  his  flock.  He  comes  forth  from  his  soli 
tary  house,  which  stands  contiguous  to  the  abode  of  the  dead, 
over  whose  ashes  he  keeps  watch.  This  pastor  in  his  habitation 
is  like  an  advanced  guard  on  the  frontier  of  life,  to  receive  those 
who  enter  and  those  who  depart  from  this  kingdom  of  wo  and 
grief.  A  well,  some  poplars,  a  vine  climbing  about  his  window, 
and  a  few  pigeons,  constitute  all  the  wealth  of  this  king  of 
sacrifices. 

The  apostle  of  the  gospel,  vested  simply  in  a  surplice,  assembles 
his  flock  before  the  principal  entrance  of  the  church,  and  delivers 
a  discourse,  which  must  certainly  be  very  impressive,  to  judge 
from  the  tears  of  his  audience.  He  frequently  repeats  the  words, 
My  children!  my  dearly -beloved  children!  and  herein  consists 
the  whole  secret  of  the  eloquence  of  this  rustic  Chrysostoin. 

The  exhortation  ended,  the  assembly  begins  to  move  off,  singing, 
"Ye  shall  go  forth  with  pleasure,  and  ye  shall  be  received  with 
joy;  the  hills  shall  leap,  and  shall  hear  you  with  delight."  The 
standard  of  the  saints,  the  antique  banner  of  the  days  of  chivalry, 
opens  the  procession  of  the  villagers  who  follow  their  pastor  pele- 
mele.  They  pursue  their  course  through  lanes  overshadowed 
with  trees  and  deeply  cut  by  the  wheels  of  the  rustic  vehicles; 
they  climb  over  high  barriers  formed  by  a  single  trunk  of  a  tree; 
they  proceed  along  a  hedge  of  hawthorn,  where  the  bee  hums, 
where  the  bullfinch  and  the  blackbird  whistle.  The  budding 
trees  display  the  promise  of  their  fruit;  all  nature  is  a  nosegay 
of  flowers.  The  woods,  the  valleys,  the  rivers,  the  rocks,  hear, 
in  their  turns,  the  hymns  of  the  husbandmen.  Astonished  at 
these  resounding  canticles,  the  hosts  of  the  green  cornfields  start 
forth,  and  at  a  convenient  distance  stop  to  witness  the  passage 
of  this  rural  pageant. 

At  length  the  rustics  return  to  their  labor:  religion  designed 


500  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


not  to  make  the  day  on  which  they  implore  the  Almighty  to  blesa 
the  produce  of  the  earth  a  day  of  idleness.  With  what  confidence 
does  the  ploughman  plunge  his  share  into  the  soil,  after  address 
ing  his  supplications  to  Him  who  governs  the  spheres  and  who 
keeps  in  his  treasuries  the  breezes  of  the  south  and  the  fertilizing 
showers !  To  finish  well  a  day  so  piously  begun,  the  old  men  of 
the  village  repair  at  night  to  converse  with  their  pastor,  who  takes 
his  evening  meal  under  the  poplars  in  his  yard.  The  moon  then 
sheds  her  last  beams  on  this  festival,  which  the  Church  has  made 
to  correspond  with  the  return  of  the  most  pleasant  of  the  months 
and  the  course  of  the  most  mysterious  of  the  constellations.  The 
people  seem  to  hear  the  grain  taking  root  in  the  earth  and  the 
plants  growing  and  maturing.  Amid  the  silence  of  the  woods 
arise  unknown  voices,  as  from  the  choir  of  rural  angels  whose 
succor  has  been  implored;  and  the  plaintive  and  sweet  notes  of 
the  nightingale  salute  the  ears  of  the  veterans,  who  are  seated 
not  far  from  the  solitary  tombs. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OF   CERTAIN    CHRISTIAN    FESTIVALS. 

Epiphany,  Christmas,  &c. 

THEY  whose  hearts  have  never  fondly  looked  back  to  those 
days  of  faith  when  an  act  of  religion  was  a  family  festival,  and 
who  despise  pleasures  which  have  no  recommendation  but  their 
innocence, — such  persons,  it  may  with  truth  be  said,  are  much  to 
be  pitied.  If  they  would  deprive  us  of  these  simple  amusements, 
will  they  at  least  give  us  something  in  their  stead  ?  Alas !  they 
have  tried  to  do  it.  The  Convention  had  its  sacred  days;  famine 
was  then  styled  holy,  and  Hosanna  was  changed  into  the  cry  of 
Death  forever!  How  extraordinary,  that  men,  speaking  in  the 
name  of  equality  and  of  all  the  passions,  should  never  have  been 
able  to  establish  one  festival ;  while  the  most  obscure  saint,  who 
had  preached  naught  but  poverty,  obedience,  and  the  renunciation 
of  worldly  goods,  had  his  feast  even  at  the  moment  when  it* 


CHRISTIAN   FESTIVALS.  501 

observance  endangered  life  Hence  we  may  learn  that  those 
festivals  alone  are  durable  which  are  allied  to  religion  and  to  the 
memory  of  benefits.  It  is  not  enough  to  say  to  men.  Be  joyful. 
in  order  to  make  them  rejoice.  Days  of  pleasure  arc  not  to  be 
created  like  days  of  mourning,  nor  is  it  as  easy  to  elicit  smiles  as 
to  cause  tears  to  flow. 

While  the  statue  of  Marat  usurped  the  place  of  St.  Vincent  de 
Paul,  while  people  celebrated  all  those  festivals  the  anniversa 
ries  of  which  are  marked  in  our  calendars  as  days  of  eternal 
grief,  many  a  pious  family  secretly  kept  a  Christian  holiday,  and 
religion  still  mingled  a  little  joy  with  that  deep  affliction.  Sim 
ple  hearts  cannot  recollect  without  emotion  the  happy  hours 
when  whole  families  assembled  round  their  cakes,  which  recalled 
to  mind  the  presents  of  the  Magi.  The  infirm  grandfather,  con 
fined  all  the  rest  of  the  year  to  his  room,  made  his  appearance 
on  this  festive  occasion  as  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  paternal  man 
sion.  His  grandchildren,  who  had  long  anticipated  the  expected 
feast,  surrounded  his  knees,  and  made  him  young  again  with 
their  affectionate  vivacity.  Joy  beamed  from  each  face,  and 
every  heart  swelled  with  transport;  the  festive  apartment  was 
unusually  decorated,  and  each  individual  appeared  in  his  best 
clothes.  Amid  the  shock  of  glasses  and  bursts  of  merriment, 
the  happy  company  drew  lots  for  those  royalties  which  cost 
neither  sighs  nor  tears ;  and  sceptres  were  given  and  accepted 
which  did  not  burden  the  hands  of  those  who  bore  them.  Oft- 
times  an  artifice,  which  heightened  the  mirth  of  the  subject  and 
drew  complaints  from  the  queen  alone,  transferred  the  highest 
dignities  to  the  daughter  of  the  house,  and  the  son  of  some 
neighbor  lately  arrived  from  the  army.  The  young  people 
blushed,  embarrassed  as  they  were  with  their  crowns;  the 
mothers  smiled ;  the  fathers  made  signs  to  one  another,  and  the 
grandfather  drank  his  glass  to  the  prosperity  of  the  new  queen. 

The  pastor,  who  was  present  at  the  festival,  received  the  first 
portion,  styled  the  portion  of  the  poor,  to  be  distributed  amon^ 
them  with  other  gifts.  Diversions  handed  down  from  davs  of 
yore,  a  ball  at  which  some  aged  domestic  performed  the  part  of 
first  musician,  prolonged  the  pleasures  of  the  festival  till  late  ;it 
night,  and  the  whole  company,  nurses  and  children,  farmers, 
servants,  and  masters,  joined  all  together  in  the  sprightly  dance. 


502  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

These  scenes  were  formerly  repeated  throughout  all  Christen 
dom,  from  the  palace  to  the  cottage;  there  was  scarcely  a 
labourer  but  found  means  to  fulfil  on  that  day  the  wish  of  the 
great  Henry.  And  what  a  succession  of  happy  days  !  Christ 
mas,  New  Year's  day,  and  Twelfth-day!  At  that  time  tho 
farmers  renewed  their  leases,  the  tradesman  was  paid  his  bills; 
it  was  the  time  of  marriages,  of  presents,  of  charity,  and  of  visit 
ing;  the  judge  and  his  client  conferred  together ;  the  trades- 
unions,  fraternities,  courts  of  justice,  universities,  corporations, 
assembled  according  to  the  ancient  Gallic  custom;  the  infirm 
and  the  indigent  were  relieved.  The  obligation  you  were  under 
to  receive  your  neighbor  at  this  season  made  you  live  on  good 
terms  with  him  all  the  rest  of  the  year;  and  thus  peace  and 
union  reigned  among  men. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  these  religious  institutions  power 
fully  contributed  to  the  maintenance  of  morals,  by  cherishing 
cordiality  and  aifection  among  relations.  We  are  already  far 
from  those  times  when  a  wife,  on  the  death  of  her  husband, 
went  to  her  eldest  son,  and  delivered  up  the  keys  and  all  the 
household  accounts  to  him  as  the  head  of  the  family.  We  have 
QO  longer  that  high  idea  of  the  dignity  of  man  with  which 
Christianity  inspired  us.  Mothers  and  children  choose  rather 
to  depend  on  the  articles  of  a  contract  than  to  rely  upon  the 
sentiments  of  nature,  and  the  law  is  universally  made  a  substi 
tute  for  morals. 

What  heightened  the  charms  of  these  Christian  festivals  was 
that  they  had  existed  from  the  remotest  antiquity ;  and  we  found 
with  pleasure,  on  going  back  to  the  past,  that  our  ancestors  had 
rejoiced  at  the  same  season  as  ourselves.  These  festivals  were 
very  numerous ;  so  that,  in  spite  of  the  calamities  incident  to 
life,  religion  found  means  to  give,  from  generation  to  generation, 
a  few  happy  moments  to  millions  of  the  unfortunate. 

In  the  night  of  the  birth  of  the  Messiah,  the  companies  of 
children  paying  adoration  at  the  manger,  the  churches  illu 
minated  and  decked  with  flowers,  the  people  thronging  around 
the  cradle  of  their  Saviour,  the  penitents  who  in  some  side- 
chapel  were  making  their  peace  with  Heaven,  the  joyful  alleluias, 
the  tones  of  the  organ  and  the  bells,  altogether  formed  a  scene 
replete  with  innocence  and  majesty.  Immediately  after  the  last 


FUNERALS  OF  THE  GREAT.  503 

day  of  our  rejoicing,  which  was  too  often  characterized  by  folly 
and  excess,  came  the  awful  ceremony  of  ashes,  like  death  the 
day  after  pleasure.  "  0  man  !"  said  the  priest,  "  remember  that 
dust  thou  art,  and  to  dust  thou  shalt  return."  The  officer  who 
was  stationed  near  the  kings  of  Persia  to  remind  them  that  they 
were  mortals,  or  the  Roman  soldier  who  checked  the  pride 
of  the  triumphant  general,  gave  not  of  old  more  impressive 
lessons. 

But  a  volume  would  not  suffice  to  detail  the  ceremonies  of  the 
Holy  Week  alone.  It  is  well  known  how  magnificent  they  were 
in  Rome,  the  capital  of  the  Christian  world,  and  we  shall,  there 
fore,  not  attempt  to  describe  them.  We  leave  to  painters  and 
poets  the  task  of  fitly  representing  the  ecclesiastics  in  mourning ; 
the  altars  and  the  temples  hung  with  black  j  the  sublime  music ; 
the  celestial  voices  chanting  the  sorrows  of  Jeremiah  j  the 
Passion,  so  fraught  with  incomprehensible  mystery ;  the  sacred 
sepulchre  surrounded  by  a  dejected  people ;  the  sovereign  Pon 
tiff  washing  the  feet  of  the  poor ;  the  profound  darkness ;  the 
silence  interrupted  by  a  startling  noise;  finally,  the  shout  of 
victory  abruptly  issuing  from  the  tomb ;  the  triumphant  Saviour 
opening  a  way  to  heaven  for  redeemed  souls,  and  leaving  to  the 
faithful  Christian  a  divine  religion,  together  with  never-failing 
hopes ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

FUNERALS — FUNERAL  OF  THE  GREAT. 

IF  the  reader  recollects  what  we  have  said  in  the  first 
part  of  this  work  respecting  the  last  sacrament  that  is  adminis 
tered  to  the  Christian,  he  will  allow  that  it  possesses  more 
irenuine  beauties  than  all  the  ceremonies  employed  by  the  an 
cients  on  the  like  occasion.  The  Christian  religion,  consi 
dering  man  only  in  reference  to  his  eternal  destiny,  bestows 
u  particular  attention  upon  th»*  funeral  couch.  Her  ceremonial 
is  varied  according  to  the  rank  and  character  of  the  deceased. 


504  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

Thus  does  she  sweeten  for  every  one  that  bitter  but  salutary 
thought  of  death  which  she  has  implanted  in  our  souls,  like  the 
dove  that  prepares  the  morsel  for  her  young  ones. 

Is  she  summoned  to  the  funeral  of  some  of  the  mighty  of  the 
earth  ?  Fear  not  that  it  will  be  deficient  in  grandeur.  The 
more  unfortunate  the  deceased  has  been,  the  greater  will  be  the 
pomp  which  she  will  lavish  around  his  bier  and  the  more  elo 
quent  will  be  her  lessons;  she  alone  is  able  to  measure  the 
heights  and  the  depths,  to  tell  the  summits  from  which  monarchs 
fall  and  the  abysses  in  which  they  disappear. 

When,  therefore,  the  urn  of  affliction  has  been  opened,  and 
filled  with  the  tears  of  royalty,  when  the  double  vanities  of  regal 
dignity  and  vast  misfortunes  are  contained  in  a  narrow  coffin, 
Religion  assembles  the  faithful.  The  vaulted  roof  of  the  church, 
the  altars,  the  columns,  the  images  of  the  saints,  are  shrouded  in 
sable  hangings.  In  the  middle  of  the  nave  is  raised  a  coffin 
surrounded  with  torches  which  burn  in  mystic  number.  The 
funeral  mass  has  been  performed  in  the  presence  of  Him  who 
was  not  born  and  who  will  never  die.  Now  all  is  silent.  In  the 
pulpit,  absorbed  in  divine  contemplation,  stands  a  priest,  who 
alone  is  habited  in  pure  white,  amid  the  general  mourning, — his 
forehead  bald,  his  countenance  pale,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his 
hands  crossed  upon  his  breast.  All  at  once  he  opens  his  eyes, 
he  extends  his  arms,  and  these  words  issue  from  his  lips : — 

"He  who  reigns  in  the  heavens,  to  whom  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth  are  subject,  and  to  whom  alone  belong  glory,  ma 
jesty,  and  eternal  power,  is  also  the  only  being  who  can  prescribe 
laws  to  kings,  and  give  them,  whenever  lie  plc.-isos.  the  mast 
solemn  and  instructive  lessons.  Whether  he  raises  thrones  or 
overturns  them,  whether  he  imparts  his  power  to  princes  or 
withdraws  it  and  leaves  them  nothing  but  their  own  weakness, 
he  teaches  them  their  duties  in  a  manner  truly  sovereign,  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  himself. 

"  Ye  Christians,  whom  the  memory  of  a  great  queen — daugh 
ter,  wife,  and  mother,  to  mighty  monarchs — summons  together  to 
this  mournful  ceremony,  this  address  will  exhibit  to  you  one 
of  those  awful  examples  which  show  to  the  world  the  full  mea 
sure  of  its  vanity.  You  will  see  in  a  single  life  the  extreme 
vicissitudes  of  human  affairs ;  the  heights  of  felicity,  as  well  as 


FUNERAL  OF   THE   SOLDIER.  505 

the  depth  of  wretchedness  ;  a  long  and  painful  enjoyment  of  one 
or  the  most  brilliant  crowns  of  the  universe.  All  the  splendors 
of  birth  and  dignity  heaped  upon  a  head  afterward  exposed  to 
all  the  storms  of  fortune ;  a  rebellion,  long  repressed,  and  finally 
triumphant — no  curb  to  licentiousness — laws  abolished — regal 
majesty  violated  by  proceedings  heretofore  unknown — a  throne 
basely  overturned, — such  are  the  instructions  which  the  Almighty 
gives  to  kings."1 

Recollections  of  an  extraordinary  age,  of  an  unfortunate  prin 
cess,  and  of  a  memorable  revolution,  how  affecting  and  sublime 
do  you  become,  when  thus  transmitted  by  religion  from  genera 
tion  to  generation  ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

FUNERAL    OF    THE    SOLDIER,    THE    RICH,    ETC. 

WHAT  a  noble  simplicity  once  presided  at  the  obsequies  of  the 
Christian  warrior !  Before  religion  was  yet  entirely  banished 
from  among  us,  we  loved  to  see  a  chaplain  in  an  open  tent  per 
forming  the  burial  service  upon  an  altar  composed  of  drums.  It 
was  an  interesting  sight  to  behold  the  God  of  armies  in  all  his 
power  descending  at  the  invocation  of  his  servant  upon  the  tents 
of  a  French  camp,  while  veterans,  who  had  so  often  braved 
death,  fell  on  their  knees  before  a  coffin,  a  little  altar,  and  a 
minister  of  peace.  Amid  the  rolling  of  muffled  drums,  amid 
the  interrupted  salutes  of  cannon,  grenadiers  bore  the  body 
of  their  valiant  leader  to  the  grave  which  they  had  dug  with 
Lheir  bayonets.  After  these  obsequies  they  had  no  races  for 
tripods,  for  goblets,  or  lions'  skins,  but  they  burned  with  impa 
tience  to  seek,  in  the  battle,  a  more  glorious  field  and  funeral 


1  This  is  the  beginning  of  the  most  sublime  and  impressive  of  all  funeral 
sermons,  preached  by  the  great  Bossuet  on  the  death  of  Henrietta  M.irhi, 
widow  of  Charles  I.  See  chapter  iv.  part  ii.  book  iv.  The  reader  may 
observe  how  closely  applicable  the  whole  quotation  is  to  one  of  the  mo.-t  on 

gaging  ami  most  injured  of  her  sex,  Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France. 


506  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


games  more  worthy  of  their  captain ;  and  if  they  did  not  sacri 
fice  a  black  heifer,  as  was  the  pagan  custom,  to  the  manes  of  the 
Vero,  they  at  least  spilled  in  his  honor  less  sterile  blood — that 
of  the  enemies  of  their  country. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  consideration  of  those  funerals  which 
Uke  place  in  our  cities  by  the  light  of  torches;  of  those  illumi 
nated  chapels;  of  that  long  line  of  carriages  hung  with  black; 
of  those  horses  decked  with  nodding  plumes  and  sable  draperv; 
of  the  profound  silence  interrupted  by  the  words  of  that  solemn 
hymn,  the  Dies  irae.  Religion  conducted  to  the  funeral  pro 
cession  of  the  great,  poor  orphans  who  were  clad  in  their  own 
livery  of  misfortune ;  and,  by  so  doing,  she  taught  children  who 
had  no  parents  to  feel  something  of  filial  piety;  she  instructed 
the  rich  that  no  mediation  is  more  powerful  with  God  than  that 
of  innocence  and  adversity;  finally,  she  showed  to  those  in 
extreme  indigence  the  vanity  of  all  that  grandeur  which  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  tomb. 

A  particular  custom  was  practised  at  the  decease  of  priests; 
they  were  interred  with  their  faces  uncovered.  The  people 
imagined  that  they  could  read  in  the  face  of  their  pastor  the 
decree  of  the  Supreme  Judge,  and  discover  through  the  veil  of 
death  the  joys  that  awaited  him, — as  through  the  shades  of  a 
serene  night  we  perceive  the  glories  of  a  glistening  firmament. 

The  same  custom  was  observed  also  in  convents.  We  once 
saw  a  young  nun  thus  lying  on  her  bier.  Her  pallid  brow  could 
scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the  white  fillet  with  which  it  was 
half  covered;  a  wreath  of  white  roses  was  upon  her  head,  and  in 
her  hand  burned  a  mysterious  taper.  After  lying  some  hours  in 
this  state,  the  coffin  was  again  covered  and  consigned  to  the 
grave.  Thus  youthful  graces  and  peace  of  heart  cannot  save 
from  death ;  and  the  lily  fades,  notwithstanding  its  virgin  white 
ness  and  the  tranquillity  of  the  valleys  which  it  inhabits. 

For  him  who  supported,  as  for  him  who  defended  his  country, 
was  reserved  the  simplicity  of  funeral  obsequies.  Four  peasants, 
preceded  by  the  parish-priest,  carried  the  husbandman  on  their 
robust  shoulders  to  the  tomb  of  his  lathers.  If  any  laborers 
met  the  convoy  on  the  road,  they  interrupted  their  work,  un 
covered  their  heads,  and  by  a  sign  of  the  cross  showed  their 
respect  for  their  deceased  companion.  From  a  distance  the 


THE   FUNERAL   SERVICE.  507 

departed  husbandman  was  seen  carried  along  among  the  yellow 
sheaves  which  he  himself  perhaps  had  cultivated.  The  coffin, 
enveloped  in  black,  seemed  to  swing  like  a  sombre  poppy  above 
the  golden  harvest  and  the  blue  and  purple  flowers.  A  disconso 
late  widow  and  weeping  children  led  the  train  of  pious  and  real 
mourners.  In  passing  the  cross  by  the  side  of  the  road,  or  the 
gaint  of  the  rock,  the  bearers  rested  for  a  moment;  setting  the 
coffin  on  some  boundary-stone,  they  invoked  Our  Lady  of  the 
Fields,  at  whose  feet  the  deceased  had  so  often  prayed  for  a  happy 
death  or  an  abundant  harvest.  Here  he  had  often  sought  for 
his  oxen  a  protecting  shade  from  the  noontide  heat;  and  here, 
surrounded  by  his  family,  he  had  taken  his  repast  of  milk  and 
rye-bread  amid  the  chirping  of  grasshoppers  and  the  warbling  of 
larks.  Ah !  how  different  is  his  repose  there  now  from  what  it 
was  in  former  days  !  The  soil  will  no  longer  be  watered  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow,  nor  will  his  paternal  heart  be  again  agitated 
by  anxiety;  and  by  the  same  path  along  which  he  repaired  to  the 
church  he  now  goes  to  the  grave,  surrounded  by  the  most  pleasing 
monuments  of  his  life — virtuous  children  and  flourishing  harvests. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

OP   THE    FUNERAL    SERVICE. 

AMONG  the  ancients  the  remains  of  the  indigent  and  the 
slave  were  forsaken  almost  without  ceremony;  among  us  the 
minister  of  the  altar  is  bound  to  bestow  the  same  attendance  on 
the  corpse  of  the  peasant  as  on  that  of  the  monarch.  No  sooner 
has  the  meanest  of  Christians  expired  than  he  suddenly  becomes 
f sublime  truth  !)  an  august  and  sacred  being;  scarcely  has  the 
beggar,  covered  with  rags,  who  languished  at  our  gate,  an  object 
of  scorn  and  disgust,  quitted  this  troublesome  life,  than  Religion 
obliges  us  to  bow  before  his  remains.  She  forcibly  impresses 
upon  our  minds  the  conviction  of  an  awful  equality,  or  rather 
nhe  commands  us  to  respect  a  sinner  redeemed  by  the  blood  of 
Christ  who  has  passed  from  a  state  of  obscurity  and  indigence 


508  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


to  a  celestial  crown.  Thus,  the  great  name  of  Christian  places 
all  mankind  upon  a  level  in  death,  and  the  pride  of  the  mightiest 
of  potentates  cannot  extort  from  religion  any  other  prayer  than 
what  she  voluntarily  offers  for  the  lowest  of  peasants. 

And  how  admirable  is  that  prayer ! 

Sometimes  it  is  a  cry  of  grief;  at  others  it  is  an  exclamation 
of  hope;  we  hear  alternately  the  wailing  and  the  rejoicing  of 
death,  its  tremors,  its  revivals,  its  moans,  and  supplications : — 

"His  spirit  shall  go  forth,  and  he  shall  return  into  his  earth : 
in  that  day  all  their  thoughts  shall  perish/'1 

"The  sins  of  my  youth,  and  my  ignorances,  do  not  remember."2 

The  lamentations  of  the  Royal  Prophet  are  interrupted  by  the 
sighs  of  the  holy  Arabian  : — 

"Spare  me,  for  my  days  are  nothing.  What  is  man,  that  thou 
shouldst  magnify  him  ?  or  why  dost  thou  set  thy  heart  upon  him  ? 
....  if  thou  seek  me  in  the  morning,  I  shall  not  be. 

"My  soul  is  weary  of  my  life 1  will  speak  in  the 

bitterness  of  my  soul Are  thy  days  as  the  days  of  man, 

and  are  thy  years  as  the  times  of  men  ?3 

"Why  hidest  thou  thy  face,  and  thinkest  me  thy  enemy? 
Against  a  leaf  that  is  carried  away  with  the  wind  thou  showest 
thy  power;  and  thou  pursuest  a  dry  straw. 

"  Man  born  of  a  woman,  living  for  a  short  time,  is  filled  with 
many  miseries;  who  ....  fleeth  as  a  shadow,  and  never  con- 
tinueth  in  the  same  state.4 

"My  days  have   passed   away,  my  thoughts  are  dissipated, 

tormenting  my  heart I  have  said  to  rottenness,  Thou  art 

my  father;  to  worms,  my  mother  and  my  sister."5 

At  intervals  the  prayer  assumes  the  form  of  dialogue  between 
the  priest  and  the  choir  : — 

Priest.  "My  days  are  vanished  like  smoke;  and  my  bones  are 
grown  dry  like  fuel  for  the  fire. 

Choir.   "My  days  are  vanished  like  smoke. 

Priest.  "  What  is  your  life  ?  It  is  a  vapor  which  appeareti 
for  a  little  while 


1  Office  of  tbo  Dead,  Vesp.,  Ps.  cxlv.          2  Ibid.,  2  Ant.  2  Noct 

3  Ibid.,  Less.  1,  Noct.,  from  Job  vii.  10.     4  Ibid.,  Less.  2,  Noct,  Job  siii.  xiy 

6  Ibid.,  Less.  3,  Noct,  Job  xvii. 


THE   FUNERAL   SERVICE.  509 

Choir.   "  My  days  are  vanished  like  smoke.1 

Priest.  "  Those  that  sleep  in  the  dust  of  the  earth. 

Choir.  "Shall  awake,  some  unto  life  everlasting,  and  others 
unto  reproach,  to  see  it  always. 

Priest.  "  We  shall  all  indeed  rise  again,  but  we  shall  not  all 
be  changed. 

Choir.   "They  shall  awake,"  &c.» 

At  the  communion  of  the  mass,  the  celebrant  says,  "  Blessed 
are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord.  From  henceforth  now,  saith 
the  Spirit,  that  they  may  rest  from  their  labors :  for  their  works 
follow  them."8 

In  removing  the  coffin  from  the  house,  the  priest  entones  tfcat 
psalm  of  grief  and  of  hope,  "From  the  depths  I  have  cried  to 
thee,  0  Lord;  Lord,  hear  my  voice."  While  the  body  is  carried 
forth,  the  dialogue  already  mentioned  above  is  repeated;  and  if 
the  deceased  is  a  priest,  the  following  words  are  added  : — "  A  sacri 
fice  of  jubilation  has  been  offered  in  the  tabernacle  of  the  Lord." 

In  lowering  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  the  priest  says,  "Earth 
to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dustj"  and  in  throwing  some 
earth  over  it,  he  exclaims,  "I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven,  saying 
to  me,  Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 

But  these  beautiful  prayers  are  not  the  only  ones  offered  up 
by  the  Church  for  her  deceased  children.  If  she  decorates  the 
bier  on  which  the  infant  reposes  with  white  hangings  and  coro 
nets  of  flowers,  she  also  adapts  her  prayers  to  the  age  and  sex 
of  the  victim  that  death  has  seized  upon.  When  four  virgins, 
dressed  in  white  and  adorned  with  green  foliage,  bring  the 
remains  of  one  of  their  companions  into  the  church,  which  ifc 
similarly  decorated,  the  priest  entoues  over  this  youthful  corpse 
a  hymn  in  honor  of  virginity.  Sometimes  it  is  the  Ave,  maris 
Stella, — a  chant  that  is  characterized  by  great  beauty  of  sentiment 
and  that  pictures  the  moment  of  death  as  the  fulfilment  of  hope. 
On  other  occasions,  some  tender  and  poetical  ideas  are  borrowed 
from  the  Holy  Scripture: — "She  hath  passed  away  like  the  grass 
of  the  field:  this  morning  we  beheld  her  in  all  her  graceful 

1  First  Responsor.  in  Matins  of  the  Dead,  according  to  the  Parisian  rite,  from 
Ps.  ci.  and  James  iv.     The  extracts  which  follow  are  also  from  the   Parisian 
rite.    T. 

2  Seventh  Responsor.  from  Daniel  xii.  and  1  Cor.  xv.  3  Anoc.  xiv. 

43* 


510  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

bloom;  this  evening  her  charms  are  withered.  Has  not  tha 
flower  drooped  after  having  been  touched  by  the  ploughshare  ?  has 
not  the  poppy  bent  its  head  under  the  peltings  of  the  rain?" 

When  the  mother  in  tears  presents  herself  at  the  church  with 
the  corpse  of  her  infant  child,  what  funeral  oration  does  the 
pastor  pronounce  over  it  ?  He  simply  entones  the  hymn  which 
was  sung  by  the  three  Hebrew  children  in  the  fiery  furnace  : — 

Benedicite,  omnia  opera  Domini!  .  .  .  .  "All  ye  works  of 
the  Lord,  bless  the  Lord :  praise  and  exalt  him  above  all  forever  !" 
....  Religion  blesses  God  for  having  crowned  the  infant  by 
death,  and  delivered  this  little  innocent  creature  from  all  the 
miseries  of  life.  It  invites  nature  to  rejoice  around  the  tomb  of 
angelic  innocence :  it  expresses  not  cries  of  grief,  but  of  joy.  In 
the  same  spirit  of  exultation  does  it  recite  Laudate,  pueri, 
Dominum!  ....  "  Praise  the  Lord,  ye  children !"  ....  and 
finishes  with  this  verse,  Qui  facit  habitare  sterilem  in  domo  : 
matrcm  filiorum  tetawtem:— "  Who  maketh  a  barren  woman  to 
dwell  in  a  house,  the  joyful  mother  of  children."  What  a  sub 
lime  canticle  of  consolation,  for  afflicted  parents !  The  Church 
represents  their  departed  child  living  eternally  in  heaven,  and 
promises  them  more  children  on  earth ! 

Finally,  not  satisfied  with  having  fulfilled  these  duties  in  behalf 
of  each  individual,  Religion  crowns  her  pious  work  in  honor  of 
the  dead  by  a  general  ceremonial,  which  recalls  the  memory  of  the 
innumerable  inhabitants  of  the  grave,— that  vast  community  of 
departed  mortals  where  rich  and  poor  lie  together,— that  republic 
of  perfect  equality  where  no  one  can  enter  without  first  doffing 
his  helmet  or  crown  to  pass  under  the  low  door  of  the  tomb. 
On  this  solemn  occasion,  when  the  obsequies  of  the  entire  family 
of  Adam  are  celebrated,  the  Christian  soul  mingles  her  grief 
caused  by  the  loss  of  former  friends  with  the  sorrows  excited  by 
more  recent  bereavements;  and  this  union  imparts  something 
supremely  beautiful  to  affliction,  as  a  modern  grief  would  acquire 
an  antique  character  by  being  expressed  in  the  vein  of  the  old 
Homeric  tragedy.  Religion  alone  can  give  to  the  heart  of  man 
that  expansion,  which  will  render  its  sighs  and  its  loves  commen- 
surate  with  the  multitude  of  the  dead  whom  it  designs  to  honor.1 


1  See  note  NN. 


BOOK  II. 

TOMBS. 
CHAPTER   I. 

ANCIENT   TOMBS  —  THE   EGYPTIANS. 

THE  last  duties  that  we  pay  to  our  fellow-creatures  would  be 
melancholy  indeed,  if  they  were  not  impressed  with  the  stamp 
of  religion.  Religion  received  birth  at  the  tomb,  and  the  tomb 
can  not"  dispense  with  religion.  It  is  beautiful  to  hear  the  voice 
of  hope  issuing  from  the  grave,  and  to  see  the  priest  of  the 
living  God  following  the  remains  of  man  to  their  last  abode. 
We  behold  here,  as  it  were,  immortality  leading  the  way  before 
death. 

From  funerals  we  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  tombs, 
which  occupy  so  large  a  space  in  our  history.  That  we  may  the 
better  appreciate  the  ceremonies  with  which  they  are  honored 
by  Christians,  let  us  see  what  was  their  state  among  the  idola 
trous  nations. 

Egypt  owes  part  of  its  celebrity  to  its  tombs,  and  has 
been  twice  visited  by  the  French,  who  were  drawn  thither 
by  the  beauty  of  its  ruins  and  monuments.  The  French 
nation  have  a  certain  innate  greatness  which  compels  them  to 
interest  themselves  in  every  corner  of  the  globe  with  objects 
great  like  themselves.  Is  it,  however,  absolutely  certain,  that 
mummies  are  objects  truly  worthy  of  our  curiosity  ?  It  might 
be  supposed  that  the  ancient  Egyptians  were  apprehensive 
lest  posterity  should  some  day  be  ignorant  what  death  was,  and 
were  therefore  desirous  of  transmitting  to  distant  ages  some  spe 
cimens  of  corpses.  In  Egypt  you  can  scarcely  move  a  step 
without  meeting  with  emblems  of  mortality.  Do  you  behold  an 
jbelisk,  a  broken  column,  a  subterraneous  cavern  ?  they  are  so 


All 


512  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

many  monuments  of  death :  and  when  the  moon,  rising  behind 
the  great  pyramid,  appears  above  the  summit  of  that  immense 
sepulchre,  you  fancy  that  you  behold  the  very  pharos  of  death, 
and  are  actually  wandering  on  the  shore  to  which  of  old  the 
ferryman  of  hell  transported  the  shades. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   GREEKS   AND   ROMANS. 

AMONG  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  lower  classes  of  the 
people  were  interred  at  the  entrance  of  cities,  along  the  public 
road,  apparently  because  tombs  are  the  real  monuments  of  the 
traveller.  The  distinguished  dead  were  often  buried  on  the  sea- 
coast.  These  funeral  signals,  which  from  afar  indicated  the 
shore  and  the  rocks  to  the  mariner,  must  have  suggested  to  him 
very  serious  reflections.  How  much  more  secure  did  he  feel  on 
the  ocean  than  on  that  land  which  had  ruined  such  vast  fortunes 
and  swallowed  up  so  many  illustrious  lives  !  Near  the  city  of 
Alexandria  was  seen  the  hillock  of  sand,  erected  by  the  piety 
of  a  freedman  and  an  old  soldier  to-the  manes  of  Pornpey.  Not 
far  from  the  ruins  of  Carthage  was  descried  Cato's  statue  on  a 
rock.  On  the  Italian  coast  the  mausoleum  of  Scipio  indicated 
the  spot  where  this  great  man  expired  in  exile,  and  the  tomb  of 
Cicero  marked  the  place  where  the  father  of  his  country  had 
been  basely  assassinated. 

While  Rome  erected  on  the  sea-coast  these  memorials  of  her 
injustice,  Greece  offered  some  consolation  to  humanity  by  per 
petuating,  on  a  neighboring  shore,  more  pleasing  recollections. 
The  disciples  of  Plato  and  Pythagoras,  in  their  voyage  to  Egypt, 
whither  they  repaired  to  acquire  knowledge  respecting  the  gods, 
passed  within  sight  of  Homer's  tomb,  on  the  island  of  lo.1  It 
was  a  happy  idea  that  placed  the  monument  of  the  bard  who 

1  Homer  was  buried  at  Chios. 


MODERN   TOMBS.  f!3 

celebrated  the  exploits  of  Achilles  under  the  protection  of 
Thetis.  Ingenious  antiquity  could  imagine  that  the  shade  of 
the  poet  still  recited  the  misfortunes  of  Ilium  to  the  assembled 
Nereids,  as  in  the  soft  and  genial  nights  of  Ionia  he  had  dis 
puted  with  the  syrens  the  prize  of  song. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MODERN    TOMBS CHINA    AND   TURKEY. 

THE  Chinese  have  an  affecting  custom  :  they  inter  their  rela 
tives  in  their  gardens.  It  is  soothing  to  hear  in  every  grovo 
the  voices  of  the  shades  of  our  forefathers,  and  to  have  always 
some  memorials  of  the  friends  who  are  gone,  in  the  midst  of  the 
desert. 

At  the  opposite  extremity  of  Asia,  the  Turks  have  nearly  the 
same  custom.  The  strait  of  the  Dardanelles  affords  a  highly 
philosophical  spectacle.  On  the  one  hand  rise  the  promontories 
of  Europe  with  all  its  ruins ;  on  the  other  wind  the  coasts  of 
Asia  bordered  with  Mohammedan  cemeteries.  What  different 
manners  have  animated  these  shores  !  How  many  nations  have 
there  been  buried,  from  the  days  when  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  first 
assembled  the  savages  who  inhabited  them  till  the  period  which 
again  consigned  these  celebrated  regions  to  barbarism  !  Pelasgi, 
Helenes,  Greeks,  Maeonians;  people  of  Ilus,  of  Sarpedon,  of 
JEneas;  inhabitants  of  Ida,  of  Tmolus,  of  the  Meander  and 
Pactolus;  subjects  of  Mithridates,  slaves  of  the  Caesars,  Van 
dals,  hordes  of  Goths,  of  Huns,  of  Franks,  of  Arabs, — ye  have  all 
performed  on  these  shores  the  ceremonies  of  the  tomb,  and  in 
this  alone  have  your  manners  had  any  resemblance.  Death, 
sporting  with  human  things  and  human  destinies,  has  lent  the 
mausoleum  of  a  Roman  emperor  to  the  ignoble  remains  of  a 
Tartar,  and  has  deposited  the  ashes  of  a  Mollah  in  the  sepulchre 
of  a  Plato. 

2H 


514  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CALEDONIA,    OR   ANCIENT    SCOTLAND. 

FOUR  moss-covered  stones  on  the  moors  of  Caledonia  mark  the 
burial-place  of  the  warriors  of  Fingal.  Oscar  and  Malvina  are 
gone;  but  nothing  is  changed  in  their  solitary  country.  The 
Highlander  still  delights  to  repeat  the  song  of  his  ancestors ;  he 
is  still  brave,  tender,  and  generous;  his  modern  habits  are  like 
the  pleasing  recollection  of  his  ancient  manners.  'Tis  no  longer, 
(if  we  may  be  allowed  the  image,) — 'tis  no  longer  the  hand  of  the 
bard  himself  that  sweeps  the  harp ;  the  tones  we  hear  are  the 
slight  trembling  of  the  strings  produced  by  the  touch  of  a 
spirit,  when  announcing  at  night,  in  a  lonely  chamber,  the  death 
of  a  hero. 

"  Carril  accompanied  his  voice.  The  music  was  like  the 
memory  of  joys  that  are  past,  pleasant  and  mournful  to  the  soul. 
The  ghosts  of  departed  bards  heard  it  from  Slimora's  side ;  soft 
sounds  spread  along  the  woods,  and  the  valleys  of  night  rejoice. 
So,  when  he  sits  in  the  silence  of  noon  in  the  valley  of  his 
breezes,  is  the  murmur  of  the  mountain  to  Ossian's  ear.  The 
gale  drowns  it  often  in  its  course;  but  the  pleasant  sound 
returns  again." 


CHAPTER  V. 

OTAHEITE. 

MAN  here  below  is  like  the  blind  Ossian  seated  on  the  tomos 
of  the  kings  of  Morven ;  wherever  he  stretches  out  his  hand 
into  the  shades  that  surround  him  he  touches  the  ashes  of  his 
fathers.  When  intrepid  mariners  first  ploughed  the  vast  Pacific, 
they  beheld  waves  eternally  caressed  by  balmy  breezes  rolling  at 


MODERN   TOMBS.  515 

a  dtktance.  Unknown  islands  were  soon  seen  rising  from  the 
bosom  of  the  deep.  Groves  of  palms,  intermixed  with  large 
trees  resembling  magnified  fern,  covered  the  coasts  and  de 
scended  in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre  to  the  beach ;  the  blue 
tops  of  the  mountains  majestically  crowned  those  forests.  These 
islands,  belted  with  coral,  seemed  to  move  like  fair  ships  riding 
at  anchor  on  the  tranquil  waters  of  a  sheltered  port.  A  poet 
of  ancient  Greece  would  have  said  that  Venus  had  thrown 
her  cestus  areund  these  new  Cytheras  to  protect  them  from 
storms. 

Amid  these  unknown  shades,  Nature  had  placed  a  people 
beautiful  as  the  country  which  gave  them  birth.  The  Otaheit- 
ans  wore  no  other  garment  than  a  cloth  made  of  the  bark  of  the 
fig-tree.  They  dwelt  in  huts  embosomed  in  the  foliage  of  the 
mulberry,  supported  by  pillars  of  odoriferous  woods,  and  skimmed 
the  waves  in  double  canoes  having  sails  woven  with  rushes  and 
streamers  of  flowers  and  feathers  :  they  had  dances  and  assem 
blies  devoted  to  pleasure;  and  the  songs  and  dramas  of  love 
were  not  unknown  on  these  shores.  Here  all  things  breathed 
voluptuousness,  days  of  tranquillity,  and  nights  of  silence.  To 
recline  beside  the  murmuring  stream,  to  gaze  with  eyes  of  indo 
lence  upon  its  current,  to  wander  about  mantled  in  foliage,  and, 
as  it  were,  clad  in  breezes  and  perfumes, — such  was  the  whole 
life  of  the  savages  of  Otaheite.  The  toils  in  which  other  men 
pass  their  tedious  days  were  unknown  to  these  islanders ;  while 
roaming  through  their  woods,  they  found,  as  did  the  birds  closo 
to  their  nests,  milk  and  bread  suspended  from  the  branches  of 
the  trees. 

Such  was  the  appearance  of  Otaheite  to  "VVallis,  Cook,  and 
Bougainville.  On  a  nearer  approach  to  its  coast,  they  dis 
tinguished  some  monuments  of  art,  intermixed  with  those  of 
nature.  These  were  the  props  of  the  morals.1  Oh  the  vanity 
of  human  pleasures  !  The  first  banner  descried  on  these  en 
chanted  shores  is  that  of  death,  which  waves  over  all  human 
enjoyments. 


1  Moral  is  a  family  tomb  among  the  Otaheitans,  who  place  their  cemeteries 
in  romantic  situations,  amid  the  shade  of  trees,  the  frowning  faces  of  rocka 
and  the  murmurs  of  streams.  T. 


516  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

Let  it  not,  then,  be  imagined  that  a  country  where  at  the 
first  glance  we  discover  nothing  but  a  life  of  unbounded  licen 
tiousness,  is  a  stranger  to  those  graver  sentiments  so  necessary 
for  all  mankind.  The  Otaheitans,  like  other  nations,  have  reli 
gious  rites  and  funeral  ceremonies;  they  have,  in  particular, 
attached  a  high  idea  of  mystery  to  death.  When  a  corpse 
is  conveyed  to  the  moral,  every  one  gets  out  of  the  way  as 
it  passes ;  the  conductor  of  the  ceremony  then  whispers  a  few 
words  in  the  ear  of  the  deceased.  On  reaching  the  burial- 
place,  the  corpse  is  not  interred  in  the  earth,  but  slung  in  a 
cradle  covered  with  a  canoe  turned  upside-down — an  emblem  of 
the  shipwreck  of  life.  Sometimes  a  female  repairs  to  the  moral 
to  vent  her  griefs ;  she  sits  down,  with  her  feet  in  the  sea,  her 
head  low  bowed,  and  her  dishevelled  hair  falling  over  her  face. 
The  waves  accompany  her  lamentations,  and  they  are  borne  aloft 
to  the  Omnipotent,  mingled  with  the  murmurs  of  the  boundless 
Pacific. 


CHAPTEE   VI. 

CHRISTIAN    TOMBS. 

IN  speaking  of  the  Christian  sepulchre  our  tone  is  raised, 
our  voice  acquires  greater  firmness.  We  feel  that  this  tomb  alone 
is  truly  worthy  of  man.  The  monument  of  the  idolater  tells  you 
of  nothing  but  the  past ;  that  of  the  Christian  speaks  only  of  the 
future.  Christianity  has,  in  every  thing,  done  the  best  that  it 
was  possible  to  do,  and  has  never  suggested  those  demi-concep- 
tions  so  frequent  in  other  religions.  Thus,  with  respect  to  burial- 
places,  setting  aside  all  ideas  which  spring  from  local  and  other 
circumstances,  it  has  distinguished  itself  from  other  religions  by 
a  sublime  custom.  It  has  committed  the  ashes  of  the  faithful  to 
the  protection  of  the  temples  of  the  Lord,  and  deposited  the  dead 
in  the  bosom  of  the  living  God. 

Lycurgus  was  not  afraid  to  place  the  tombs  in  the  midst  of 
Lacedseraon.  He  thought,  in  accordance  with  our  holy  religion, 


CHRISTIAN   TOMBS.  517 

that  the  ashes  of  the  fathers,  instead  of  shortening  the  days  of 
the  children,  actually  tend  to  prolong  their  lives  by  teaching  them 
moderation  and  virtue,  which  are  the  surest  conductors  to  a  happy 
old  age.  The  human  reasons  which  have  been  advanced  in  oppo 
sition  to  these  divine  reasons  are  by  no  means  convincing.  Can 
the  French  boast  of  greater  longevity  than  the  natives  of  other 
European  countries,  who  still  continue  to  bury  in  their  towns  ? 

When  formerly  among  us  the  tombs  were  separated  from  the 
churches,  the  common  people,  who  are  not  so  prudent  as  scholars 
and  wits,  and  have  not  the  same  reasons  to  fear  the  end  of  life, 
universally  opposed  the  dereliction  of  the  antique  burial-places. 
And  what  had  the  modern  cemeteries  that  could  be  compared 
with  those  of  antiquity  ?  Where  was  their  ivy  ? — where  their 
aged  yew-trees — their  turf  enriched  for  so  many  ages  with  the 
spoils  of  the  tomb  ?  Could  they  show  the  sacred  bones  of  ances 
tors,  the  chapel,  the  house  of  the  spiritual  physician,  and  all  the 
appurtenances  of  religion  which  promised,  nay,  insured,  a  speedy 
resurrection  ?  Instead  of  those  frequented  cemeteries  we  had  a 
solitary  enclosure,  forsaken  by  the  living,  and  barren  of  recollec 
tions,  in  some  suburb  where  death,  stripped  of  every  sign  of  hope, 
could  not  but  seem  eternal. 

When  the  foundations  of  the  edifice  are  thus  invaded,  king 
doms  must  fall  into  ruins.  It  were  well,  too,  if  nothing  more  had 
been  done  than  to  change  the  place  of  interment ;  but,  by  a  fur 
ther  blow  dealt  at  the  existing  state  of  things,  the  very  ashes  of 
our  fathers  were  disturbed,  and  their  remains  were  carried  off 
like  the  filth  and  dirt  of  our  cities,  which  are  removed  by  the 
cartman. 

It  was  reserved  for  our  age  to  witness  what  was  considered  as 
the  greatest  of  calamities  among  the  ancients  and  was  the  severest 
punishment  inflicted  on  criminals, — we  mean  the  dispersion  of 
their  ashes, — to  hear  this  dispersion  applauded  as  the  master 
piece  of  philosophy.1  And  what  then  was  the  crime  of  our 

1  The  ancients  would  have  considered  that  state  as  overthrown  in  which  the 
asylum  of  the  dead  was  violated.  Every  reader  is  acquainted  with  the  excul- 
Itut  laws  of  Egypt  relative  to  burial-places.  The  laws  of  Solon  interdicted  the 
violator  of  the  tomb  from  the  worship  of  the  temple,  and  consigned  him  to  the 
Furies.  Justinian's  Initituten  regulate  even  the  bequest,  inheritance,  sale,  and 
purchase  of  a  sepulchre. 
44 


518  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


ancestors,  that  their  remains  should  be  treated  with  such  indignity, 
except  their  having  given  life  to  such  degenerate  children  as  we  ? 
But  observe  the  end  of  all  this.  Mark  the  atrocity  of  human 
wisdom.  In  some  of  the  towns  of  France  dungeons  were  erected 
on  the  site  of  the  churchyards.  Prisons  for  human  beings  were 
raised  on  the  spot  where  God  had  decreed  an  end  to  all  slavery. 
Places  of  torment  succeeded  those  abodes  where  all  afflictions  wfte 
wont  to  cease.  In  short,  but  one  point  of  resemblance — and  that 
indeed  an  awful  one — remained  between  these  prisons  and  those 
cemeteries;  namely,  that  the  iniquitous  judgments  of  men  were 
executed  where  God  had  pronounced  the  decrees  of  his  inviolable 
justice.1 


CHAPTER  VII. 

COUNTRY     CHURCHYARDS. 


THE  ancients  had  no  more  agreeable  burial-places  than  were 
oar  country  churchyards.  Meadows,  fields,  streams,  woods,  with  a 
smiling  prospect,  lent  their  charms  to  heighten  the  impressive 
aspect  of  a  rural  cemetery.  We  loved  there  to  behold  the  ancient 
yew,  the  fruit-trees,  the  high  grass,  the  poplars,  the  elm  of  the 


1  We  pass  over  in  silence  the  abominations  perpetrated  during  the  days  of 
the  Revolution.  There  is  not  a  domestic  animal  in  any  nation,  ever  so  little 
eivilized,  but  is  buried  with  more  decency  than  the  body  of  a  French  citizen 
was  at  that  time.  It  is  well  known  how  funerals  were  then  conducted,  and 
how,  for  a  few  pence,  a  father,  a  mother,  or  a  wife,  was  consigned  to  the  high 
ways.  Even  there  the  dead  were  not  secure  j  for  persons  made  a  trade  of  steal 
ing  the  shroud,  the  coffin,  or  the  hair,  of  the  deceased.  All  these  things  can  be 
ascribed  only  to  a  decree  of  God  himself.  They  were  a  consequence  of  the 
first  offences  during  the  monarchy.  It  were  much  to  be  wished  that  the  signs 
of  religion,  of  which  funerals  have  been  deprived,  could  be  restored  to  them; 
and,  above  all,  that  dogs  be  no  longer  posted  to  guard  the  cemeteries.  Such  is 
the  extreme  of  misery  into  which  man  sinks  when  he  loses  sight  of  God  that,  no 
longer  venturing  to  confide  in  his  fellow-creatures,  in  whose  fidelity  he  has  no 
confidence,  he  is  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  committing  his  remains  to  the 
protection  of  brutes ! 


COUNTRY  CHURCHYARDS.  519 

dead,  the  box,  and  the  little  cross  of  consolation  and  of  grace. 
Amid  the  peaceful  tombstones  and  monuments  rose  the  tower  of 
the  village  temple  surmounted  by  the  rustic  emblem  of  vigilance. 
No  sound  was  heard  on  this  spot  save  the  simple  notes  of  the 
redbreast  and  the  noise  of  the  sheep  cropping  the  grass  upon  the 
grave  of  their  former  shepherd. 

The  different  paths  which  crossed  the  consecrated  enclosure 
led  to  the  church  or  the  habitation  of  the  pastor.  They  were 
all  worn  by  the  poor  and  the  pilgrim,  who  repaired  thither  to  pray 
to  the  God  of  mercy  or  to  solicit  the  bread  of  charity  from  the 
minister  of  the  gospel.  The  rich  and  the  thoughtless  never 
passed  near  these  tombs. 

The  only  epitaph  to  be  seen  upon  them  was  the  name  of  the 
deceased,  with  the  year  of  his  birth  and  that  in  which  he  died. 
Upon  some  there  was  not  so  much  as  the  name.  The  Christian 
laborer  lies  forgotten  in  death,  like  the  useful  productions  of 
the  earth  among  which  he  passed  his  life.  Nature  has  not 
engraven  the  names  of  the  oaks  on  their  trunks  that  lie  prostrate 
in  the  forests. 

One  day,  however,  in  strolling  through  a  country  churchyard, 
we  perceived  a  Latin  epitaph  on  a  small  stone  which  marked  the 
grave  of  a  child.  Surprised  at  this  unusual  display,  we  went  up 
to  it,  curious  to  learn  the  erudition  of  the  village  pastor,  and 
read  these  words  of  the  gospel,  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come 
unto  me. 

The  cemeteries  of  Switzerland  are  sometimes  placed  on  rocks 
overlooking  lakes,  precipices,  and  valleys.1  The  chamois  and  the 
eagle  here  fix  their  abode,  and  death  grows  upon  these  craggy 
steeps  like  those  Alpine  plants  the  roots  of  which  are  fixed 
in  everlasting  ice.  After  death,  the  peasant  of  Glaris  or  St. 
Gall  is  conveyed  to  one  of  these  lofty  burial-places  by  his  pastor. 
No  funeral  pomp  attends  him  on  these  ridges  of  the  Alps  but  the 
pomp  of  nature,  and  no  music  but  those  patriotic  and  pastoral 
tones  which  remind  the  exiled  Swiss  of  his  father,  his  mo- 
.  thef,  his  sisters,  and  the  bleating  of  the  flocks  of  his  native 
mountain. 

Italy  presents  her  catacombs,  or  the  humble  monument  of  a 


See  note  00. 


520  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

martyr  in  the  gardens  of  Maecenas  and  Lucullus.  England  has 
her  dead  dressed  in  woollen,  and  her  graves  adorned  with  sweet- 
brier  and  flowers.  In  her  churchyards  the  tears  started  in  our  eyes 
on  meeting  sometimes  with  a  French  name  among  English  epi 
taphs.  But  it  is  time  to  return  to  the  tombs  of  our  native  land. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

TOMBS   IN   CHURCHES. 

FIGURE  to  yourself  for  a  moment  the  ancient  monasteries  or 
the  Gothic  cathedrals,  such  as  they  formerly  existed  in  France. 
Traverse  the  aisles,  the  chapels,  the  dimly-lighted  naves,  the  clois 
ters  and  sanctuaries  filled  with  sepulchres.  In  this  labyrinth  of 
tombs  which  are  they  that  strike  you  most  ?  Are  they  monuments 
of  modern  construction,  loaded  with  allegorical  figures  which  crush 
beneath  their  icy  marbles  relics  less  cold  than  themselves  ?  Vain 
phantoms,  which  seem  to  partake  of  the  double  lethargy  of  the 
coffin  which  they  enclose,  and  of  the  worldly  hearts  that  erected 
them !  On  these  you  scarcely  deign  to  bestow  a  look ;  but  you 
pause  before  that  tomb,  covered  with  venerable  dust,  on  which 
reclines  the  Gothic  figure  of  some  mitred  bishop,  dressed  in  his 
pontifical  robes,  his  hands  folded  and  his  eyes  shut.  You  pause 
before  that  monument  where  an  abbot,  supported  on  one  elbow, 
and  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  seems  absorbed  in  meditation. 
The  slumber  of  the  prelate  and  the  attitude  of  the  priest  have 
something  mysterious.  The  former  appears  deeply  engaged  with 
what  he  sees  in  his  dreams  of  the  tomb.  The  latter,  like  a 
traveller,  has  not  even  chosen  to  lie  down  entirely;  so"  near  at 
hand  is  the  moment  when  he  shall  rise  again. 

And  what  lady  of  distinction  is  it  that  reposes  by  the  side  of 
her  husband  ?  Both  are  vested  in  the  garb  of  Gothic  magnificence. 
A  cushion  supports  their  heads,  which  seem  to  be  rendered  so 
heavy  by  the  sleep  of  death  as  to  press  down  this  pillow  of  stone. 
Happy  that  husband  and  wife  if  they  had  no  painful  secret  to 


TOMBS   IN  CHURCHES.  521 

communicate  to  each  other  in  meeting  on  the  sepulchral  couch ! 
Observe  at  the  extremity  of  that  retired  chapel  the  figures  of 
four  esquires  in  marble,  cased  in  mail,  armed  at  all  points,  with 
their  hands  joined,  and  kneeling  at  the  four  corners  of  the  altar- 
monument.  Is  it  thine,  Bayard,  who  restoredst  to  the  captive 
maidens  the  ransom  which  would  enable  them  to  marry  the  be 
loved  of  their  hearts  ?  Is  it  thou,  Beaumanoir,  who  drankest 
thine  own  blood  in  the  combat  of  the  Thirty  ?  or  is  it  some  other 
knight  that  here  "enjoys  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb?  These 
esquires  seem  to  pray  with  fervor;  for  those  gallant  chieftains, 
the  honor  of  the  French  name,  feared  God  in  the  secret  of 
their  hearts;  it  was  with  the  shout  of  Mountjoy  and  St.  Dennis 
that  they  rescued  France  from  the  English,  and  performed  pro 
digies  of  valor  for  the  Church,  their  lady-love,  and  their  king. 
Is  there  nothing,  then,  worthy  of  admiration  in  the  times  of  a 
Roland,  a  Godfrey,  a  Coucy,  and  a  Joinville?— in  the  times  of 
the  Moors  and  the  Saracens?— of  the  kingdoms  of  Jerusalem  and 
Cyprus  ? — in  the  times  when  the  East  and  Asia  exchanged  arms 
and  manners  with  Europe  and  the  West? — in  the  times  when 
a  Thibaud  sang,  when  the  strains  of  the  Troubadours  were 
mingled  with  the  clash  of  arms,  dances  with  religious  ceremonies, 
and  banquets  and  tournaments  with  sieges  and  battles?1 


i  The  French,  we  acknowledge,  are  under  great  obligations  to  the  artist  who 
collected  the  fragments  of  our  ancient  sepulchres ;  but,  as  to  the  effects  pro 
duced  by  the  sight  of  these  monuments,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  they 
have  been  destroyed.  Crowded  into  a  narrow  space,  divided  according  to  cen 
turies,  torn  from  their  connection  with  the  antiquity  of  the  temples  and  of  the 
Christian  worship,  subservient  only  to  the  history  of  the  arts,  and  not  to  that 
of  morals  and  religion,  not  retaining  so  much  as  their  dust,  they  have  ceased 
to  speak  either  to  the  imagination  or  the  heart.  When  impious  miscreant* 
conceived  the  idea  of  thus  violating  the  asylum  of  the  dead  and  dispersing 
their  ashes  in  order  to  destroy  the  memory  of  the  past,  the  project,  horrible  aa 
it  was,  might  have  seemed,  in  the  eyes  of  human  folly,  to  possess  a  certain 
specious  grandeur;  but  it  was  tantamount  to  a  conspiracy  to  overturn  the 
world,  not  to  leave  in  France  one  stone  upon  another,  and  to  advance  over 
the  ruins  of  religion  to  the  attack  of  all  other  institutions.  To  plunge  into 
such  excesses  merely  to  strike  out  of  the  beaten  track  and  to  make  a  display 
of  folly  and  absurdity  is  to  be  actuated  by  all  the  madness  of  guilt  without 
having  its  power.  What  became  of  these  despoilers  of  the  tombs?  They  fell 
Into  the  pits  whu-.h  themselves  had  dug,  and  their  bodies  were  left  with  Death 
as  pledges  for  those  of  which  they  had  plundered  him. 
44* 


522  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

Those  times  were  worthy  of  admiration;  but  they  are 
past.  How  forcibly  did  religion  teach  the  noble  sons  of 
chivalry  the  vanity  of  human  things,  when,  after  a  long 
enumeration  of  pompous  titles,  as,  Sigh  and  mighty  Lord, 
Messire  Anne  de  Montmorency,  or  Constable  of  France,  she 
added,  "  Pray  for  him,  poor  sinners."  Here  is  nothingness 
itself.1 

As  to  subterraneous  burial-places,  they  were  generally 
reserved  for  monarchs,  and  for  those  who  belonged  to 
religious  orders.  When  you  wished  to  indulge  in  serious 
and  religious  contemplations,  you  had  only  to  descend  into 
the  vaults  of  a  convent,  and  survey  those  recluses  locked 
in  the  sleep  of  death,  who  were  not  more  tranquil  in  their 
sepulchral  abodes  than  they  had  been  in  their  lifetime. 
Sweet  be  your  slumbers  beneath  these  vaults,  ye  peaceful 
mortals,  who  divided  your  earthly  patrimony  among  your 
brethren,  and,  like  the  Grecian  hero  setting  out  for  the  con 
quest  of  another  universe,  reserved  for  yourselves  nothing  more 
than  hope  !3 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ST.  DENNIS. 

SEPULCHRES  were  formerly  to  be  seen  near  Paris,  famous 
among  all  the  sepulchres  of  men.  Strangers  thronged  to  behold 
the  wonders  of  St.  Dennis.  There  they  imbibed  a  profound 
veneration  for  France,  and  returned  home,  saying  to  themselves, 
with  St.  Gregory,  "  This  is  really  the  greatest  kingdom  on  earth." 
But  the  tempest  of  wrath  surrounded  the  edifice  of  death;  the 
billows  of  popular  fury  burst  over  it,  and  men  yet  ask  one  an- 

1  Johnson,  in  his  Treatise  on  Epitaphs,  pronounces  this  simple  appeal  of 
religion  suhlime. 

2  The  anecdote  here  most  beautifully  alluded  to  is  recorded  of  Alexander 
the  Great 


ST.  DENNIS.  523 

other,  with  astonishment,  How  hath  the  temple  of  AMMON  dis 
appeared  among  the  sands  of  the  desert  f 

The  Gothic  abbey  in  which  these  great  vassals  of  death  were 
assembled  was  not  deficient  in  glory.  The  treasures  of  France 
were  at  its  gates ;  the  Seine  bounded  the  plain  in  which  it  was 
situated;  a  hundred  celebrated  places  filled  all  the  country 
around  with  illustrious  names  and  every  field  with  brilliant 
recollections ;  not  far  off  was  seated  the  city  of  Henry  IV.  and 
Louis  the  Great ;  and  the  royal  sepulchre  of  St.  Dennis  stood  in 
the  centre  of  our  power  and  our  luxury,  like  a  vast  shrine,  in 
which  were  deposited  the  relics  of  time  and  the  superabundant 
greatness  of  the  French  empire. 

Here  the  sovereigns  of  France  were  successively  entombed. 
One  of  them  (it  was  always  the  last  that  had  descended  into  the 
abyss)  remained  upon  the  steps,  as  if  to  invite  his  posterity  to 
follow.  In  vain,  however,  did  Louis  XVI.  wait  for  his  two  last 
descendants.  One  was  precipitated  into  the  vault,  leaving  his 
ancestor  upon  the  threshold  ;  the  other,  like  (Edipus,  disappeared 
in  a  storm.  Oh,  subject  worthy  of  everlasting  meditation  !  the 
first  monarch  on  whom  the  emissaries  of  divine  justice  laid  their 
hands  was  that  Louis  so  renowned  for  the  obedience  paid  to  him 
by  the  nations !  He  was  yet  perfectly  entire  in  his  coffin.  In 
vain  he  seemed  to  rise  in  defence  of  his  throne  with  all  tho 
majesty  of  his  age  and  a  rear-guard  of  eight  centuries  of 
kings;  in  vain  did  his  menacing  attitude  appal  the  enemies 
of  the  dead  when,  thrown  into  one  common  grave,  he  fell  upon 
the  bosom  of  Mary  de  Medicis  All  was  destroyed.  God 
in  his  wrath  had  sworn  by  himself  to  chastise  France.  Let 
us  not  seek  upon  earth  the  causes  of  such  events ;  they  are  of 
higher  origin. 

As  early  as  the  time  of  Bossuet  there  was  scarcely  room  in 
this  receptacle  of  annihilated  princes  for  the  remains  of 
Henrietta  Maria, — "  so  thronged  is  every  part,"  exclaims  the 
most  eloquent  of  preachers, — "  so  expeditious  is  death  in  filling 
these  places  !"  In  the  presence  of  so  many  ages,  the  rolling  of 
which  seems  yet  to  be  heard  in  those  solemn  depths,  the  mind 
is  overwhelmed  with  a  torrent  of  thoughts.  The  whole  soul 
shudders  in  contemplating  so  much  nothingness  blended  with 


521  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

so  much  grandeur.  When,  on  the  one  hand,  you  look  for  an 
expression  magnificent  enough  to  describe  whatever  is  most 
elevated,  on  the  other  you  must  find  the  lowest  of  terms  to 
express  whatever  is  most  vile.  Here  the  shadow  of  the  ancient 
arches  mingles  with  the  gloom  of  the  ancient  tombs ;  there  you 
see  iron  gratings  that  vainly  surround  these  precincts  of  death  to 
protect  them  from  the  fury  of  men.  Listen  to  the  dull  sound 
of  the  sepulchral  worm  that  seems  to  be  weaving  in  these  coffins 
the  indestructible  network  of  death !  Every  thing  proclaims 
that  you  have  descended  into  the  empire  of  ruins ;  and,  from  a 
certain  smell  of  ancientness  diffused  under  these  funeral  arches, 
you  would  imagine  that  you  were  breathing  the  dust  of  bygone 


Christian  reader,  excuse  the  tears  that  flow  from  our  eyes 
while  surveying  this  family  of  Clovis  and  St.  Louis.  If,  sud 
denly  throwing  aside  the  winding-sheets  which  cover  them,  these 
monarchs  were  to  rise  erect  in  their  coffins,  and  to  fix  upon  us 
their  ghastly  eyes,  by  the  dim  light  of  this  sepulchral  lamp  ! 

Yes,  we  behold  them  half-raised, — these  spectres  of 

kings ;  we  distinguish  their  dynasties,  we  recognise  each  indi 
vidual,  we  venture  to  interrogate  these  majesties  of  the  tomb. 
Say,  then,  royal  race  of  phantoms,  say,  would  you  now  wish  to 
return  to  life  for  the  sake  of  a  crown  ?  Are  you  still  tempted 

by  the  prospect  of  a  throne? But  wherefore  this 

profound  silence  ?  Wherefore  are  you  all  mute  beneath  these 
vaults  ?  Ye  shake  your  royal  heads,  whence  falls  a  cloud  of 
dust  j  your  eyes  once  more  close,  and  ye  again  lie  slowly  down  in 
your  coffins ! 

Ah !  had  we  put  the  same  question  to  the  rustic  dead  whose 
ashes  we  lately  visited,  gently  bursting  the  turf  which  covers 
their  graves,  and  issuing  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth  like  bril 
liant  meteors,  they  would  have  replied,  "  If  God  so  willed  it, 
why  should  we  refuse  to  live  again  ?  Why  should  we  not  once 
more  enjoy  happy  days  in  our  humble  cots  ?  Our  toils  were  not 
so  oppressive  as  you  suppose  ]  our  tears  were  not  without  their 
pleasures  when  dried  by  an  affectionate  wife  or  blessed  by  a  holy 
religion." 

But  whither  are  we  hurried  by  descriptions  of  those  tombs 


ST.  DENNIS.  525 


long  since  swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth !  Those  renowned 
sepulchres  are  no  more.  Little  children  have  played  with  the 
bones  of  mighty  monarchs.  St.  Dennis  is  laid  waste  ;  the  bird 
has  made  it  her  resting-place;  the  grass  grows  on  its  shattered 
altars;  and,  instead  of  the  eternal  hymn  of  death  which  resounded 
beneath  its  domes,  naught  is  now  to  be  heard  save  the  pattering 
of  the  rain  that  enters  at  the  roofless  top,  the  fall  of  some  stone 
dislodged  from  the  ruined  walls,  or  the  sound  of  the  clock  which 
still  mns  its  wonted  course  among  empty  tombs  and  plundered 
sepulchres.1 

1  See  note  PP. 


BOOK    III. 

GENERAL  VIEW  OF   THE  CLERGY. 
CHAPTER   I. 

OP   JESUS   CHRIST   AND    HIS   LIFE. 

ABOUT  the  time  of  the  appearance  of  the  Redeemer  of  man 
kind  upon  earth,  the  nations  were  in  expectation  of  some  extra 
ordinary  personage.  "  An  ancient  and  constant  opinion,"  says 
Suetonius,  "was  current  all  over  the  East,  that  persons  coming 
from  Judea  should  obtain  universal  empire."1  Tacitus  relates 
the  same  fact  nearly  in  the  same  words.  According  to  this  great 
historian,  "most  of  the  Jews  were  convinced,  agreeably  to  a  pre 
diction  preserved  in  the  ancient  books  of  their  priests,  that  about 
this  time  (the  time  of  Vespasian)  the  East  would  prevail,  and 
that  some  native  of  Judea  should  obtain  the  empire  of  the 
world."3  Lastly,  Josephus,  speaking  of  the  destruction  of  Jeru 
salem,  informs  us  that  the  Jews  were  chiefly  instigated  to  revolt 
against  the  Romans  by  an  obscure3  prophecy,  which  foretold  that 
about  this  period  "a  man  would  arise  among  them  and  subdue 
the  universe."*  The  New  Testament  also  exhibits  traces  of  this 
hope  shed  abroad  in  Israel.  The  multitudes  who  thronged  to 
the  desert  asked  John  the  Baptist  whether  he  was  the  great 
Messiah,  the  Christ  of  God,  so  long  expected;  and  the  disciples 


1  Percrebuerat  Oriente  toto  vetus  et  constans  opinio  ease  in  fatis  ut  eo  tentpore 
Judoed  profecti  rerum  potirentur.     Suet.,  in  Vespas. 

2  Pluribus  persuasio   inerat   antiquis   sacerdotun    litteris    continens,  eo  ipso 
tempore  fore  ut  valesceret  Oriens,  profectique  Judcea,  rerum  potirentur.    Tacit., 
Hist.,  lib.  v. 

3  A/n$//?oAof,  applicable  to  several  persons,  and  therefore  referred  by  the  Latin 
historians  to  Vespasian. 

4  Joseph.,  de  Bell.  Jud. 

526 


JESUS  CHRIST  AND   HIS   LIFE.  527 

of  Emmaus  were  disappointed  to  find  that  their  Master  was  not 
he  "that  should  have  redeemed  Israel/'1  The  seventy  weeks 
of  Daniel,  or  the  four  hundred  and  ninety  years  from  the  rebuild 
ing  of  the  temple,  were  then  accomplished.  Finally,  Origen, 
after  repeating  all  these  traditions  of  the  Jews,  adds  that  "a 
great  number  of  them  acknowledged  Jesus  Christ  as  the  deliverer 
promised  by  the  prophets."* 

Heaven  meanwhile  prepares  the  way  for  the  Sor  of  man. 
States  long  disunited  in  manners,  government,  and  language, 
entertained  hereditary  enmities  j  but  the  clamor  of  arms  suddenly 
ceases,  and  the  nations,  either  allied  or  vanquished,  become  iden 
tified  with  the  people  of  Rome. 

On  the  one  hand,  religion  and  morals  have  reached  that  degree 
of  corruption  which  of  necessity  produces  changes  ;  on  the  other, 
the  tenets  of  the  unity  of  God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
begin  to  be  diffused.  Thus  the  ways  are  prepared  on  all  sides 
for  the  new  doctrine  which  a  universal  language  will  serve  to 
propagate.  The  vast  Roman  empire  is  composed  of  nations, 
some  barbarous,  others  civilized,  but  all  excessively  miserable. 
For  the  former,  the  simplicity  of  Christ, — for  the  latter,  his  moral 
virtues, — for  all,  mercy  and  charity, — are  means  of  salvation  con 
trived  by  heaven  itself.  So  efficacious  arc  these  means,  that,  only 
two  centuries  after  the  advent  of  the  Messiah,  Tertullian  thus 
addressed  the  judges  of  Rome : — "  We  are  but  of  yesterday,  and 
yet  we  fill  every  place — your  cities,  your  islands,  your  fortresses, 
your  camps,  your  colonies,  your  tribes,  your  decuries,  your  coun 
cils,  the  palace,  the  senate,  the  forum ;  we  leave  you  nothing  but 
your  temples."8 

With  the  grandeur  of  natural  preparations  is  combined  the 
splendor  of*  miracles;  the  oracles  of  truth  which  had  been  long 
silent  in  Jerusalem  recover  their  voice,  and  the  false  sibyls  become 
mute.  A  new  star  appears  in  the  East;  Gabriel  descends  to  the 
Virgin  Mary,  and  a  chorus  of  blessed  spirits  sings  at  night  from 
on  high,  -Glory  to  God!  peace  to  men  of  good  will!  A  rumor 

1  In  the  second  member  of  this  sentence  we  have  substituted  "  their  Master" 
for  "John, **  which  is  found  in  the  French  copies,  and  which  was  most  probably 
a   typographical  ernr;   the  word  Jean  having  been   printed  by  mistake   for 
Jeiuv.     T. 

2  Centra  Celaum.  3  Tertul.,  Apoloyet.,  cap.  xjcxvii. 


528  GENIUS    OF    CHRISTIANITY. 

rapidly  spreads  that  the  Saviour  has  come  into  the  world;  he  is 
not  born  in  purple,  but  in  the  humble  abode  of  indigence;  he 
has  not  been  announced  to  the  great  and  the  mighty,  but  angels 
have  proclaimed  the  tidings  to  men  of  low  estate;  he  has  not 
assembled  the  opulent,  but  the  needy,  round  his  cradle,  and  by 
this  first  act  of  his  life  declared  himself  in  preference  the  God 
of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

Let  us  here  pause  to  make  one  reflection.  We  have  seen,  from 
the  earliest  ages,  kings,  heroes,  and  illustrious  men,  become  the 
gods  of  nations.  But  here  the  reputed  son  of  a  carpenter  in  an 
obscure  corner  of  Judea  is  a  pattern  of  sorrows  and  of  indigence ; 
he  undergoes  the  ignominy  of  a  public  execution;  he  selects  his 
disciples  from  among  the  lowest  of  the  people;  he  preaches 
naught  but  sacrifices,  naught  but  the  renunciation  of  earthly 
pomp,  pleasure,  and  power;  he  prefers  the  slave  to  the  master, 
the  poor  to  the  rich,  the  leper  to  the  healthy  man;  all  that 
mourn,  all  that  are  afflicted,  all  that  are  forsaken  by  the  world, 
are  his  delight;  but  power,  wealth,  and  prosperity,  are  incessantly 
threatened  by  him.  He  overthrows  the  prevalent  notions  of 
morality,  institutes  new  relations  among  men,  a  new  law  of 
nations,  a  new  public  faith.  Thus  does  he  establish  his  divinity, 
triumph  over  the  religion  of  the  Caesars,  seat  himself  on  the 
throne,  and  at  length  subdue  the  earth.  No !  if  the  whole  world 
were  to  raise  its  voice  against  Jesus  Christ,  if  all  the  powers  of 
philosophy  were  to  combine  against  its  doctrines,  never  shall  we 
be  persuaded  that  a  religion  erected  on  such  a  foundation  is  a 
religion  of  human  origin.  He  who  could  bring  the  world  to 
revere  a  cross, — he  who  held  up  suffering  humanity  and  persecuted 
virtue  as  an  object  of  veneration  to  mankind, — he,  we  insist,  can 
be  no  other  than  a  God.  • 

Jesus  Christ  appears  among  men  full  of  grace  and  truth;  the 
authority  and  the  mildness  of  his  precepts  are  irresistible.  He 
comes  to  be  the  most  unhappy  of  mortals,  and  all  his  wonders  are 
wrought  for  the  wretched.  "His  miracles,"  says  Bossuet,  "have 
a  much  stronger  character  of  beneficence  than  of  power."  In 
order  to  inculcate  his  doctrines,  he  chooses  the  apologue  or  para 
ble,  which  is  easily  impressed  on  the  minds  of  the  people.  While 
walking  in  the  fields,  he  gives  his  divine  lessons.  When  survey 
ing  the  flowers  that  adorn  the  mead,  he  exhorts  his  disciples  to 


JESUS   CHRIST   AND   HIS   LIFE.  529 

put  their  trust  in  Providence,  who  supports  the  feeble  plants  and 
feeds  the  birds  of  the  air;  when  he  beholds  the  fruits  of  the 
earth,  he  teaches  them  to  judge  of  men  by  their  works;  an 
infant  is  brought  to  him,  and  he  recommends  innocence;  being 
among  shepherds,  he  gives  himself  the  appellation  of  the  good 
shepherd,  and  represents  himself  as  bringing  back  the  lost  sheep 
to  the  fold  In  spring,  he  takes  his  seat  upon  a  mountain,  and 
draws  from  the  surrounding  objects  instruction  for  the  multitude 
sitting  at  his  feet.  From  the  very  sight  of  this  multitude,  com 
posed  of  the  poor  and  the  unfortunate,  he  deduces  his  beati 
tudes: — Blessed  are  they  that  mourn — blessed  arc  they  that  hun 
ger  and  thirst,  &c.  Such  as  observe  his  precepts,  and  those  who 
slight  them,  are  compared  to  two  men  who  build  houses,  the  one 
upon  a  rock,  the  other  upon  sand.  According  to-  some  com 
mentators,  he  designed  in  this  comparison  to  describe  a  flourish 
ing  village  upon  a  hill,  and  huts  at  the  foot  of  it  destroyed  by 
an  inundation.1  When  he  asks  some  water  of  the  Samaritan 
woman,  he  expounds  to  her  his  heavenly  doctrine  under  the 
beautiful  image  of  a  well  of  living  water. 

The  bitterest  enemies  of  Jesus  Christ  never  dared  to  attack 
his  character.  Celsus,  Julian,  Volusian,8  admit  his  miracles; 
and  Porphyry  relates  that  the  very  oracles  of  the  Pagans  styled 
him  a  man  illustrious  for  his  piety.8  Tiberius  would  have  placed 
him  in  the  rank  of  the  gods;4  and,  according  to  Lampridius, 
Adrian  erected  temples  to  him,  and  Alexander  Severus  vene 
rated  him  among  holy  men  and  placed  his  image  between  those 
of  Orpheus  and  Abraham.5  Pliny  has  borne  an  illustrious  testi 
mony  to  the  innocence  of  the  primitive  Christians,  who  closely 
followed  the  example  of  the  Redeemer.  There  are  no  philoso 
phers  of  antiquity  but  have  been  reproached  with  some  vices: 
the  very  patriarchs  had  their  foibles.  Christ  alone  is  without 
blemish :  he  is  the  most  brilliant  copy  of  that  supreme  beauty 
which  is  seated  upon  the  throne  of  heaven.  Pure  and  sanctified 
as  the  tabernacle  of  the  Lord,  breathing  naught  but  the  love  of 
God  and  men,  infinitely  superior  by  the  elevation  of  his  soul  to 

1  Jortin,  On  the  1\uth  of  the  Chritt.  Relig. 

1  Orig.,  cunt.  Celt  i.  11 ;  Jul.,  up.  Cyril.,  lib.  vi      Aug.,  Ep.  3,  4,  tome  ii. 
3  Euseb.,  dem.  iii   ev.  3.  Tert.,  Apoloyet. 

5  Lamp.,  in  Alex.  Sev.,  cap.  iv.  and  xxxi. 
15  2T 


580  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY 

the  vain  glory  of  the  world,  he  prosecuted,  amid  sufferings  of 
every  kind,  the  great  business  of  our  salvation,  constraining  men 
by  the  ascendency  of  his  virtues  to  embrace  his  doctrine  and  to 
imitate  a  life  which  they  were  compelled  to  admire. 

His  character  was  amiable,  open,  and  tender,  and  his  charity 
unbounded.  The  evangelist  gives  us  a  complete  and  admirable 
idea  of  it  in  these  few  words : — He  went  about  doing  good.  His 
resignation  to  the  will  of  God  is  conspicuous  in  every  moment 
of  his  life;  he  loved  and  felt  the  sentiment  of  friendship;  the 
man  whom  he  raised  from  the  tomb,  Lazarus,  was  his  friend;  it 
was  for  the  noblest  sentiment  of  life  that  he  performed  the  great 
est  of  his  miracles.  In  him  the  love  of  country  may  find  a 
model: — "Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,"  he  exclaimed,  at  the  idea  of 
the  judgments  which  threatened  that  guilty  city,  "how  often 
would  I  have  gathered  thy  children  together,  eren  as  a  hen 
gathereth  her  chickens  under  her  wings,  and  ye  would  not !" 
Casting  his  sorrowful  eyes  from  the  top  of  a  hill  over  this  city 
doomed  for  her  crimes  to  a  signal  destruction,  he  was  unable  to 
restrain  his  tears : — He  beheld  the  city,  says  the  evangelist,  and 
wept  over  it.  His  tolerance  was  not  less  remarkable.  When  his 
disciples  begged  him  to  command  fire  to  come  down  from  heaven 
on  a  village  of  Samaria  which  had  denied  him  hospitality,  he 
replied,  with  indignation,  You  know  not  of  what  spirit  you  are. 

Had  the  Son  of  man  descended  from  his  celestial  abode  in  all 
his  power,  it  would  certainly  have  been  very  easy  to  practise  so 
many  virtues,  to  endure  so  many  afflictions;1  but  herein  lies  the 
glory  of  the  mystery :  Christ  was  the  man  of  sorrows,  and  ac 
quainted  with  griefs;  his  heart  melted  like  that  of  a  merely 
human  creature,  and  he  never  manifested  any  sign  of  anger 
except  against  insensibility  and  obduracy  of  soul.  Love  one  an 
other,  was  his  incessant  exhortation.  Father,  he  exclaimed, 
writhing  under  the  torments  inflicted  by  his  executioners,  for 
give  them;  for  they  know  not  what  they  do.  When  on  the  point 

1  That  is,  if  he  had  come  into  the  world  impassible,  he  would  not  have  felt,  as 
he  did  in  his  mortal  state,  the  trials  and  contradictions  which  he  encountered. 
The  author's  language  here  is  strange,  and  at  variance  with  that  commonly 
met  with  among  Catholic  writers,  though  it  is  certain  that  his  ideas  on  the  sub 
ject  of  which  he  speaks  were  sound,  as  may  be  seen  by  reference  to  the  chap 
ters  01.  the  Incarnation  and  Redemption,  part  i.  book  i.  T. 


HIERARCHY.  531 

of  quitting  his  beloved  disciples,  he  was  all  at  once  dissolved  in 
tears;  he  experienced  all  the  terrors  of  death  all  the  anguish  of 
the  cross;  the  blood-sweat  trickled  down  his  divine  cheeks;  he 
complained  that  his  Father  had  forsaken  him.  Father,  said  he, 
if  it  be  possible,  ht  this  chalice  pass  from  me;  nevertheless,  not  as 
I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt.  Then  it  was  that  that  expression, 
fraught  with  all  the  sublimity  of  grief,  fell  from  his  lips : — My 
soul  is  sorrowful,  even  unto  death.  Ah !  if  the  purest  morality 
and  the  most  feeling  heart, — if  a  life  passed  in  combating  error 
and  soothing  the  sorrows  of  mankind, — be  attributes  of  divinity, 
who  can  deny  that  of  Jesus  Christ?  A  pattern  of  every  virtue, 
Friendship  beholds  him  reclining  on  the  bosom  of  St.  John  or 
bequeathing  his  mother  to  his  care;  Charity  admires  him  in  the 
judgment  of  the  adulteress;  Pity  everywhere  finds  him  blessing 
the  tears  of  the  unfortunate ;  his  innocence  and  his  tenderness 
are  displayed  in  his  love  of  children;  the  energy  of  his  soul 
shines  conspicuous  amid  the  torments  of  the  cross,  and  his  last 
sigh  is  a  sigh  of  mercy. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SECULAR   CLERGY, 

Hierarchy. 

CHRIST,  having  left  his  last  instructions  to  his  disciples, 
ascended  from  Mount  Thabor  into  heaven.  From  that  moment 
the  Church  subsisted  in  the  apostles;  it  was  established  at  the 
same  time  among  the  Jews  and  among  the  Gentiles.  St.  Peter 
by  one  single  sermon  converted  five  thousand  persons  at  Jeru 
salem,  an<J  St.  Paul  received  his  mission  to  the  pagan  nations. 
The  prince  of  the  apostles  soon  laid  in  the  capital  of  the  Roman 
empire  the  foundations  of  the  ecclesiastical  power.1  The  first 
Caesars  yet  reigned,  and  already  the  obscure  priest,  who  was 

'  Sco  note  QQ. 


532  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

destined  to  displace  them  from  the  capitol,  went  to  and  i-o  among 
the  crowd  at  the  foot  of  their  throne.  The  hierarchy  began: 
Peter  was  succeeded  by  Linus,  and  Linus  by  Clement  and  that 
illustrious  chain  of  pontiffs,  heirs  of  the  apostolic  authority,  which 
has  been  unbroken  for  more  than  eighteen  hundred  years,  and 
carries  us  back  to  Christ  himself. 

With  the  episcopal  dignity  we  see  the  two  other  grand  divi 
sions  of  the  hierarchy — the  priesthood  and  the  diaconate — esta 
blished  from  the  very  beginning.  St.  Ignatius  exhorts  the  Mag- 
nesians  "to  act  in  unity  with  their  bishop,  who  fills  the  place 
of  Jesus  Christ;  their  priests,  who  represent  the  apostles;  and 
their  deacons,  who  are  charged  with  the  service  of  the  altars."1 
Pius,  Clement  of  Alexandria,  Origen,  and  Tertullian,  confirm 
these  degrees.3 

Though  no  mention  is  made  of  metropolitans  or  archbishops 
before  the  Council  of  Nice,  yet  that  council  speaks  of  this  eccle 
siastical  dignity  as  having  been  long  established.3  Athanasius4 
jiiij  Augustin5  mention  instances  of  it  prior  to  the  date  of  that 
assembly.  As  early  as  the  second  century  Lyons  is  termed  in 
civil  writings  a  metropolitan  city;  and  Irenaeus,  who  was  its 
bishop,  governed  the  whole  G-allicari  Church,  (xaiw%u».y* 

Some  authors  have  been  of  opinion  that  archbishops  were  even 
of  apostolical  institution;7  and  Eusebius  and  St.  Chrysostom  actu 
ally  assert  that  Titus,  a  bishop,  had  the  superintendence  of  all  the 
bishops  of  Crete.8 

Respecting  the  origin  of  the  patriarchate,  opinions  differ. 
Baronius,  De  Marca,  and  Richerius,  date  it  as  far  back  as  the 
time  of  the  apostles;  but  it  nevertheless  appears  that  it  was  not 
established  in  the  Church  till  about  385 — four  years  after  the 
general  council  of  Constantinople. 

1  Ignat.,  Ep.  ad  Magnes.  n.  6. 

2  Pius,  ep.  2;   Clem.  Alex.,  Strom.,  lib.  vi.  p.  667;  Orijr.,  Horn.  ii.  in  n**n.  j 
Horn,  in  cantic;  Tertul.,  de  Monagam.,  c.  ii. ;  De  Fug  a,  41 ;  De  Baptismo,  c.  17 

3  Cone.  Nicen.,  can.  vi. 

4  Athan.,  De  Sentent.  Dioxys.,  tome  ].  p.  552. 

5  Aug.,  Brevis  Collat.,  Tert.  Die.,  c.  xvi. 

6  Euseb.,  Hist.  Eccl.,  lib.  v.  23.     From  -rrapo\  >v,  we  have  made  parish. 

'  Usher,  De  Orig.  Episc.  et  Metrop.  Bevercg.  cod.  can.  vind.,  lib.  2.  cap.  vi.  a 
12;   Humm.,  Pref.  to  Titus  in  Dissert.  4,  Cont.  Blondel,  cap.  v. 
8  Euseb.,  Hist.  Eccl.,  lib.  iii.  c.  4.;  Chrys.,  Horn.  i.  in  Tit. 


HIERARCHY.  533 


The  title  of  cardinal  was  at  first  given  indiscriminately  to  the 
highest  dignitaries  of  the  Church.1  As  these  heads  of  the  clergy 
were  in  general  men  distinguished  for  their  learning  and  virtues, 
the  Popes  consulted  them  in  important  matters.  They  became 
by  degrees  the  permanent  council  of  the  Holy  See,  and  the  right 
of  electing  the  sovereign  pontiff  was  vested  in  them  when  the 
communion  of  believers  grew  too  numerous  to  be  assembled 
together. 

The  same  causes  that  had  placed  cardinals  near  the  Popes,  also 
gave  canons  to  the  bishops.  These  were  a  certain  number  of 
priests  who  composed  the  episcopal  court.  The  business  of  the 
diocese  increasing,  the  members  of  the  council  were  obliged  to 
divide  the  duties  among  them.  Some  were  called  vicars  and 
others  vicars-general,  according  to  the  extent  of  their  charge.  The 
whole  council  assumed  the  name  of  chapter,  and  the  members 
who  composed  it  that  of  canons,  that  is,  canonical  adminis 
trators. 

Common  priests,  and  even  laymen  appointed  by  the  bishops  to 
superintend  a  religious  community,  were  the  source  of  the  order 
of  abbots.  We  shall  presently  see  how  serviceable  the  abbeys 
proved  to  letters,  to  agriculture,  and,  in  general,  to  the  civilization 
of  Europe. 

Parishes  were  formed  at  the  period  when  the  principal  orders 
of  the  clergy  became  subdivided.  The  bishoprics  being  too  ex 
tensive  to  allow  the  priests  of  the  mother  Church  to  extend  their 
spiritual  and  temporal  aid  to  the  extremities  of  the  diocese, 
churches  were  erected  in  the  country.  The  ministers  attached 
to  these  rural  temples  took,  in  the  course  of  time,  the  name  of 
curates,  from  the  Latin  cura,  which  signifies  care,  fatigue.  The 
appellation  at  least  is  not  a  proud  one,  and  no  one  could  find  fault 
with  them  for  it,  since  they  so  scrupulously  fulfilled  the  condi 
tions  which  it  implied.* 

Besides  these  parochial  churches,  chapels  were  also  built  on 
the  tombs  of  martyrs  and  recluses.  This  kind  of  temple  wan 
called  martyrium  or  memoria;  and,  from  an  idea  still  more  sooth- 

1  Hericourt,  Lois  Eccl.  de  France,  p.  205. 

*  St.  Athanasius,  in  his  second  apology,  says  that,  as  early  as  his  time,  there 
were  ten  parish  churches  in  the  Mareotis  which  belonged  to  the  diocese  of 
Alexandria. 
46» 


534  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

ing  and  philosophical,  it  was  also  termed  cemetery,  after  a  Greek 
word  which  signifies  sleep* 

Lastly,  the  secular  benefices  owed  their  origin  to  the  agtapae,  or 
love-feasts,  of  the  primitive  Christians.  Each  of  the  faithful 
brought  something  toward  the  support  of  the  bishop,  priest,  and 
deacon,  and  for  the  relief  of  the  sick  and  of  strangers.3  The 
rich,  the  princes,  and  whole  cities,  in  the  sequel,  gave  possessions 
to  the  Church  in  the  place  of  these  precarious  alms.  Such  pos 
sessions,  being  divided  into  several  portions  by  the  council  of  the 
superior  clergy,  assumed  different  names — as  prebend,  canonicate, 
benefice  with  or  without  care  of  souls,  &c. — according  to  the  eccle 
siastical  rank  of  the  person  to  whose  superintendence  they  were 
committed.3 

As  to  the  faithful  in  general,  the  whole  community  of  Christians 
was  divided  into  Hiqoi,  (believers,')  and  Kare^afj.£vot,  (catecliu- 
mens.)*  The  believers  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  being  admitted 
to  the  holy  table,  of  being  present  at  the  services  of  the  Church, 
and  of  repeating  the  Lord's  prayer,5  which  St.  Augustin  for  this 
reason  calls  Oratiofidelium,  and  St.  Chrysostom  Eo^y  Tugwv.  The 
catechumens  were  not  allowed  to  be  present  at  all  the  ceremonies, 
and  the  mysteries  were  not  spoken  of  before  them  except  in 
obscure  parables.6 

The  term  laity  was  invented  to  distinguish  such  as  had  not 
entered  among  the  general  body  of  the  clergy.  The  latter  denomi 
nation  was  formed  at  the  same  time.  The  terms  laid  and  derici 
are  met  with  in  every  page  of  the  ancient  writers.  The  appella 
tion  of  ecclesiastic  was  used  sometimes  in  speaking  of  the  Chris 
tians  in  opposition  to  the  Gentiles;7  sometimes  in  designating  the 
clergy  in  contradistinction  to  the  rest  of  the  believers.  Finally, 
the  glorious  title  of  catholic,  or  universal,  was  attributed  to  the 
Church  from  its  origin,  as  is  attested  by  Eusebius,  Clement  of 
Alexandria,  and  St.  Ignatius.8  Poleimon  the  judge  having  asked 

1  Fleury,  Hist.  Eccl.  2  St.  Just.,  Apol 

3  Heric.,  Lois  Eccl.,  pp.  204-213. 

4  Euseb.,  Demonst.  Evang.,  lib.  vii.  c.  2, 

5  Comtit.  Apost.,  lib.  viii.  c.  8  and  12. 

6  Theodor.,  Epit.  Div.  Dogm.,  c.  24 ;    Aug.,  Serm.  ad  NeopJiytos,  in  append., 
tome  x.  p.  845. 

7  Euseb.,  lib.  iv.  c.  7.,  lib.  v.  c.  27;  Cyril,  Catech.,  15,  n.  4. 

8  Euseb.,  lib.  iv.  c.  15;  Clem.  Alex.,  Strom.,  lib.  vii. ;  Ignat.,  c.  ad  Smyrn.,  n.  8, 


HIERARCHY.  535 


Pionos  the  martyr  of  what  church  he  was,  the  confessor  re 
plied,  "Of  the  Catholic  Church;  for  Jesus  Christ  knows  no 
other."1 

Let  us  not  forget,  in  the  description  of  this  hierarchy,  which 
St.  Jerome  compares  to  that  of  the  angels,  the  modes  in  which 
Christianity  displayed  its  wisdom  and  its  fortitude ;  we  mean  the 
councils  and  persecutions.  "Call  to  mind,"  says  La  Bruyere, 
"that  first  and  grand  council  where  the  fathers  who  composed  it 
were  each  remarkable  for  some  mutilated  member  or  for  the  scars 
left  upon  them  by  the  violence  of  persecution.  They  seemed  to 
derive  from  their  wounds  a  right  to  sit  in  that  general  assembly  of 
the  whole  Church." 

How  deplorable  are  the  effects  of  party  spirit!  Voltaire,  who 
often  evinces  a  horror  of  blood  and  a  spirit  of  humanity,  endea 
vored  to  show  that  there  were  but  few  martyrs  in  the  primitive 
days  of  the  Church;"  and,  as  if  he  had  never  read  the  Roman 
historians,  he  almost  denies  that  first  persecution  of  which  Tacitus 
has  drawn  such  a  frightful  picture.  The  author  of  Zaire,  who 
understood  the  powerful  influence  of  misfortune,  was  afraid  lest 
the  popular  mind  should  be  too  much  affected  by  a  description  of 
the  sufferings  of  the  early  Christians.  He  would  rather  deprive 
them  of  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  which  exhibits  them  in  so  in 
teresting  a  light  to  a  feeling  heart,  and  rob  them  even  of  the 
charm  which  attaches  to  their  afflictions. 

We  have  thus  sketched  an  outline  of  the  apostolical  hierarchy. 
Add  to  this  the  regular  clergy,  of  which  we  shall  presently  speak, 
and  you  will  have  the  whole  Church  of  Jesus  Christ.  We  will 
venture  to  assert  that  no  other  religion  upon  earth  ever  exhibited 
such  a  system  of  benevolence,  prudence,  and  foresight,  of  energy 
and  mildness,  of  moral  and  religious  laws.  Nothing  is  more  wisely 
instituted  than  those  circles  which,  commencing  with  the  lowest 
village  clerk,  rise  to  the  pontifical  throne  itself,  which  they  sup 
port  and  by  which  they  are  crowned.  The  Church  thus  answers, 
by  its  different  degrees,  all  our  wants.  Arts,  letters,  science, 
legislation,  politics,  institutions,  (literary,  civil,  and  religious,) 
foundations  for  humanity,- — all  these  important  benefits  we  derive 
from  the  higher  ranks  of  the  hierarchy,  while  the  blessings  of 

1  Act.  Pion.  ap.  Bar.  an.,  254,  n.  9.  2  See  note  R  R. 


586  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

charity  and  morality  are  diffused  by  the  subordinate  degrees 
among  the  inferior  classes  of  the  people.  If  the  Church  of  old 
was  indigent  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest  order,  the  reason  was 
because  all  Christendom  was  poor.  But  it  would  have  been 
unreasonable  to  require  that  the  clergy  should  remain  poor  when 
opulence  was  increasing  all  around  them.  They  would  then  have 
lost  all  consideration.  Certain  classes  with  whom  they  could  no 
longer  have  associated  would  have  withdrawn  themselves  from 
their  moral  authority.  The  head  of  the  Church  was  a  prince, 
that  he  might  be  able  to  speak  to  princes.  The  bishops,  placed 
upon  an  equal  footing  with  the  nobles,  durst  instruct  them  in 
their  duties.  The  priests,  secular  and  regular,  being  raised  above 
the  necessities  of  life,  mingled  with  the  rich,  whose  manners  they 
refined;  and  the  simple  curate  dwelt  among  the  poor,  whom  he 
was  destined  to  relieve  by  his  bounty  and  to  console  by  his 
example. 

Not  but  that  the  lowest  of  ecclesiastics  was  also  capable  of  in 
structing  the  great  and  recalling  them  to  virtue;  but  he  could 
neither  follow  them  in  their  habits  of  life,  like  the  superior  clergy, 
nor  address  them  in  a  language  which  they  would  perfectly  have 
understood.  Even  the  consideration  which  he  enjoyed  he 
derived  in  part  from  the  higher  orders  of  the  Church.  It  is 
moreover  befitting  a  great  nation  to  have  a  respectable  clergy  and 
altars  where  the  distressed  may  obtain  relief. 

In  short,  there  is  nothing  so  beautiful  in  the  history  of  civil 
and  religious  institutions  as  what  relates  to  the  authority,  the 
duties,  and  the  investiture,  of  the  Christian  prelate.  In  him 
you  behold  the  perfect  image  of  the  pastor  of  the  people 
and  the  minister  of  the  altar.  No  class  of  men  has  reflected 
greater  honor  on  humanity  than  that  of  bishops,  and  none  are 
more  distinguished  for  their  virtue,  their  true  greatness,  and 
their  genius. 

The  apostolic  chief  was  required  to  be  free  from  corporeal  de 
fect,  and  like  the  unblemished  priest  whom  Plato  describes  in  his 
Laws  Chosen  in  the  assembly  of  the  people,  he  was  perhaps 
the  ouiy  legal  magistrate  existing  in  the  barbarous  ages.  As  this 
august  station  carried  with  it  an  immense  responsibility,  both  in 
this  life  and  in  the  next,  it  was  by  no  means  coveted.  The  Basils 
and  the  Ambroses  fled  to  the  desert  for  fear  of  being  elevated  to 


HIERARCHY.  537 

a  dignity  from  the  duties  of  which  even  their  virtues  shrunk 
with  dismay. 

Not  only  was  the  bishop  obliged  to  perform  his  religious  func 
tions, — that  is,  to  teach  morality,  to  administer  the  sacraments,  to 
ordain  the  clergy, — but  upon  him  devolved  likewise  the  whole 
weight  of  the  civil  laws  ana  of  political  affairs.  There  was  either 
a  prince  to  be  appeased,  a  war  to  be  averted,  or  a  city  to  be  de 
fended.  When  the  Bishop  of  Paris,  in  the  ninth  century,  saved 
that  capital  by  his  courage,  he  probably  prevented  all  France 
from  passing  under  the  yoke  of  the  Normans. 

"So  thoroughly  was  it  understood,"  says  I)'  Hericourt,  "to  be 
a  duty  incumbent  on  the  episcopacy  to  entertain  strangers,  that 
Gregory  the  Great,  before  he  would  consecrate  Florentine,  Bishop 
of  Ancona,  required  an  explanation  whether  it  was  from  inability 
or  avarice  that  he  had  not  previously  practised  hospitality  toward 
strangers."1 

The  bishop  was  expected  to  hate  sin,  but  not  the  sinner;  to 
support  the  weak;  to  have  the  feelings  of  a  father  for  the  poor.3 
He  was  nevertheless  to  keep  within  certain  bounds  in  his  gifts, 
and  not  to  entertain  persons  of  dangerous  or  useless  professions, 
such  as  stage-players  and  hunters,8 — a  truly  politic  injunction, 
levelled  on  the  one  hand  against  the  predominant  vice  of  the 
Romans,  and  on  the  other  against  that  of  the  barbarians. 

If  the  bishop  had  needy  relations,  it  was  allowable  in  him  to 
prefer  them  to  strangers,  but  not  to  enrich  them;  "for,"  says  the 
canon,  "  it  is  their  indigence,  and  not  the  ties  of  blood,  which,  in 
such  a  case,  he  ought  to  consider."* 

Is  it  surprising  that,  with  such  virtues,  the  bishops  should  have 
gained  the  veneration  of  all  classes?  The  people  bowed  their 
heads  to  receive  their  benediction.  They  sang  Hosanna  before 
them.  They  styled  them  most  holy,  most  beloved  of  God — titles 
the  more  illustrious  as  they  were  deservedly  conferred. 

When  the  nations  became  civilized,  the  bishops,  whose  reli 
gious  duties  were  now  more  circumscribed,  enjoyed  the  good 
which  they  had  done  for  mankind,  and  sought  to  bestow  on  them 


'  Loit  Ecclee.  de  France,  p.  751. 

2  Id.  ib.  Can.  Odio. 

3  Id.  ib.  Can.  Don.  qui  Vvnatoribu*. 

4  Id.  ib.  p.  742 ;   Can.  eet  Prvbanda. 


538  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

further  benefits  by  paying  particular  attention  to  the  promotion 
of  morality,  charity,  and  learning.  Their  palaces  became  the 
focus  of  politeness  and  the  arts  Summoned  by  their  sovereigns 
to  the  administration  of  public  affairs,  and  invested  with  the 
highest  dignities  of  the  Church,  they  displayed  talents  which 
commanded  the  admiration  of  Europe.  Up  to  the  latest  times 
the  bishops  of  France  have  been  patterns  of  moderation  and 
intelligence.  Some  exceptions  might  doubtless  be  adduced ;  but, 
so  long  as  mankind  shall  have  a  relish  for  exalted  traits  of  virtue, 
it  will  be  remembered  that  more  than  sixty  Catholic  bishops 
wandered  as  fugitives  into  Protestant  countries ;  and  that,  in  spite 
of  all  religious  prejudices,  they  gained  the  respect  and  veneration 
of  the  people  of  those  countries ;  that  the  disciple  of  Luther  and 
of  Calvin  came  to  hear  the  exiled  Roman  prelate  preach,  in  some 
obscure  retreat,  the  love  of  humanity  and  the  forgiveness  of 
injuries.1  Finally,  it  will  be  remembered  that  these  modern 
Cyprians,  persecuted  for  the  sake  of  their  religion, — these  courage 
ous  Chrysostoms, — divested  themselves  of  the  title  which  was  at 
once  the  cause  of  their  affliction  and  their  glory,  at  the  mere  word 
of  the  Head  of  the  Church, — happy  to  sacrifice,  with  their  former 
prosperity,  the  splendor  of  twelve  years  of  adversity  to  the  peace 
of  their  flock. 

As  to  the  inferior  clergy,  it  was  to  them  that  we  were  indebted 
for  the  remnant  of  morality  which  was  still  to  be  found  among 

1  The  sympathy  and  generosity  of  different  nations  in  Europe  toward  the 
French  clergy,  who,  exiled  from  their  native  land  during  the  Revolution, 
sought  refuge  among  them,  is  worthy  of  everlasting  admiration.  In  England 
especially  all  national  and  religious  prejudices  seemed  to  be  forgotten  to  make 
way  for  the  exercise  of  a  noble  and  munificent  hospitality.  All  classes  of  per 
sons,  clergy  and  laity,  high  and  low,  united,  and  the  government  itself  took 
an  active  part  in  this  work  of  charity.  During  the  Reign  of  Terror  not  less 
than  8000  Catholic  priests  landed  on  the  English  shore,  where  every  one 
received  a  most  friendly  welcome.  From  September,  1792,  to  August,  1793,  the 
disbursement  for  the  relief  of  those  who  were  in  need  amounted  to  £47,000 
sterling.  The  subscriptions,  public  and  private,  exceeded  £80,000.  Besides 
this,  the  University  of  Oxford  had  printed  at  its  own  expense,  and  distributed 
gratuitously  among  the  clergy,  an  edition  of  the  New  Testament  according  to 
the  Catholic  version.  Our  author  (Jlfemnirex  d'  Outre-tombe)  makes  honorable 
mention  of  the  charity  of  the  English  clergy  toward  his  countrymen;  but,  in 
the  Histoire  du  Clerge  de  France,  by  the  Abbe  Barruel,  p.  566,  ct  seq.,  the  noble 
benevolence  of  the  English  people  on  this  occasion  is  the  subject  of  an  eloquent 
and  feeling  eulogy, — the  evident  effusion  of  a,  grateful  heart.  T. 


HIERARCHY.  531) 

tne  lower  classes,  both  in  the  cities  and  in  the  country.  The 
peasant  without  religion  is  a  ferocious  animal.  He  knows  not  the 
restraint  of  education  or  of  human  respect.  A  toilsome  life  has 
soured  his  disposition,  and  the  possession  of  property  has  taken 
from  him  the  innocence  of  the  savage.  He  is  timid,  coarse,  dis 
trustful,  avaricious,  and,  above  all,  ungrateful.  But,  by  a  truly 
surprising  miracle,  this  man,  by  nature  so  perverse,  is  transformed 
into  a  new  creature  by  the  hand  of  religion.  As  cowardly  as  he 
was  before,  so  brave  does  he  now  become.  His  propensity  to 
betray  is  converted  into  inviolable  fidelity,  his  ingratitude  into 
unbounded  attachment,  his  distrust  into  implicit  confidence. 
Compare  those  impious  peasants  profaning  the  churches,  laying 
waste  estates,  burning  women,  children,  and  priests  with  a  slow 
fire, — compare  them,  I  say,  with  the  inhabitants  of  La  Veiide'e 
defending  the  religion  of  their  forefathers,  and  alone  asserting 
their  freedom,  when  all  the  rest  of  France  was  bowed  down  by 
the  yoke  of  terror.  Compare  them,  and  behold  the  difference 
that  religion  can  make  between  men. 

If  the  parish  priests  could  be  reproached  with  prejudices  arising 
from  their  profession  or  from  ignorance,  still,  after  all,  simplicity 
of  heart,  sanctity  of  life,  evangelical  poverty,  the  charity  of  Jesus 
Christ,  made  them  one  of  the  most  respectable  classes  of  the 
nation.  Many  of  them  seemed  to  be  not  so  much  human  beings 
as  beneficent  spirits,  who  had  descended  to  the  earth  to  relieve 
the  unfortunate.  Often  did  they  deny  themselves  bread  to  feed 
the  necessitous,  and  often  did  they  strip  themselves  of  their 
garments  to  cover  the  naked.  Who  would  presume  to  upbraid 
such  men  with  some  stiffness  of  opinion  ?  Which  of  us,  with  all 
our  boasted  philanthropy,  would  like,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  to 
be  wakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  go  to  a  considerable 
distance  in  the  country  for  the  purpose  of  attending  a  poor  wretch 
expiring  upon  straw  ?  Which  of  us  would  like  to  have  his  heart 
incessantly  wounded  by  the  sight  of  misery  which  it  is  not  in  his 
power  to  relieve? — to  be  surrounded  by  a  family  whose  haggard 
cheeks  and  hollow  eyes  announce  the  extremity  of  famine  and 
every  want'/  Would  we  be  willing  to  accompany  the  parish 
priests  of  Paris — those  angels  of  humanity — into  the  abodes  of 
guilt  and  anguish,  in  order  to  administer  consolation  to  distress  in 
its  most  hideous  forms,  to  pour  the  balm  of  hope  into  a  heart 


540  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

oppressed  with  despair?  Finally,  which  of  us  would  cut  himself 
off  from  the  company  of  the  happy,  to  associate  continually  with 
wretchedness,  and  to  receive,  when  dying,  no  other  recompense 
for  all  these  sacrifices  and  for  all  this  kindness  than  the  ingrati 
tude  of  the  poor  and  the  calumny  of  the  rich  ? 


CHAPTER   III. 

REGULAR    CLERGY. 

Origin  of  the  Monastic  Life. 

IF  it  be  true,  as  we  might  suppose,  that  a  thing  is  poetically 
beautiful  in  proportion  to  the  antiquity  of  its  origin,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  monastic  life  has  some  claim  to  our  admiration. 
It  dates  from  the  earliest  ages  of  the  world.  The  prophet  Elias, 
fleeing  from  the  wickedness  of  Israel,  retired  to  the  banks  of 
Jordan,  where  he  lived  on  herbs  and  roots  with  a  few  disciples. 
To  us  this  source  of  religious  orders,  which  renders  further 
researches  into  history  unnecessary,  appears  truly  striking.  What 
would  not  the  poets  of  Greece  have  said,  had  they  discovered  that 
the  founder  of  the  sacred  colleges  was  a  man  who  had  been  rapt 
into  heaven  in  a  fiery  chariot,  and  who  was  again  to  appear  on 
earth  on  the  great  day  of  the  consummation  of  ages? 

From  Elias  the  monastic  life  is  transmitted,  by  an  admirable 
inheritance,  through  the  prophets  and  St.  John  Baptist,  to  Christ 
himself,  who  often  retired  from  the  world  to  pray  amid  the  soli 
tude  of  the  mountains.  Soon  afterward  the  Therapeutde*  em 
bracing  the  advantages  of  retirement,  exhibited  on  the  banks  of 
the  Lake  Moeris,  in  Egypt,  the  first  models  of  Christian  monas 
teries.  Finally,  in  the  time  of  Paul,  Anthony,  and  Pachomius, 
ippeared  those  celebrated  recluses  of  Thebais  who  filled  Carmel 

'Voltaire  laughs  at  Eusebius  for  supposing  the  Therupeutce  to  be  Christian 
monks.  Eusebius  lived  nearer  their  time  than  Voltaire,  and  was  certainly 
much  better  informed  on  the  subject  of  Christian  antiquity.  Montfaueon, 
FJeury,  Hericourt,  Helyot,  and  a  host  of  other  savans,  agree  with  the  Bishop  of 
Csesarea. 


REGULAR    CLERGY.  54] 


and  Lebanon  with  the  highest  works  of  penance.  A  glorious 
and  a  marvellous  voice  arose  from  the  most  frightful  deserts. 
Divine  harmony  mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  streams  and  of 
the  cascades.  The  seraphim  visited  the  anchoret  of  the  rock,  or 
transported  his  resplendent  spirit  upon  the  clouds.  The  lions 
performed  the  office  of  messengers.  The  ravens,  as  if  endued 
with  intelligence,  brought  to  the  holy  hermit  the  celestial  manna. 
The  jealous  cities  found  their  ancient  fame  shaken  to  its  founda 
tion.  It  was  the  era  of  the  renown  of  the  desert. 

Proceeding  thus  from  enchantment  to  enchantment  in  the 
establishment  of  the  religious  life,  we  see  it  springing  from  other 
sources,  which  may  be  termed  local;  giving  rise  to  certain  par 
ticular  foundations  of  orders  and  convents,  which  are  not  less 
curious  than  the  preceding.  Behold  at  the  gates  of  Jerusalem 
a  monastery  erected  on  the  site  of  Pilate's  palace,  on  Mount 
Sinai  the  Convent  of  the  Transfiguration,  marking  the  awful 
spot  where  Jehovah  dictated  his  laws  to  the  Hebrews.  Yonder 
rises  another  convent  on  the  mountain  where  Jesus  Christ  was  last 
seen  upon  earth.  The  roof  of  its  church  is  open  at  the  very 
place  where  the  Son  of  man  left  the  traces  of  his  glorious 
ascension. 

And  what  admirable  things  may  not  the  West,  in  its  turn, 
exhibit  in  the  foundation  of  communities  ! — those  monuments 
of  our  Gallic  antiquities,  places  consecrated  by  interesting  ad 
ventures  or  by  deeds  of  humanity  !  History,  the  passions  of 
the  heart,  and  beneficence,  prefer  an  equal  claim  to  the  origin  of 
our  monasteries.  In  yonder  defile  of  the  Pyrenees  behold  the 
hospital  of  Roncevaux,  erected  by  Charlemagne  on  the.  very  spot 
where  the  flower  of  chivalry,  Roland  of  France,  terminated  his 
glorious  achievements.  An  asylum  of  peace  and  charity  fitly 
marks  the  tomb  of  the  warrior  who  defended  the  orphan  and 
died  for  his  country.  In  the  plain  of  Bovines,  before  that  little 
temple  of  the  Lord,  I  learn  to  despise  the  triumphal  arches  of 
a  Marius  or  a  Caesar.  I  survey  with  pride  that  convent  within 
whose  walls  a  king  of  France  offered  the  crown  to  the  most 
worthy.  But,  if  you  delight  in  recollections  of  a  different  kind, 
here  is  a  female  of  Albion  who,  overtaken  by  a  mysterious  slum 
ber,  dreams  that  the  moon  descends  toward  her.  She  soon  gives 
birth  to  a  daughter  chaste  and  melancholy  as  the  orb  of  night, 

4« 


542  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

and  who,  founding  a  monastery,  thus  becomes  the  charming  lumi 
nary  of  the  desert. 

We  might  be  accused  of  an  intention  to  surprise  the  ear  b) 
means  of  harmonious  sounds  were  we  to  enumerate  all  those 
convents  of  Acqua  Bella,  of  Belle  Monte,  of  Valombrosa,  or  of 
Columba,  thus  named  from  its  founder — a  celestial  dove,  who 
resided  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Tell  us  if  La  Trappe  did 
not  preserve  the  name  of  Comminges,  and  the  Paraclete  the  recol 
lection  of  Heloisa.  Ask  the  peasant  of  ancient  Neustria,  "  What 
monastery  is  that  which  you  see  on  the  top  of  the  hill?"  He 
will  reply,  "It  is  the  priory  of  The  Two  Lovers.  A  youth  of 
lowly  birth  fell  in  love  with  the  fair  daughter  of  the  lord  of 
Malmain,  who  agreed  to  give  her  to  her  lover  if  he  could  carry 
her  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  He  accepted  the  condition  and  accom 
plished  the  task;  but  no  sooner  had  he  reached  the  summit  than 
he  expired  from  the  exertion.  The  lady,  not  long  afterward,  died 
of  grief.  The  parents  buried  them  together  on  that  spot,  and 
erected  the  priory  which  you  see  before  you." 

Lastly,  the  tender  heart,  as  well  as  the  antiquary  and  the  poet, 
will  find  its  gratification  in  the  origin  of  our  convents.  Behold 
those  institutions  consecrated  to  charity,  to  the  aid  of  pilgrims,  to 
preparation  for  a  good  death,  to  the  burial  of  the  dead,  to  the  re 
lief  of  the  insane,  to  the  care  of  orphans :  discover,  if  you  can, 
in  the  long  catalogue  of  human  woes,  one  single  infirmity  of  soul 
or  body  for  which  religion  has  not  founded  a  place  of  maintenance 
or  relief. 

The  persecutions  of  the  Romans  contributed  at  first  to  people 
the  solitudes.  At  a  later  period,  the  barbarians  having  invaded 
the  empire  and  broken  all  the  bonds  of  society,  men  had  left  no 
other  hope  than  God,  no  other  asylum  than  the  deserts.  Pious 
congregations  of  the  unfortunate  were  formed  in  all  quarters,  in 
the  midst  of  forests  and  the  most  inaccessible  situations.  The 
fertile  plains  became  the  prey  of  savages,  while  on  the  naked 
brows  of  rugged  mountains  dwelt  another  race,  which  had  saved 
upon  these  crags,  as  from  a  second  deluge,  the  relics  of  the  arts 
and  of  civilization.  But,  as  the  springs  gush  forth  from  the  ele 
vated  places  to  fertilize  the  valleys,  so  the  first  anchorets  by 
degrees  descended  from  their  eminences,  to  make  known  to  the 
barbarians  the  word  of  God  and  the  comforts  of  life. 


REGULAR  CLERGY.  543 


We  may  be  told,  perhaps,  that,  the  causes  which  gave  rise  to 
the  monastic  life  having  ceased,  the  religious  communities  had 
become  useless  institutions  in  our  midst.  But  when  did  these 
causes  cease  to  exist?  Are  there  no  longer  any  orphans,  any 
eick,  any  distressed  travellers,  any  victims  of  poverty  and  misfor 
tune?  Ah!  when  the  evils  of  a  barbarous  age  disappeared, 
Bociety,  which  is  so  ingenious  and  so  effective  in  its  means  of 
tormenting  man,  knew  well  how  to  invent  a  thousand  other 
sources  of  misery,  which  drive  us  into  solitude !  How  often  does 
disappointment,  treachery,  and  profound  disgust,  make  us  wish 
to  escape  from  the  world !  What  a  happiness  to  find  in  those 
religious  houses  a  retreat  where  one  would  be  secured  against 
the  shocks  of  adversity  and  the  storms  of  his  own  heart !  A 
female  orphan,  abandoned  by  society  at  an  age  when  beauty  and 
innocence  are  assailed  by  the  most  seductive  influences,  knevr  at 
least  where  to  find  an  asylum  in  which  she  would  be  free  from 
the  apprehension  of  being  deceived.  What  consolation  was  it 
for  this  poor  young  stranger,  without  parents,  to  be  welcomed  by 
the  sweet  name  of  sister!  What  a  numerous  and  peaceful 
family  did  she  enter,  under  the  guardianship  of  religion!  A 
heavenly  Father  opens  his  house  to  her  and  receives  her  into  his 
arms ! 

It  is  a  very  barbarous  philosophy,  and  a  most  cruel  policy,  to 
compel  any  person  to  live  against  his  will  in  the  midst  of  the 
world.  Men  have  been  so  devoid  of  delicacy  as  to  associate  for 
the  purpose  of  sensual  pleasure;  but  there  is  a  noble  egotism  in 
adversity,  which  prefers  to  enjoy  in  secret  those  pleasures  which 
consist  in  tears.  If  there  are  establishments  for  the  health  of 
the  body,  why  should  not  religion  have  its  institutions  for  the 
health  of  the  soul,  which  is  much  more  liable  to  disease,  and 
whose  sufferings  are  much  more  poignant,  much  longer,  and  much 
more  difficult  to  be  removed  ? 

Certain  philanthropists  have  imagined  that  there  should  be 
establishments  at  the  public  expense  for  those  who  are  in  afflic 
tion.  What  profound  knowledge  of  nature  and  of  the  human 
heart  philosophers  evince!  They  wish  to  intrust  unfortunate 
creatures  to  the  pity  of  men ;  to  place  misery  and  destitution 
under  the  protection  of  those  who  have  caused  them !  A  more 
magnificent  charity  than  our  own  is  necessary  to  comfort  the 


544  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

afflicted  soul.  G-od  alone  is  rich  enough  to  provide  the  needful 
alms. 

It  has  been  pretended  that  a  great  service  was  rendered  to  the 
monks  and  nuns  in  compelling  them  to  quit  their  peaceful  abodes  : 
but  what  was  the  consequence?  Those  pious  women  who 
could  find  an  asylum  in  foreign  convents  did  not  hesitate  to 
embrace  the  opportunity.  Others  lived  together  in  the  world, 
while  many  died  of  grief  and  affliction.  The  Trappists,  who,  it 
was  said,  were  so  much  to  be  pitied,  instead  of  being  tempted  by 
the  charms  of  liberty  and  society,  continued  their  life  of  austerity 
amid  the  heaths  of  England  and  the  wilds  of  Russia. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  we  are  all  equally  born  to  handle 
the  spade  or  the  musket,  or  that  there  are  no  men  of  a  particular 
taste,  having  an  aptitude  for  intellectual  labor  as  others  have 
for  manual  toil.  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  heart  suggests  a 
thousand  reasons  for  seeking  a  life  of  retirement.  Some  are 
drawn  thither  by  a  contemplative  disposition ;  others  are  led  to 
it  by  a  certain  natural  timidity,  which  makes  them  prefer  to  live 
within  themselves ;  then  there  are  persons  of  such  excellent 
qualities  that  they  cannot  find  in  the  world  congenial  spirits  with 
themselves,  and  are  thus  doomed  to  a  kind  of  moral  virginity  or 
eternal  widowhood.  It  was  particularly  for  these  solitary  and 
generous  souls  that  religion  opened  her  peaceful  retreats. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    MONASTIC    CONSTITUTIONS. 

THE  reader  must  be  aware  that  it  is  not  the  particular  history 
of  the  religious  orders  that  we  are  writing,  but  only  their  moral 
history. 

We  shall  therefore  say  nothing  of  St.  Anthony,  the  father  of 
the  cenobites;  of  St.  Paul,  the  first  of  the  anchorets;  of  St. 
Syncletica,  the  foundress  of  convents  for  females;  we  shall  not 
treat  of  the  order  of  St.  Augustin,  which  comprehends  all  the 
chapters  known  by  the  appellation  of  regular;  nor  of  that  of  St 


THE    MONASTIC   CONSTITUTIONS.  545 


Basil,  which  includes  all  the  monks  and  nuns  of  the  East;  nor 
of  the  rule  of  St  Benedict,  comprising  the  greater  part  of  the 
western  monasteries;  nor  of  that  of  St.  Francis,  practised  by  the 
mendicant  orders;  out  we  shall  blend  all  the  religious  in  one 
general  picture,  in  which  we  shall  attempt  to  delineate  their  cus 
toms,  their  manners,  their  way  of  life,  whether  active  or  contem 
plative,  and  the  numberless  services  which  they  have  rendered 
to  society. 

We  cannot,  however,  forbear  to  make  one  remark.  There  are 
persons  who,  either  from  ignorance  or  prejudice,  despise  these 
constitutions  under  which  such  a  number  of  cenobites  have  lived 
for  so  many  centuries.  This  contempt  is  any  thing  but  philo 
sophical,  especially  at  a  time  when  people  pique  themselves  on 
the  study  and  the  knowledge  of  mankind  A  religious  who,  by 
means  of  a  hair-shirt  and  a  wallet,  has  assembled  under  his  rule 
several  thousands  of  disciples,  is  not  an  ordinary  man;  the 
springs  which  he  has  employed  for  this  purpose,  and  the  spirit 
which  prevails  in  his  institutions,  are  well  worthy  of  examination. 

It  is  well  worthy  of  remark  that,  of  all  the  monastic  rules,  the 
most  rigid  have  been  most  scrupulously  observed.  The  Carthusians 
have  exhibited  to  the  world  the  matchless  example  of  a  congre 
gation  which  has  subsisted  seven  hundred  years  without  needing 
reform.  This  proves  that  the  more  the  legislator  combats  the 
propensities  of  nature  the  more  he  insures  the  duration  of  his 
work.  Those,  on  the  contrary,  who  pretend  to  erect  societies  by 
employing  the  passions  as  materials  for  the  edifice,  resemble 
architects  who  build  palaces  with  that  kind  of  stone  which 
crumbles  away  upon  exposure  to  the  air. 

The  religious  orders  have  been  in  many  points  of  view,  nothing 
but  philosophic  sects,  very  nearly  resembling  those  of  the  Greeks. 
The  monks  in  the  early  ages  were  called  philosophers,  wore  their 
dress  and  imitated  their  manners.  Some  of  them  even  chose 
the  manual  of  Epictetus  for  their  only  rule.  St.  Basil  first  intro 
duced  the  vows  of  poverty,  chastity,  and  obedience.  This  law  is 
profound;  and  upon  reflection  we  shall  find  that  the  spirit  of 
Lycurgus  is  comprised  in  these  three  precepts. 

In  the  order  of  St.  Benedict  every  thing  is  prescribed,  even  to 
the  minutest  details  of  life:  bed,  food,  walks,  conversation, 
prayers.  To  the  weak  were  assigned  the  more  delicate  employ- 
46*  2  K 


546  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

ments;  to  the  strong,  such  as  were  more  laborious:  in  short,  most 
of  these  religious  laws  display  an  astonishing  knowledge  of  the 
art  of  governing  men.  Plato  did  no  more  than  dream  of  re 
publics,  without  being  able  to  carry  his  plans  into  execution.  The 
Augustins,  the  Basils,  the  Benedicts,  were  real  legislators  and 
the  patriarchs  of  several  great  nations. 

Much  has  been  said,  in  modern  times,  in  condemnation  of  per 
petual  vows;  but  it  is  not  impossible,  perhaps,  to  support  them 
with  reasons  drawn  from  the  very  nature  of  things  and  from  the 
real  wants  of  our  soul. 

The  unhappiness  of  man  proceeds  chiefly  from  his  inconstancy, 
and  from  the  abuse  of  that  free-will  which  is  at  once  his  glory 
and  his  misfortune,  and  will  be  the  occasion  of  his  condemnation. 
His  thoughts  and  his  feelings  are  ever  changing.  His  loves  are 
not  more  stable  than  his  opinions,  and  his  opinions  are  as  in 
constant  as  his  loves.  From  this  disquietude  there  springs  a 
wretchedness  which  cannot  be  removed  until  some  superior 
power  fix  his  mind  upon  one  only  object.  He  then  bears  the 
yoke  with  cheerfulness;  for,  though  a  man  may  be  an  infidel,  his 
infidelity  nevertheless  is  hateful  to  him.  Thus,  for  instance,  we 
see  the  mechanic  more  happy  than  the  rich  man  who  is  idle, 
because  he  is  engrossed  with  a  work  which  effectually  shuts  out 
all  foreign  desires  and  temptations  to  inconstancy.  The  same 
subjection  to  power  forms  the  contentment  of  children;  and 
the  law  which  prohibits  divorce  is  attended  with  much  less 
inconvenience  for  the  peace  of  families  than  the  law  which 
permits  it. 

The  legislators  of  antiquity  understood  the  necessity  of  im 
posing  a  yoke  upon  man.  In  fact,  the  republics  T)f  Lycurgus  and 
Minos  were  nothing  more  than  communities  in  which  men  were 
bound  from  their  very  birth  by  perpetual  vows.  The  citizen 
was  condemned  to  a  uniform  or  monotonous  existence,  and  sub 
jected  to  the  most  troublesome  regulations,  which  extended  even 
to  his  meals  and  recreations.  He  could  neither  dispose  of  his 
time  during  the  day,  nor  of  the  different  periods  of  his  life.  A 
rigid  sacrifice  of  his  inclinations  was  demanded  of  him;  he  had 
to  love,  to  think,  and  to  act,  according  to  the  law.  In  a  word, 
to  render  him  happy  he  was  deprived  of  his  own  will. 

The  perpetual  vow,  therefore, — that  is,  submission  to  an  in- 


THE   MONASTIC   CONSTITUTIONS.  547 

violable  rule, — far  from  producing  discontentment  or  misery,  on 
the  contrary  is  conducive  to  the  happiness  of  man,  especially 
when  the  only  object  of  the  vow  is  to  protect  him  against  the 
illusions  of  the  world,  as  is  the  case  in  monastic  institutions. 
The  uprising  of  the  passions  seldom  takes  place  before  the  age 
of  twenty,  and  at  that  of  forty  they  are  commonly  extinguished 
or  disabused;  and  thus  an  indissoluble  obligation  deprives  us  at 
most  of  a  few  years  of  freedom,  while  it  secures  to  us  a  peaceful 
life  and  banishes  regret  and  remorse  the  remainder  of  our  days. 
If  we  contrast  the  evils  which  spring  from  our  passions  with  the 
little  enjoyment  which  they  procure,  we  shall  perceive  that  the 
perpetual  vow  is  something  desirable  even  during  the  gay  season 
of  youth. 

We  ask,  moreover,  whether  a  nun  would  be  happy  if  there 
were  no  moral  restraint  to  prevent  her  from  leaving  the  cloister 
at  discretion  ?  After  a  few  years  of  retirement  she  would  behold 
society  altogether  changed;  for,  on  the  theatre  of  life,  when  wo 
cease  for  a  moment  to  gaze  upon  the  scene,  the  decorations 
change  and  pleasure  vanishes ;  and,  on  looking  back  again,  we 
see  only  places  that  have  been  deserted  and  actors  that  are 
unknown  to  us.  A  convent  would  be  a  very  useless  institution 
if  it  were  a  house  where  the  folly  of  the  world  could  enter  and 
go  out  at  the  whim  of  the  moment.  The  agitated  heart  would 
not  commune  long  enough  with  the  heart  that  is  at  peace,  to 
acquire  something  of  its  blessed  repose,  and  the  soul  that  is  calm 
and  cheerful  would  soon  lose  its  joyful  tranquillity  amid  the 
troubled  spirits  of  the  world.  Instead  of  burying  in  silence  the 
past  evils  of  life,  for  which  the  cloister  presents  so  efficient  a 
remedy,  the  religious  would  be  entertaining  each  other  with  their 
spiritual  maladies,  and  perhaps  mutually  creating  a  disposition 
to  brave  again  the  dangers  which  they  had  fled.  A  woman  of 
the  world  and  a  woman  of  solitude,  the  unfaithful  spouse  of 
Christ  would  be  fit  neither  for  solitude  nor  for  the  world.  The 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  passions — those  vows  alternately  broken  and 
renewed — would  banish  from  convents  the  peace,  subordination, 
and  propriety,  which  should  reign  in  them;  and  those  sacred 
retreats,  far  from  putting  an  end  to  our  disquietudes,  would  be 
nothing  more  than  places  where  we  would  deplore  for  a  moment  the 
inconstancy  of  others  and  plan  some  new  inconstancy  for  ourselves 


548  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

But  what  renders  the  perpetual  vow  of  religion  far  superior 
to  that  kind  of  political  vow  which  existed  among  the  people  of 
Sparta  and  Crete,  is  its  coming  from  ourselves,  its  not  being 
imposed  by  others.  Moreover,  this  vow  offers  to  the  heart  a 
compensation  for  the  terrestrial  love  which  it  sacrifices.  In  this 
alliance  of  an  immortal  soul  with  the  eternal  principle  we  see 
nothing  but  true  greatness.  Here  are  two  natures  adapted  to 
each  other  and  coming  together.  What  a  sublime  spectacle  ! 
Man,  born  free,  seeks  happiness  in  vain  by  pursuing  his  own 
will;  then,  wearied  out,  and  convinced  that  there  is  nothing  here 
below  worthy  of  his  regard,  he  swears  to  make  Grod  the  eternal 
object  of  his  love,  and,  as  is  the  case  with  the  Divine  Being,  he 
creates  for  himself  by  his  own  act  a  necessity  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MANNERS    AND    LIFE    OF   THE   RELIGIOUS. 

Coptic  Monks,  Maronites,  &c. 

LET  us  now  proceed  to  a  delineation  of  the  religious  life,  and, 
in  the  first  place,  lay  down  this  principle : — wherever  we  find  a 
great  deal  of  mystery,  solitude,  silence,  and  contemplation,  many 
allusions  to  the  Deity,  many  venerable  things  in  manners,  cus 
toms,  and  apparel,  there  must  necessarily  be  abundance  of  beau 
ties  of  every  kind.  If  this  observation  be  correct,  we  shall 
presently  see  how  admirably  it  applies  to  the  subject  before  us. 

Let  us  return  once  more  to  the  hermits  of  Thebais.  They 
dwelt  in  narrow  cells,  and  wore,  like  Paul  their  founder,  robes 
made  of  the  leaves  of  palm-trees;  others  were  habited  in  cloth 
woven  of  the  hair  of  the  antelope;  some,  like  Zeno,  merely 
threw  the  skins  of  wild  beasts  over  their  shoulders;  while  Sera- 
phion  the  anchoret  appeared  wrapped  in  the  shroud  which  was 
to  cover  him  in  the  grave.  The  Maronite  monks  in  the  solitudes 
of  Lebanon,  the  Nestorian  hermits  scattered  along  the  Tigris, 
those  of  Abyssinia,  near  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile  and  on  the 


MANNERS   AND  LIFE   OF   THE   RELIGIOUS.  549 

coasts  of  the  Red  Sea,  all  lead  a  life  as  extraordinary  as  the 
deserts  in  which  they  have  buried  themselves.  The  Coptic 
monk,  on  entering  his  monastery,  renounces  every  pleasure,  and 
spends  all  his  time  in  labor,  fasting,  prayer,  and  the  practice  of 
hospitality.  He  lies  on  the  ground ;  and  scarcely  has  he  slumbered 
a  few  moments  when  he  rises,  and,  beneath  the  serene  firmament 
of  Egypt,  raises  his  voice  amid  the  silence  of  night,  on  the  ruins 
of  Thebes  and  Memphis.  Sometimes  the  echo  of  the  pyramids 
repeats  to  the  shades  of  the  Pharaos  the  hymns  of  this  member 
of  the  mystic  family  of  Joseph;  at  others  the  pious  recluse  cele 
brates  in  his  matin  devotion  the  true  Sun  of  glory  on  the  very 
spot  where  harmonious  statues  greeted  the  visible  sun  of  day.1 
There,  too,  he  seeks  the  European  bewildered  among  those 
renowned  ruins;  there,  rescuing  him  from  the  hands  of  a  horde 
of  Arabs,  he  conducts  him  to  his  lofty  tower,  and  amply  sup 
plies  this  stranger  with  refreshments  which  he  denies  himself. 
Scholars  go,  it  is  true,  to  visit  the  ruins  of  Egypt;  but  how 
happens  it  that,  unlike  those  Christian  monks,  the  objects  of  their 
scorn,  they  repair  not  thither  to  fix  their  abode  in  those  oceans 
of  sand,  to  endure  all  sorts  of  privations,  that  they  may  give  a 
glass  of  water  to  the  fainting  traveller  and  snatch  him  from  the 
scimetar  of  the  Bedouin  ? 

God  of  Christians !  what  marvellous  things  hast  thou  done ! 
Which  way  soever  we  turn  our  eyes,  we  perceive  nothing  but 
monuments  of  thy  bounty.  Throughout  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe  Religion  has  distributed  her  soldiers  and  stationed  her 
sentinels  of  humanity.  The  Maronite  monk,  by  the  clattering 
of  two  boards  hung  to  the  top  of  a  tree,  calls  the  stranger  who 
is  benighted  among  the  precipices  of  Lebanon;  this  poor  ignorant 
artist  possesses  no  more  costly  means  of  informing  you  where  he 
is.  The  Abyssinian  hermit  awaits  you  in  yon  wood  among  prowl 
ing  tigers;  and  the  American  missionary  watches  for  your  pre 
servation  in  his  boundless  forests.  Cast  by  tempests  upon  an 
unknown  coast,  you  all  at  once  perceive  a  cross  erected  on  a  rock. 
Unfortunate  are  you  if  this  emblem  of  salvation  does  not  make 

1  The  statue  of  Memnon  was  said  to  utter  a  melodious  sound.  This  sound 
waa  supposed  to  be  caused  by  the  reverberation  of  the  rays  of  the  sun.  Th« 
geographer  Strabo  attests  the  fact.  The  ruins  of  this  statue  arc  still  con- 
•iderable.  S. 


550  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

your  eyes  overflow  with  tears !  You  are  in  a  friendly  country, 
for  here  are  Christians.  You  are  Frenchmen,  it  is  true,  and 
they  are  perhaps  Spaniards,  Germans,  or  English.  But  what  of 
that  ?  Are  you  not  of  the  great  family  of  Jesus  Christ  ?  These 
foreigners  will  receive  you  as  a  brother;  it  is  you  whom  they 
invite  by  this  cross;  they  never  saw  you  before,  and  yet  they 
weep  for  joy  because  you  have  escaped  the  perils  of  the  deep. 

Observe  yon  traveller  upon  the  Alps ;  he  has  performed  but 
half  his  journey.  Night  approaches ;  the  snow  begins  to  fall ; 
alone,  trembling,  bewildered,  he  proceeds  a  few  steps,  and  is  to 
all  appearance  irrecoverably  lost.  It  grows  dark ;  he  finds  him 
self  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  dares  not  venture  either  to 
advance  or  to  turn  back.  The  cold  soon  overpowers  him;  his 
limbs  are  benumbed;  a  fatal  drowsiness  oppresses  his  eyes;  his 
last  thoughts  dwell  on  his  wife  and  children.  But  hark  !  is  it 
not  the  sound  of  a  bell  that  strikes  his  ear  amid  the  howling  of 
the  tempest?  or  is  it  the  knell  of  death  which  his  affrighted 
fancy  hears  amid  the  war  of  winds?  No;  they  are  real  sounds. 
Another  noise  arises;  a  dog  yelps  among  the  snow;  he  ap 
proaches,  he  arrives,  he  barks  for  joy;  a  benevolent  recluse 
follows,  and  comes  up  just  in  time  to  rescue  him  from  his  peril 
ous  situation. 

It  was  not  enough,  then,  for  this  recluse  to  have  risked  his  life 
a  thousand  times  in  order  to  save  his  fellow-creatures,  or  to 
have  fixed  his  permanent  abode  among  the  most  dreary  deserts ; 
but  the  very  animals  must  be  taught  to  become  the  instruments 
of  his  sublime  beneficence,  to  glow,  as  it  were,  with  the  same 
sympathy  as  their  holy  masters,  and,  by  their  barking  on  the 
summit  of  the  Alps,  to  send  forth  upon  the  echoes  the  miracles 
of  our  religion.1 

1  The  convents  or  hospitals  here  alluded  to  are  situated  upon  the  summit 
of  the  great  St.  Bernard,  one  of  the  high  mountains  in  the  Alps.  They  were 
founded  in  the  tenth  century  by  Bernard  of  Menthon,  an  ecclesiastic,  to  afford 
assistance  and  entertainment  to  the  pilgrims  in  their  journey  to  Rome.  Some 
of  the  monks  who  belong  to  these  convents  take  care  of  sick  travellers,  and 
others  search  for  those  who  have  lost  their  way  in  the  pathless  regions  of  snow 
and  ice.  They  make  no  distinction  of  age,  sex,  or  religion,  but,  like  the  good 
Samaritan,  consider  distress  as  an  undeniable  claim  to  their  humanity  and 
protection. 

Their  dogs,  of  a  large  size,  are  trained  to  go  out  alone,  and  they  exercise  an 


MANNERS  AND   LIFE  OF   THE   RELIGIOUS.  551 

Let  it  not  be  said  that  such  acts  may  be  prompted  by  humanity 
alone ;  for  how  happens  it  that  we  find  nothing  of  the  sort  in  an 
tiquity,  though  possessing  such  sensibility  ?  People  talk  of  phi 
lanthropy;  the  Christian  religion  is  philanthropy  itself.  As 
tonishing  and  sublime  idea,  which  makes  the  Christian  of  China 
a  friend  of  the  Christian  of  France,  the  converted  Indian  a  brr- 
ther  of  the  Egyptian  monk  !  We  are  no  longer  strangers  on  tne 
earth;  neither  can  we  any  longer  lose  our  way  in  it.  JCMIS 
Christ  has  restored  to  us  the  inheritance  of  which  we  were  de 
prived  by  the  sin  of  Adam.  0  Christian  !  for  thee  there  is  now 
no  unknown  ocean  or  deserts;  thou  wilt  everywhere  find  the  hut 
of  thy  father  and  the  language  of  thy  ancestors. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    SUBJECT   CONTINUED. 

Trappists — Carthusians — Sisters  of  St.  Clare — Fa  f hers  of  Re 
demption — Missionaries — Ladies  of  Charity,  &c. 

SUCH  are  the  manners  and  customs  of  some  of  the  religious 
orders  of  the  contemplative  life;  but,  if  these  things  are  so 
extremely  beautiful,  it  is  solely  because  they  are  associated  with 
meditation  and  prayer :  take  from  them  the  name  and  presence 
of  God,  and  the  charm  is  almost  entirely  destroyed. 

Transport  yourself  now  to  La  Trappe,  and  contemplate  those 
monks,  dressed  in  sackcloth,  digging  their  own  graves  !  Behold 
them  wandering  like  spectres  in  the  extensive  forest  of  Mortagne 
and  on  the  margin  of  the  solitary  lake  !  Silence  walks  by  their 


astonishing  sagacity  in  tracking  travellers  that  have  lost  their  way  and  in  dis 
covering  those  who  have  fallen  down  amid  drifts  of  snow.  Even  the  warmest 
colors  of  our  author's  description  could  scarcely  do  justice  to  the  indefatigable 
and  perilous  exertions  of  these  most  benevolent  monks.  S. 

These  monks  still  exercise  their  heroic  charity,  as  far  as  their  means  will 
permit,  notwithstanding  the  spoliations  recently  suffered  frc  in  the  Swiss  govern 
ment,  whose  hatred  of  the  true  religion  is  only  equalled  by  its  inhumanity.  T. 


552  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

side,  or,  if  they  speak  when  they  meet,  all  they  say  to  each  other 
is,  Brother,  we  must  die.  These  rigorous  orders  of  Christianity 
were  schools  of  active  morality,  instituted  in  the  midst  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  age,  and  exhibiting  continually  to  the  eyes  of 
vice  and  prosperity  models  of  penance  and  striking  examples  of 
human  misery. 

And  what  a  sight  was  that  of  an  expiring  monk  of  La  Trappe  ! 
what  sublime  philosophy !  what  a  warning  to  mankind !  Ex 
tended  upon  a  little  straw  and  ashes  in  the  sanctuary  of  the 
church,  his  brethren  ranged  in  silence  around  him,  he  exhorts 
them  to  persevere  in  virtue  while  the  funeral  bell  announces  his 
last  agonies.  It  is  usually  the  task  of  the  living  to  encourage 
their  departing  friends ;  but  here  is  a  spectacle  much  more  sub 
lime;  it  is  the  dying  man  who  expatiates  on  death.  Already  step 
ping  upon  the  threshold  of  eternity,  he  understands  better  than 
those  around  him  what  death  is,  and,  with  a  voice  which  seems 
to  issue  from  the  sepulchre,  he  emphatically  summons  his  com 
panions  and  even  his  superiors  to  works  of  penance.  Who  does 
not  shudder  in  perceiving  that  this  religious,  after  a  life  of  so 
much  holiness,  is  yet  penetrated  with  fear  at  the  approach  of 
his  mortal  dissolution  ?  Christianity  has  drawn  from  the  tomb 
all  the  morality  that  underlies  it.  By  death  has  morality 
entered  into  the  life  of  man.  Had  he  remained  immortal  after 
the  fall,  he  would  never  perhaps  have  been  acquainted  with 
virtue.1 

Thus  religion  everywhere  presents  scenes  the  most  pleasing  or 
the  most  instructive.  Here  holy  men,  like  people  enchanted  by 
a  magic  spell,  perform  in  silence  the  joyful  operations  of  the 
harvest  and  the  vintage ;  there  the  nuns  of  St.  Clare  tread  with 
bare  feet  the  ice-cold  tombs  of  their  cloister.  Imagine  not,  how 
ever,  that  they  are  unhappy  amid  their  austerities ;  their  hearts 
are  pure,  and  their  eyes  are  directed  toward  heaven,  indicative 
of  desire  and  hope.  A  gray  woollen  robe  is  preferable  to  mag 
nificent  apparel  purchased  at  the  price  of  virtue,  and  the  bread 
of  charity  is  more  wholesome  than  that  of  prostitution.  From 
how  many  afflictions  are  not  these  females  secured  by  the  simple 
veil  which  separates  them  from  the  world?  To  give  the  reader 


1  See  note  SS. 


MANNERS   AND   LIFE   OF.  THE  RELIGIOUS.  553 

an  adequate  idea  of  the  objects  which  now  suggest  themselves 
to  our  contemplation  would  require  a  talent  quite  different  from 
ours.  The  highest  eulogy  that  we  could  present  of  the  monastic 
life  would  be  to  exhibit  a  catalogue  of  the  meritorious  works  to 
which  it  has  been  devoted.  Religion,  leaving  the  care  of  our 
joys  to  our  own  hearts,  is  like  a  tender  mother,  intent  only  on 
alleviating  our  sorrows;  but  in  accomplishing  this  arduous  task 
she  has  summoned  all  her  sons  and  daughters  to  her  aid.  To 
Borne  she  has  committed  the  care  of  those  afflicted  with  disease, 
as  to  the  multitude  of  monks  and  nuns  dedicated  to  the  service 
of  hospitals  ;  to  others  she  has  consigned  the  poor,  as  to  the 
pious  Sisters  of  Charity.  The  Redemptionist  Father  embarks  at 
Marseilles;  but  whither  is  he  bound  alone,  with  his  breviary  and 
his  staff?  This  conqueror  is  speeding  to  the  deliverance  of  hu 
manity,  attended  by  invisible  armies.  With  the  purse  of  charity 
in  his  hand,  he  goes  to  brave  pestilence,  slavery,  and  martyrdom. 
He  accosts  the  Dey  of  Algiers;  he  addresses  him  in  the  name 
of  that  heavenly  king  whose  ambassador  he  is.  The  barbarian 
is  astonished  at  the  sight  of  this  European  stranger  who  ventures 
to  come  alone,  across  seas  and  through  storms,  to  demand  the 
release  of  his  captive  fellow-creatures.  Impelled  by  an  unknown 
power,  he  accepts  the  gold  that  is  offered  him,  and  the  heroic 
deliverer,  satisfied  with  having  restored  some  unfortunate  beings 
to  their  country,  obscure  and  unknown,  humbly  sets  out  on  foot 
to  return  to  his  monastery. 

Wherever  we  look,  a  similar  prospect  presents  itself.  The 
missionary  embarking  for  China  meets,  in  the  port,  the  mis 
sionary  returning  glorious  and  crippled  from  Canada;  the  Gray 
nun  hastens  to  administer  relief  to  the  pauper  in  his  cottage;  the 
Capuchin  flies  to  check  the  ravages  of  a  conflagration ;  the  friar 
Hospitaller  washes  the  feet  of  the  traveller;  the  brother  of  the 
Bona  Mors  Society  consoles  the  dying  Christian  or  conveys  the 
body  of  the  poor  to  the  grave;  the  Sister  of  Charity  mounts  to 
the  garret  of  indigence  to  distribute  money  and  clothing  and  to 
light  up  the  soul  with  hope ;  those  women  so  justly  denominated 
Filles-Dieu  (daughters  of  God)  are  always  carrying  here  and 
there  food,  lint,  and  medicaments;  the  Sister  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  extends  her  arms  to  the  unhappy  victim  of  crime. 

exclaiming,  I  am  not  com?  to  call  the.  just  but  sinners  to  repent- 
47  Y 


554  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


ance.  The  orphan  finds  a  father,  the  lunatic  a  physician,  the 
ignorant  an  instructor.  All  these  doers  of  heavenly  works 
encourage  one  another.  Religion,  meanwhile,  attentive  to  their 
actions,  and  holding  a  crown  of  immortality,  thus  addresses 
them: — "Be  of  good  heart,  my  children,  go  on  !  Quicken  your 
pace ;  be  more  speedy  than  the  evils  which  befall  human  life. 
Earn  this  crown  which  I  have  prepared  for  you,  and  which  will 
secure  you  from  every  affliction,  from  every  want." 

Among  so  many  pictures,  each  of  which  would  require  whole 
volumes  to  enter  fully  into  its  details  and  praises,  on  what  par 
ticular  scene  shall  we  fix  our  view  ?  We  have  already  treated  of 
those  hospitable  houses  which  religion  has  erected  in  the 
solitudes  of  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe;  let  us  now  turn  our 
eyes  to  objects  of  a  different  kind. 

There  are  people  in  whom  the  mere  name  of  Capuchin  excites 
feelings  of  contempt.  The  monks  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis 
were,  nevertheless,  very  often  distinguished  for  simplicity  and 
dignity.  Which  of  us  has  not  seen  a  couple  of  those  venerable 
men  journeying  in  the  country,  commonly  toward  All-Souls'  day, 
at  the  approach  of  winter,  about  the  time  of  the  vintage  ?  They 
went  along  soliciting  hospitality  at  the  ancient  mansions  which 
they  passed  in  their  way.  At  nightfall  the  two  pilgrims  reached 
a  solitary  edifice ;  they  ascended  the  antique  steps,  laid  down 
their  long  staves  and  their  wallets  at  the  top,  knocked  at  the 
loud-resounding  door,  and  applied  for  hospitality.  If  the  master 
refused  admittance  to  these  guests  of  the  Lord,  they  made  a  pro 
found  obeisance,  silently  retired,  took  up  their  wallets  and  their 
staves,  and,  shaking  the  dust  from  their  sandals,  proceeded,  amid 
the  shades  of  night,  to  seek  the  cabin  of  the  husbandman.  If, 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  received,  they  were  first  supplied  with 
water  to  wash,  after  the  fashion  of  the  days  of  Jacob  and  Homer, 
and  then  they  went  and  seated  themselves  at  the  hospitable  fire. 
As  in  times  of  old,  they  began  to  caress  the  children  of  tl  eir  hosts, 
not  merely  to  gain  their  favor,  but  because,  like  their  divine 
Master,  they  were  fond  of  children  ;  they  made  them  presents  of 
relics  and  pictures.  The  young  folks,  who  had  at  first  run  away 
affrighted,  being  now  attracted  by  these  curiosities,  soon  grew  so 
familiar  as  to  play  between  the  knees  of  the  good  friars.  The 
parents  with  a  smile  of  tenderness  beheld  their  innocent  sports, 


MANNERS   AND   LIFE   OF   THE   RELIGIOUS.  555 


rnd  the  interesting  contrast  between  the  infantine  graces  of  their 
offspring  and  the  hoary  age  of  their  guests. 

Meanwhile  the  rain  poured  in  torrents ;  tempestuous  winds 
swept  through  the  1-  afless  woods  and  howled  among  the  chim 
neys  and  battlements  of  the  Gothic  mansion ;  the  owl  screeched 
from  the  top  of  the  turret  Near  a  large  fire,  the  family  sat 
down  to  .supper ;  the  repast  was  cordial  and  the  behavior 
friendly.  The  youthful  daughter  of  the  .host  timidly  questioned 
her  guests,  who,  with  becoming  gravity,  commended  her  beauty 
and  modesty.  The  good  fathers  entertained  the  whole  family 
with  their  agreeable  converse ;  they  related  some  affecting  story, 
for  they  had  always  met  with  many  remarkable  things  in  their 
distant  missions  among  the  savages  of  America  or  the  tribes  of 
Tartary.  Their  long  beard,  their  dress  in  the  fashion  of  the 
ancient  East,  and  the  manner  in  which  they  came  to  ask  for 
hospitality,  revived  the  recollection  of  those  times  when  a  Thalcs 
and  an  Anacharsis  thus  travelled  in  Asia  and  Greece. 

After  supper  the  mistress  called  her  servants,  and  one  of  the 
fathers  was  invited  to  perform  the  accustomed  family  devotions ; 
the  two  monks  then  retired  to  rest,  wishing  their  hosts  every 
sort  of  prosperity.  Next  morning,  upon  inquiry  for  the  aged 
travellers,  it  was  found  that  they  were  gone,  like  those  sacred 
visions  which  sometimes  visit  the  habitations  of  the  good. 

Was  there  any  thing  calculated  to  harrow  the  soul,  any  errand 
which  persons,  averse  to  tears,  durst  not  undertake  for  fear  of 
compromising  their  pleasures ;  it  was  to  the  inmates  of  the  convent 
that  it  was  immediately  consigned,  and  more  particularly  to  the 
fathers  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis.  It  was  supposed  that  men 
who  had  devoted  themselves  to  suffering  ought  naturally  to  be 
the  heralds  of  misfortune.  One  was  obliged  to  carry  to  a  family 
the  disastrous  intelligence  of  the  loss  of  its  fortune,  another 
to  inform  the  parent  of  the  death  of  an  only  son.  The  great 
Bourdaloue  himself  performed  this  painful  duty  :  he  presented 
himself  in  silence  at  the  door  of  the  father,  crossed  his  hands 
upon  his  breast,  made  a  profound  inclination,  and  retired  mute  as 
death,  of  which  he  was  the  interpreter. 

Can  we  suppose  that  it  afforded  much  pleasure,  (we  mean 
what  the  world  would  deem  such,)  can  we  suppose  that  it  was  a 
very  agreeable  office,  for  a  Carmelite  or  a  Franciscan  to  go  from 


556  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

prison  to  prison,  to  announce  to  the  criminal  his  sentence,  to 
hear  his  sad  tale,  to  administer  consolation  to  him,  and  to  remain 
for  entire  days  amid  the  most  agonizing  scenes?  In  the  per 
formance  of  these  pious  duties,  the  sweat  has  often  been  seen  to 
flow  from  the  brow  of  these  sympathizing  monks  and  to  trickle 
upon  their  robes,  making  them  forever  sacred,  in  spite  of  the 
sarcasms  of  infidels.  And  yet  what  honor,  what  profit,  accrued 
to  these  sons  of  charity  from  so  many  sacrifices,  except  the  deri 
sion  of  the  world,  and,  perhaps,  the  abuse  of  the  very  prisoners 
whom  they  went  to  console  ?  Men,  ungrateful  as  they  are,  at 
least  acknowledged  their  own  insufficiency  in  these  important 
incidents  of  life,  since  they  confided  them  to  religion,  the  only 
effectual  resource  in  the  lowest  depths  of  misfortune.  0  apostle 
of  Christ !  what  scenes  didst  thou  witness  when,  standing  beside 
the  executioner,  thou  wast  not  afraid  of  being  sprinkled  with 
the  blood  of  the  wretched  culprit,  and  wast  his  last  friend  upon 
earth !  Here  is  one  of  the  most  impressive  sights  that  the 
world  can  exhibit !  At  the  two  corners  of  the  scaffold  human 
justice  and  divine  justice  are  met  face  to  face.  The  one,  im 
placable,  and  supported  by  an  avenging  sword,  is  accompanied  by 
despair  j  the  sweet  attendants  of  the  other  are  pity  and  hope. 
The  one  has  for  her  minister  a  man  of  blood,  the  other  a  man  of 
peace.  The  one  condemns,  the  other  absolves.  The  former  says 
to  the  victim,  whether  innocent  or  guilty,  "Thou  must  die!" 
the  latter  cries,  "  Child  of  innocence  or  of  repentance,  speed  thy 
flight  to  heaven  I"1 


1  When  our  author  drew  this  interesting  picture  of  a  pious  priest  discharg 
ing  the  most  painful  of  all  duties,  he  probably  had  in  his  mind  a  particular 
occurrence.  As  the  innocent  Louis  XVI.  ascended  the  scaffold,  to  be  mur 
dered  by  his  rebellious  subjects,  the  Abbe  Edgeworth,  his  intrepid  and  faiihfu] 
confessor,  addressed  him  with  these  sublime  expressions : — "  File  de  St.  Lou-it 
ntontez  au  del .'"  S. 


BOOK    IV. 

MISSIONS. 
CHAPTER   I. 

GENERAL    SURVEY    OF   THE    MISSIONS. 

HERE  is  another  of  those  grand  and  original  ideas  which 
belong  exclusively  to  the  Christian  religion.  Idolatrous  nations 
knew  nothing  of  that  divine  enthusiasm  which  animates  the 
apostle  of  the  gospel.  The  ancient  philosophers  themselves 
never  quitted  the  enchanting  walks  of  Acadeums  and  the  plea 
sures  of  Athens  to  go,  under  the  guidance  of  a  sublime  impulse, 
to  civilize  the  savage,  to  instruct  the  ignorant,  to  cure  the  sick, 
to  clothe  the  poor,  to  sow  the  seeds  of  peace  and  harmony  among 
hostile  nations ;  but  this  is  what  Christians  have  done  and  are 
still  doing  every  day.  Neither  oceans  nor  tempests,  neither  the 
ices  of  the  pole  nor  the  heat  of  the  tropics,  can  damp  their  zeal. 
They  live  with  the  Esquimaux  in  his  seal-skin  cabin  ;  they  sub 
sist  on  train-oil  with  the  Greenlander ;  they  traverse  the  solitude 
with  the  Tartar  or  the  Iroquois ;  they  mount  the  dromedary  of 
the  Arab  or  accompany  the  wandering  Caffir  in  his  burning 
deserts;  the  Chinese,  the  Japanese,  the  Indian,  have  become  their 
converts.  Not  an  island,  not  a  rock  in  the  ocean  has  escaped 
their  zeal ;  and,  as  of  old  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  were  inade 
quate  to  the  ambition  of  Alexander,  so  the  globe  itself  is  too 
contracted  for  their  charity. 

When  regenerated  Europe  presented  to  the  preachers  of  the 
true  faith  but  one  great  family  of  brethren,  they  turned  their 
eyes  toward  those  distant  regions  where  so  many  souls  still 
languished  in  the  darkness  of  idolatry.  They  were  filled  with 
compassion  3n  beholding  this  degradation  of  man,  and  they  felt 
within  them  an  irresistible  desire  to  sacrifice  their  lives  for  the 
47»  557 


558  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


salvation  of  these  benighted  strangers.  They  had  to  penetrate 
immense  forests,  to  traverse  almost  impassable  morasses,  to  cross 
dangerous  rivers,  to  climb  inaccessible  rocks  ;  they  had  to  en 
counter  nations  who  were  cruel,  superstitious,  and  jealous;  in 
some  they  had  to  struggle  with  the  ignorance  of  barbarism,  in 
others  with  the  prejudices  of  civilization.  All  these  obstacles 
were  incapable  of  daunting  them.  They  who  no  longer  believe 
in  the  religion  of  their  fathers  must  at  least  admit  that,  if  the 
missionary  is  fully  persuaded  that  there  is  no  salvation  but  in 
the  Christian  faith,  the  act  by  which  he  dooms  himself  to  suffer 
ings  of  every  kind  to  save  an  idolater  far  surpasses  the  greatest 
personal  sacrifices  recorded  in  history. 

When  a  man,  in  sight  of  a  whole  nation,  and  under  the  eyes  of 
his  relatives  and  friends,  exposes  himself  to  death  for  his  native 
country,  he  exchanges  a  few  days  of  life  for  ages  of  glory;  he 
sheds  lustre  on  his  family,  he  raises  it  to  wealth  and  honor 
But  the  missionary  whose  life  is  spent  in  the  recesses  of  the 
forest,  who  dies  a  painful  death,  without  spectators,  without 
applause,  without  advantage  to  those  who  are  dear  to  him, — 
obscure,  despised,  characterized  as  a  madman,  an  idiot,  a  fanatic, 
and  all  to  procure  eternal  happiness  to  an  unknown  savage, — by 
what  name  shall  we  call  such  a  death,  such  a  sacrifice  ? 

Various  religious  congregations  devoted  themselves  to  the 
service  of  the  missions : — the  Dominicans,  the  order  of  St. 
Francis,  the  Jesuits,  and  the  priests  of  the  foreign  missions. 
Of  these  missions  there  were  four  different  classes  : — 

1.  The   missions  of   the   Levant,   comprehending   the   Archi 
pelago,  Constantinople,    Syria,    Armenia,   the  Crimea,  Ethiopia, 
Persia,  and  Egypt. 

2.  The  missions  of  America,  beginning  at  Hudson's  Bay  and 
^tending  through  Canada,  Louisiana,  California,  the  Antilles, 

.»nd  Guiana,  to  the  celebrated  settlements  of  Paraguay. 

3.  The  missions  of  India,  embracing  Hindostan,  the  penin 
sula  on  this  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  Ganges,  Manilla,  and 
the  Philippine  Islands. 

4.  The  missions  of  China,  to  which  were  annexed  those  of 
Tonquin,  Cochin-China,  and  Japan. 

Besides  these,  there  were  some  congregations  in  Iceland  and 
,»mong  the  negroes  of  Africa,  but  they  were  not  regularly 


GENERAL  SURVEY  OF  THE  MISSIONS.  559 


Supplied.  A  Presbyterian  mission  was  recently  attempted  at 
Otaheite. 

When  the  Jesuits  first  published  that  invaluable  correspond 
ence  entitled  Lettres  Eftifiantety  it  was  quoted  and  commended 
by  every  writer.  Implicit  faith  was  given  to  its  authority,  and 
the  facts  which  it  contained  were  considered  as  indubitable ;  but 
it  soon  became  the  fashion  to  decry  what  had  been  so  highly 
admired.  These  letters  were  written  by  Christian  priests.  How 
was  it  possible,  then,  that  they  could  possess  any  merit  ?  People 
were  not  ashamed  to  prefer,  or  rather  to  feign  to  prefer,  the 
travels  of  a  Baron  de  la  Hontan,  distinguished  only  for  his 
ignorance  and  disregard  of  truth,  to  those  of  a  Dutertre  and 
a  Charjevoix.  Scholars  who  had  been  at  the  head  of  the  first 
tribunals  in  China,  who  had  passed  thirty  or  forty  years  at  the 
court  of  the  emperors  themselves,  who  spoke  and  wrote  the 
language  of  the  country,  who  associated  with  the  little  and  lived 
on  familiar  terms  with  the  great,  who  had  visited  the  different 
parts  of  the  country  and  closely  studied  the  manners,  religion, 
and  laws  of  that  vast  empire, — these  scholars,  whose  numerous 
performances  enriched  the  memoirs  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences, 
found  themselves  treated  as  impostors  by  a  man  who  had  never 
been  out  of  the  European  quarter  at  Canton,  who  knew  not  a 
single  word  of  Chinese,  and  whose  whole  merit  consisted  in  flatly 
contradicting  the  accounts  of  the  missionaries.  All  this  is  now 
well  known,  and  justice,  though  tardy,  has  been  done  to  the 
Jesuits.  Pompous  embassies  have  been  sent  at  a  prodigious 
expense  by  mighty  nations;  but  have  they  furnished  us  with  any 
information  which  we  had  not  before  received  from  a  Duhalde 
and  a  Le  Comte?  or  have  they  detected  any  falsehoods  in  the 
narratives  of  those  fathers  ? 

A  missionary,  in  fact,  cannot  but  be  an  excellent  traveller. 
Being  obliged  to  speak  the  language  of  the  people  to  whom  he 
preaches  the  gospel,  to  conform  to  their  customs,  to  live  for  a 
long  time  among  all  classes  of  society,  to  endeavor  to  penetrate 
into  the  palace  as  well  as  the  cottage,  if  he  is  but  scantily  en 
dowed  with  genius  he  cannot  fail  to  collect  a  multitude  of  valu 
able  facts.  The  man,  on  the  contrary,  who  travels  post-haste  with 
an  interpreter,  who  has  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  expose 
himself  to  a  thousand  dangers  in  order  to  acquire  a  knowledge 


560  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

of  manners  and  customs, — that  man,  though  possessed  of  jrll  the 
qualities  requisite  for  an  accurate  observer,  will,  nevertheless, 
be  able  to  gain  but  very  superficial  notions  respecting  people  of 
whom  he  can  catch  only  a  transient  glimpse  as  he  hastens  through 
their  country. 

The  Jesuit  had  likewise  the  advantage  of  a  learned  education 
over  the  ordinary  traveller.  The  superiors  required  various 
qualities  in  the  students  destined  for  the  missions.  For  the  Le 
vant,  it  was  necessary  to  understand  the  Greek,  Coptic,  Arabic, 
and  Turkish  languages,  and  to  possess  some  knowledge  of  medi^ 
cine;  for  India  and  China  were  wanted  astronomers,  mathema 
ticians,  geographers,  and  mechanicians;  and  America  was  re* 
served  for  the  naturalists.1  And  how  many  pious  disguises  and 
artifices,  how  many  changes  of  life  and  manners,  were  they 
obliged  to  adopt  in  order  to  proclaim  the  truth  to  mankind !  At 
Madura  the  missionary  assumed  the  habit  of  the  Indian  peni 
tent,  submitted  to  all  his  customs,  practised  all  his  austerities, 
however  repugnant  and  puerile ;  in  China  he  became  a  mandarin 
and  a  literary  character ;  among  the  Iroquois  he  turned  hunter 
and  savage. 

Almost  all  the  French  missions  were  established  by  Colbert 
and  Louvois,  who  were  aware  of  the  service  they  would  render  to 
the  arts,  sciences,  and  commerce.  Fathers  Fontenay,  Tachard, 
Gerbillon,  Le  Cornte,  Bouvet,  and  Visdelou,  were  sent  to  India 
by  Louis  XIV. ;  they  were  all  mathematicians,  and  by  the  king's 
command  they  were  admitted  members  of  the  Academy  of 
Sciences  previously  to  their  departure. 

Father  Bredevent,  known  for  his  physico-mathematical  disser 
tation,  unfortunately  died  while  traversing  Ethiopia;  but  the 
public  reaped  the  benefit  of  part  of  his  labors.  Father  Sicard 
visited  Egypt  with  draughtsmen  furnished  him  by  M.  de  Maure- 
pas.  His  great  work,  under  the  title  of  Description  of  Ancient 
and  Modern  Egypt,  having  been  deposited  while  yet  in  manu 
script  in  the  profession-house  of  the  Jesuits,  was  thence  stolen, 
and  no  tidings  have  ever  been  heard  of  it  since.  Certainly  no 
person  was  better  qualified  to  acquaint  us  with  the  state  of  Persia 

1  See  the  Lettres  Edifiantes  and  Fleury's  work  on  the  qualities  necessary  for 
a  missionary. 


GENERAL   VIEW  OF   THE   MISSIONS.  561 

and  the  history  of  the  renowned  Thamas  Kouli  Khan  than  Bazin 
the  monk,  who  was  first  physician  to  that  conqueror  and  attended 
him  in  ill  his  expeditions.  Father  Coeur-doux  informed  us  re 
specting  the  manufactures  and  dyes  of  India.  China  was  as  well 
known  to  us  as  France;  we  had  original  manuscripts  and  trans 
lations  of  its  history ;  we  had  Chinese  herbals,  geographies,  and 
books  of  mathematics;  and,  to  crown  the  singularity  of  this 
extraordinary  mission,  Father  Ricci  wrote  moral  works  in  the 
language  of  Confucius,  and  is  still  accounted  an  elegant  author 
at  Pekin. 

If  China  is  now  closed  against  us,  and  we  are  no  longer  able  to 
dispute  with  the  English  the  empire  of  India,  it  is  not  the  fault 
of  the  Jesuits,  who  were  on  the  point  of  opening  to  us  those 
vast  regions.  "They  had  succeeded  in  America,"  says  Voltaire, 
"  in  teaching  savages  the  necessary  arts;  they  succeeded  also  in 
China  in  teaching  a  polished  nation  the  most  sublime  sciences."1 

The  services  which  they  rendered  to  their  country  throughout 
the  Levant  are  equally  well  established.  Were  any  authentic 
proof  of  this  required,  it  would  be  found  in  the  following  distin 
guished  testimonial : — 

THE    KING'S    WARRANT. 

"This  day,  the  seventh  of  June,  one  thousand  six  hundred 
and  seventy-nine,  the  king  being  at  St.  Germain-en-Laye,  wish 
ing  to  gratify  and  favor  the  French  fathers  of  the  Society  of 
Jesus,  who  are  missionaries  in  the  Levant,  in  consideration  of 
their  zeal  for  religion,  and  of  the  advantages  which  his  sub 
jects,  residing  and  trafficking  In  those  parts,  derive  from  their 
instructions,  his  majesty  has  retained  and  retains  them  for  his 
chaplains  in  the  church  and  consular  chapel  of  the  city  of  Aleppo 

in  Syria,  &c.a 

(Signed,}  Louis." 

To  these  same  missionaries  we  are  indebted  for  the  attachment 
to  the  French  name  still  cherished  by  the  savages  in  the  forests 
of  America.  A  white  handkerchief  is  sufficient  to  insure  you  a 
safe  passage  through  hostile  tribes,  and  to  procure  you  every 
where  lodging  and  hospitality.  The  Jesuits  of  Canada  and 

Essai  »ur  let  miisioiu  chretiennea,  p.  195.         2  Lcttres  tdif.  tome  i.  p.  129. 
2  L 


562  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Louisiana  discovered  new  articles  of  trade,  new  dyeing  materials 
and  medicines,  and  directed  the  attention  of  the  colonists  to 
their  cultivation.  By  naturalizing  in  our  country  the  insects, 
birds,  aod  plants  of  foreign  climes,1  they  added  to  the  riches  of 
our  manufactories,  to  the  delicacies  of  our  table,  and  to  the  shade 
of  our  woods. 

They,  too,  were  the  writers  of  those  simple  or  elegant  annals 
which  we  possess  in  relation  to  our  colonies.  What  an  admirable 
history  is  that  of  the  Antilles  by  Dutertre,  or  that  of  New  France 
by  Charlevoix !  The  works  of  those  pious  authors  are  fraught 
with  every  species  of  science ;  learned  dissertations,  portraitures 
of  manners,  plans  of  improvement  for  our  settlements,  the  men 
tion  of  useful  objects,  moral  reflections,  interesting  adventures, 
are  all  to  be  found  in  them.  You  there  find  the  history  of  an 
acacia  or  Chinese  willow,  as  well  as  that  of  an  emperor  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  stabbing  himself;  and  the  account  of  the  con 
version  of  a  Paria  in  the  middle  of  a  treatise  on  the  mathematics 
of  the  Bramins.  The  style  of  these  narratives,  sometimes  rising 
to  the  sublime,  is  often  admirable  for  its  simplicity.  Lastly, 
astronomy,  and  chiefly  geography,  were  annually  enriched  by  our 
missionaries  with  new  information.  A  Jesuit  in  Tartary  meets 
with  a  Huron  woman  whom  he  had  known  in  Canada ;  from  this 
extraordinary  circumstance  he  infers  that  the  American  con 
tinent  approached  at  the  northwest  to  the  Asiatic  coast,  and  thus 
he  conjectured  the  existence  of  that  strait  which  long  afterward 
conferred  glory  on  a  Behring  and  a  Cook.  Great  part  of  Canada 
and  all  Louisiana  were  explored  by  our  missionaries.  In  calling 
the  savages  of  Nova  Scotia  to  Christianity,  they  transferred  to  us 
those  coasts  which  proved  a  mine  of  wealth  for  our  commerce 
and  a  nursery  for  our  seamen.  Such  is  a  small  part  of  the  ser 
vices  which  these  men,  now  so  despised,  found  means  to  render 
to  their  country.2 

1  Two  monks,  during  the  reign  of  Justinian,  brought  the  first  silkworms 
from  Serinda  to  Constantinople.      For  the  turkey-fowl,  and  several  foreign 
trees  and  shrubs,  naturalized  in   Europe,  we  are  indebted  also  to  the  mis 
sionaries. 

2  There  can  scarcely  be  a  doubt  that,  if  a  band  of  missionaries  were  employed 
to  Christianize  the  savages  of  Florida,  New  Mexico,  and  California,  the  United 
States  government  would  be  spared  a  vast  amount  of  treasure  and  the  sacrifice 
af  many  valuable  lives.     T. 


MISSIONS   OF   THE   LEVANT.  563 


CHAPTER  H. 

MISSIONS   OP   THE    LEVANT. 

EACH  of  the  missions  had  a  character  and  a  species  of  suffer 
ings  peculiar  to  itself.  Those  of  the  Levant  presented  a  spec 
tacle  of  a  very  philosophical  nature.  How  powerful  was  that 
Christian  voice  which  resounded  ainid  the  tombs  of  Argos  and 
the  ruins  of  Sparta  and  Athens  !  In  those  same  islands  of  Naxos 
and  Salamis  which  gave  birth  to  the  brilliant  theories  that  turned 
the  heads  of  the  Greeks,  a  poor  Catholic  priest,  disguised  as  a 
Turk,  throws  himself  into  a  boat,  lands  at  some  wretched  cabin 
formed  among  the  broken  shafts  of  columns,  administers  consola 
tion  to  a  descendant  of  the  conquerors  of  Xerxes  extended  on  a 
couch  of  straw,  distributes  alms  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ, 
and — doing  good,  as  others  do  evil,  under  the  veil  of  darkness — 
returns  in  secret  to  his  desert. 

The  man  of  science  who  goes  to  measure  the  relics  of  antiquity 
in  the  solitudes  of  Europe  and  Asia  has  undoubtedly  some  claim 
to  our  admiration;  but  there  is  a  man  who  commands  still  higher 
respect, — some  unknown  Bossuet  expounding  the  words  of  the 
prophets  on  the  ruins  of  Tyre  and  Babylon. 

It  pleased  the  Almighty  that  there  should  be  an  abundant 
harvest  on  so  rich  a  soil :  ground  like  that  could  not  be  unfruit 
ful.  "We  left  Serpho,"  says  Father  Xavier,  "more  cheered 
than  I  am  capable  of  expressing  here;  the  people  loading  us  with 
benedictions,  and  thanking  God  a  thousand  times  for  having  in 
spired  us  with  the  design  and  the  resolution  of  visiting  them 
among  their  rocks  I"1 

The  mountains  of  Lebanon,  as  well  as  the  sands  of  Thebais, 
witnessed  the  self-devotion  of  these  missionaries.  They  are  in 
expressibly  happy  in  giving  a  lively  interest  to  the  most  trifling 
circumstances.  If,  for  example,  they  are  describing  the  cedars 
of  Lebanon,  they  tell  you  of  four  stone  altars  which  are  seen  at 

1  Leltr.  fdif.,  tome  i.  p.  15. 


564  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


the  foot  of  those  trees,  and  where  the  Maronite  monks  performed 
a  solemn  mass  on  the  anniversary  of  the  Transfiguration.  Their 
religious  voices  seem  to  mingle  with  the  murmur  of  those  woods 
celebrated  by  Solomon  and  Jeremias,  and  with  the  noise  of  the 
torrents  falling  from  the  mountains. 

Are  they  speaking  of  the  valley  where  flows  the  lioly  river, 
they  say,  "  In  these  rocky  hills  are  deep  caverns  which  formerly 
served  as  so  many  cells  for  a  great  number  of  recluses,  who  had 
chosen  these  retreats  as  the  only  witnesses  upon  earth  of  the 
severity  of  their  penance.  It  was  the  tears  of  these  pious  peni 
tents  that  gave  to  the  river  just  referred  to  the  name  of  the 
holy  river.  Its  source  is  in  the  mountains  of  Lebanon.  The 
sight  of  those  caverns  and  that  river  in  this  frightful  desert 
excites  compunction,  a  love  of  penance,  and  compassion  for  those 
sensual  and  worldly  souls  who  prefer  a  few  days  of  enjoyment 
and  pleasure  to  an  eternity  of  bliss/'1  In  our  opinion,  this  pas 
sage  is  a  perfect  model  both  in  regard  to  style  and  sentiment. 

These  missionaries  possessed  a  wonderful  instinct  for  tracking 
out  misfortune  and  pursuing  it  even  to  its  last  hiding-place.  The 
slave-prisons  and  the  galleys  infected  with  the  plague  could  not 
escape  their  ingenious  charity.  Hear  what  Father  Tarillon  says 
in  his  lettter  to  Pontchartrain : — 

"The  services  which  we  render  to  these  poor  creatures  (the 
Christian  slaves  at  Constantinople)  consist  in  keeping  them  in 
the  fear  of  God  and  in  the  faith ;  in  procuring  them  relief  from 
the  charity  of  the  faithful;  in  attending  them  during  illness; 
and,  lastly,  in  assisting  them  to  die  the  death  of  the  righteous. 
If  in  the  performance  of  these  duties  we  encounter  many  hard 
ships  and  difficulties,  I  can  affirm  that  God  rewards  it  with  great 
consolations 

"  In  times  of  pestilence,  as  it  is  necessary  to  be  close  at  hand 
to  attend  such  persons  as  are  infected,  and  as  we  have  here  only 
four  or  five  missionaries,  our  custom  is  to  let  only  one  of  our  num 
ber  go  into  the  prison  and  remain  there  as  long  as  the  disease 
continues.  He  who  obtains  permission  for  this  of  the  superior 
prepares  himself  for  the  task  during  a  few  days  of  retreat,  and 
takes  leaves  of  his  brethren  as  if  he  were  soon  to  die.  Some- 

1  Lettr.  edif.,  tome  i.  p.  288. 


MISSIONS   OF  THE  LEVANT.  565 

times  he  accomplishes  his  sacrifice  there,  and  sometimes  he 
escapes  the  danger/'1 

Father  Jacques  Cached  thus  writes  to  Father  Tarillon: — "I 
am  now  superior  to  all  the  fears  excited  by  contagious  distem 
pers  ;  and,  if  it  please  God,  I  shall  not  die  of  this  disease,  after 
the  risks  which  I  have  run.  I  am  just  leaving  the  prison,  where 

I  have  administered  the  sacrament  to  eighty-two  persons 

In  the  daytime  I  felt  not  the  least  symptom  of  fear.  It  was  only 
at  night,  during  the  short  slumbers  which  were  allowed  me,  that 
my  mind  was  harassed  with  alarming  ideas.  The  greatest  dan 
ger  that  I  incurred,  or  perhaps  ever  shall  go  through  in  my  life, 
was  in  the  hold  of  a  man-of-war  of  eighty-two  guns.  The  slaves, 
in  concert  with  their  overseers,  had  made  me  go  down  to  them  in 
the  evening,  to  confess  them  all  night  and  to  say  mass  very 
early  in  the  morning.  We  were  shut  up,  according  to  custom, 
under  a  double  lock.  Of  fifty-two  slaves  whom  I  confessed, 
twelve  were  sick,  and  three  died  before  my  departure ;  judge, 
then,  what  an  atmosphere  I  must  have  breathed  in  that  close 
place  without  the  smallest  aperture  !  God,  who,  in  his  goodness, 
saved  me  on  this  occasion,  will  preserve  me  on  many  others."8 

A  man  who  voluntarily  shuts  himself  up  in  a  prison  in  time  of 
pestilence, — who  candidly  acknowledges  his  terrors,  and  neverthe 
less  overcomes  them  from  a  motive  of  charity, — who  afterward 
obtains  access  by  a  bribe,  as  if  to  enjoy  illicit  pleasures,  to  the 
hold  of  a  man-of-war,  in  order  to  attend  the  infected  slaves, — such 
a  man,  it  must  be  allowed,  obeys  not  any  natural  impulse }  here 
is  something  more  than  humanity.  This  the  missionaries  admit, 
and  they  assume  not  the  credit  of  these  sublime  actions.  "  It  is 
God,"  they  frequently  repeat,  "  who  gives  us  this  strength;  none 
of  the  merit  belongs  to  us." 

A  young  missionary  not  yet  inured  to  dangers  like  those  vete 
rans,  bending  under  their  hardships  and  evangelical  laurels,  is 
astonished  at  having  escaped  the  first  peril ;  he  fears  that  it  has 
happened  through  his  fault,  antf  seems  mortified  at  the  circum 
stance.  After  having  given  his  superior  an  account  of  the  pesti 
lence,  during  which  he  was  often  obliged  to  lay  his  ear  close  'u 
t/te  lij)a  of  the  infected,  that  he  might  catch  their  expiring  words, 

1  Lettr.  fdif.,  tome  i.  p.  288.  *  Ibid.,  toine  i.  p.  24. 

48 


5GG  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


he  adds  : — "  I  was  not  worthy  that  God  should  be  pleased  to  ac 
cept  the  sacrifice  of  my  life  which  I  offered  him.  I  therefore  re 
quest  your  prayers  that  the  Almighty  may  forget  my  sins  and 
graciously  permit  me  to  die  for  his  sake." 

Father  Bouchet  writes  from  India  in  the  following  terms  : — 
"Our  mission  is  more  flourishing  than  ever;  we  have  this  year 
had  four  great  persecutions"  It  was  this  same  Father  Bouchet 
who  sent  to  Europe  the  tables  of  the  Braniins  which  Bailly  made 
use  of  in  his  History  of  Astronomy.  The  English  Company 
of  Calcutta  has  not  yet  made  public  any  monuments  of  Indian 
science  which  had  not  been  explored  or  mentioned  by  our  mis 
sionaries  ;  and  yet  the  enlightened  English,  now  the  sovereigns 
of  several  extensive  kingdoms,  having  at  their  disposal  all  the 
resources  of  art  and  power,  must  certainly  possess  superior  means 
of  success  to  those  enjoyed  by  a  poor,  solitary,  wandering,  and 
persecuted  Jesuit.  "If  we  were  to  appear  ever  so  little  openly 
in  public/'  says  Royer,  "we  should  easily  be  discovered  by  our 
looks  and  complexion.  In  order,  therefore,  not  to  raise  a  still 
more  violent  persecution  against  religion,  we  are  under  the  neces 
sity  of  keeping  ourselves  concealed  as  much  as  possible.  I  pass 
whole  days  either  confined  in  a  boat,  which  I  never  quit  but  at 
night,  to  visit  the  villages  contiguous  to  the  rivers,  or  concealed 
in  some  sequestered  habitation."1  The  boat  of  this  good  religious 
was  his  only  observatory ;  but  he  who  possesses  charity  is  truly 
rich  and  ingenious. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MISSIONS    OF    CHINA. 

Two  monks  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  the  one  a  Pole,  the 
other  a  Frenchman  by  birth,  were  the  first  Europeans  who  pene 
trated  into  China,  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century.  It 
was  afterward  visited  at  two  different  times  by  Marco  Paolo,  a 

1  Lettr.  edif.,  tome  i.  p.  8. 


MISSIONS   OF  CHINA.  507 


Venetian,  and  his  kinsmen  Nicholas  and  Matthew  Paolo.  The 
Portuguese,  having  discovered  the  passage  by  sea  to  India,  formed 
a  settlement  at  Macao ;  and  Father  Ricci,  a  Jesuit,  resolved  to 
penetrate  into  the  vast  empire  of  Cathay,  concerning  which  so 
many  extraordinary  things  were  related.  He  first  applied  him 
self  to  the  study  of  the  Chinese  language,  one  of  the  most  difficult 
in  the  world.  His  ardor  vanquished  every  obstacle,  and,  after 
many  dangers  and  repeated  refusals,  he,  in  1682, 4  obtained  per 
mission  of  the  Chinese  magistrates  to  reside  at  Chouachen. 

Ricci,  who  was  a  pupil  of  Clavius,  and  was  himself  well  versed 
in  the  mathematics,  by  means  of  this  science  gained  patrons 
among  the  mandarins.  He  relinquished  the  dress  of  the  bonzes, 
and  assumed  the  habit  of  the  learned  class.  He  gave  lessons  in 
geometry,  in  which  he  contrived  to  inculcate  the  more  valuable 
precepts  of  Christian  morality.  He  resided  successively  at  Chou 
achen,  Nemcham,  Pekin,  and  Nankin,  sometimes  meeting  with 
ill-treatment,  at  others  being  received  with  joy;  encountering 
adversity  with  invincible  fortitude,  and  still  cherishing  the  hope 
of  succeeding  in  introducing  the  knowledge  of  Christianity.  At 
length  the  emperor  himself,  charmed  with  the  virtues  and  the 
talents  of  the  missionary,  permitted  him  to  reside  in  the  capital, 
and  granted  several  privileges  to  him,  and  also  to  the  partners  of 
his  toils.  The  Jesuits  conducted  themselves  with  the  utmost 
discretion,  and  displayed  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart.  They  respected  the  customs  of  the  Chinese,  and  con 
formed  to  them  in  every  point  that  was  not  at  variance  with  the 
laws  of  the  gospel.  Embarrassments  attended  them  on  every 
side.  "  Jealousy,"  says  Voltaire,  "  soon  destroyed  the  fruit  of 
their  prudence ;  and  that  spirit  of  restlessness  and  contention, 
attached  in  Europe  to  knowledge  and  talents,  frustrated  the 
grandest  designs."8 

Ricci  was  equal  to  every  exigency.  He  answered  the  accusa 
tions  of  his  enemies  in  Europe  ;  he  superintended  the  infant  con 
gregations  in  China ;  he  gave  lessons  in  mathematics ;  he  wrote 
controversial  books  in  the  Chinese  language  against  the  literati 
who  attacked  him ;  he  cultivated  the  friendship  of  the  emperor, 

1  This  date,  which  wo  find  in  three  different  editions  of  the  work,  ia  incor 
rect  It  should  be  1582.  T.  2  Eaaai  am-  lea  Mceura,  ch.  excv. 


568  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

and  ingratiated  himself  with  the  court,  where  his  polished  de 
meanor  gained  him  the  favor  of  the  great.  All  these  harassing 
occupations  shortened  his  days.  He  terminated  at  Pekin  a  life 
of  fifty-seven  years,  half  of  which  had  been  spent  in  the  labors  of 
the  apostleship. 

After  Ricci's  death  his  mission  was  interrupted  by  the  revolu 
tions  which  happened  in  China ;  but  when  Cun-chi,  the  Tartar 
emperor,  ascended  the  throne,  he  appointed  Father  Adam  Schall 
president  of  the  board  of  mathematics.  Cun-chi  died,  and, 
during  the  minority  of  his  son  Cang-hi,  the  Christian  religion 
experienced  new  persecutions. 

When  the  emperor  came  of  age,  the  calendar  being  in  great 
confusion,  it  was  found  necessary  to  recall  the  missionaries.  The 
young  prince  conceived  a  partiality  for  Verbiest,  the  successor  of 
Schall.  He  directed  that  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  should  be 
examined  by  the  tribunal  of  the  states  of  the  empire,  and  made 
remarks  with  his  own  hand  on  the  memoir  of  the  Jesuits.  The 
judges,  after  mature  investigation,  declared  that  the  Christian 
religion  was  good,  and  that  it  contained  nothing  inimical  to  purity 
of  morals  and  the  prosperity  of  nations. 

It  was  worthy  of  the  disciples  of  Confucius  to  pronounce  such 
a  sentence  in  favor  of  the  precepts  of  Christ.  Shortly  after  this 
decree,  Father  Verbiest  summoned  from  Paris  those  learned 
Jesuits  who  carried  the  glory  of  the  French  name  to  the  very 
centre  of  Asia. 

The  Jesuit  who  was  bound  for  China  provided  himself  with 
telescope  and  compasses.  He  appeared  at  the  court  of  Pekin 
with  all  the  urbanity  of  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  and  surrounded 
by  the  retinue  of  the  arts  and  sciences.  Unrolling  maps,  turning 
globes,  and  tracing  spheres,  he  taught  the  astonished  mandarins 
both  the  real  course  of  the  stars  and  the  true  name  of  Him  who 
guides  them  in  their  orbits.  He  combated  errors  in  physics  only 
with  a  view  to  correct  those  of  morality;  he  replaced  in  the 
heart,  as  its  proper  seat,  that  simplicity  which  he  banished  from 
the  understanding,  exciting  at  once  by  his  manners  and  his  at 
tainments  a  profound  veneration  for  his  God  and  a  high  esteem 
for  his  native  land. 

It  was  a  proud  sight  for  France  to  behold  her  humble  religious 
regulating  in  China  the  annals  of  a  great  empire.  Questions 


MISSIONS   OF   CHINA.  569 

were  transmitted  from  Pekin  to  Paris :  chronology,  astronomy, 
natural  history,  were  so  many  subjects  for  curious  and  learned 
discussion.  Chinese  books  were  translated  into  French,  and 
French  into  Chinese.  Father  Parennin,  in  his  letter  addressed 
to  Fontenelle,  thus  wrote  to  the  Academy  of  Sciences : — "  You 
will  perhaps  be  surprised  that  I  should  send  you  from  this  dis 
tant  part  of  the  globe  a  treatise  on  anatomy,  a  course  of  medicine, 
and  questions  on  natural  philosophy,  written  in  a  language  with 
which  you  are  doubtless  unacquainted ;  but  your  surprise  will 
cease  when  you  find  that  it  is  your  own  works  which  I  have 
transmitted  to  you  in  a  Tartar  dress."1 

The  reader  should  peruse  this  letter  from  beginning  to  end : 
it  breathes  that  tone  of  politeness  and  that  style  of  urbanity  al 
most  entirely  forgotten  at  the  present  day.  Voltaire  character 
izes  the  writer  as  a  man  celebrated  for  his  attainments  and  dis 
cretion,  and  who  spoke  the  Chinese  and  Tartar  languages  very 
fluently;  and  continues,  "  He  is  more  particularly  known  among 
us  by  his  luminous  and  instructive  answers  to  the  difficulties 
started  by  one  of  our  most  eminent  philosophers  respecting  the 
sciences  of  China."8 

In  1711,  the  emperor  of  China  gave  the  Jesuits  three  inscrip 
tions,  composed  by  himself,  for  a  church  which  they  were  erect 
ing  at  Pekin.  That  for  the  front  was  : — To  the  true  principle  of 
all  things.  For  one  of  the  two  columns  of  the  portico  was  de 
signed  the  following  : — He  is  infinitely  good  and  infinitely  just ; 
he  enlightens,  he  supports,  he  directs  all  things,  with  supreme 
authority  a,nd  with  sovereign  justice.  The  other  column  dis 
played  these  words : — He  had  no  beginning ;  he  will  have  no  end: 
he  produced  all  things  from  the  commencement  of  time  ;  he  it  is 
who  governs  them  and  is  their  real  Lord.  Whoever  takes  any 
interest  in  the  glory  of  his  country  cannot,  without  deep  emotion, 
behold  poor  French  missionaries  imparting  such  ideas  of  the 
Supreme  Being  to  the  ruler  of  many  millions.  What  a  truly 
noble  application  of  religion  ! 

The  common  people,  the  mandarins,  the  men  of  letters,  iii 
crowds  embraced  the  new  doctrine;  the  ceremonies  of  the 
church,  in  particular,  found  the  most  favorable  reception. 


i  Ltttr.  fdif.,  tome  xix.  p.  2&7.  2  Age  of  Louis  XIV.,  vol.  ii.  cb.  39. 

48* 


570  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


"Before  the  communion,"  says  Father  Premare,  cited  by  Father 
Fouquet,  "  I  repeated  aloud  the  acts  that  ought  to  be  performed 
on  approaching  the  holy  sacrament.  Though  the  Chinese  tongue 
is  not  fertile  in  expressions  for  the  affections  of  the  heart,  this 

exercise  was  very  successful I  remarked  in  the  faces 

of  these  good  Christians  a  devotion  which  I  had  never  yet 
perceived."1 

"  Loukang,"  adds  the  same  missionary,  "  had  given  me  a 
liking  for  country  missions.  I  walked  out  of  the  town  and 
found  numbers  of  poor  people  everywhere  at  work.  I  accosted 
one  of  them,  whose  looks  were  prepossessing,  and  spoke  to  him 
concerning  Grod.  He  seemed  pleased  with  what  I  said,  and 
invited  me,  by  way  of  doing  me  an  honor,  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
Hall  of  Ancestors.  This  is  the  best  building  in  the  town,  and 
belongs  in  common  to  all  the  inhabitants,  because,  having  for 
a  long  time  made  it  a  practice  not  to  intermarry  with  strangers, 
they  are  now  all  related,  and  have  the  same  forefathers.  Here 
then  it  was  that  several  of  them,  quitting  their  work,  assembled 
to  hear  the  sacred  doctrine."3  Is  not  this  a  scene  of  the  Odys 
sey,  or  rather  of  the  Bible  ? 

An  empire  whose  immutable  manners  had  for  two  thousand 
years  been  proof  against  time,  revolutions,  and  conquest, — this 
empire  is  suddenly  changed  at  the  voice  of  a  Christian  monk, 
who  has  repaired  thither  alone  from  the  extremities  of  Europe. 
The  most  deeply-rooted  prejudices,  the  most  ancient  customs,  a 
religion  consecrated  by  a  long  succession  of  ages,  all  give  way, 
all  disappear,  before  the  mere  name  of  the  God  of  the  gospel. 
At  the  very  moment  we  are  writing,  at  the  moment  when 
Christianity  is  persecuted  in  Europe,  it  is  propagated  in  China. 
That  fire  which  was  thought  to  be  extinguished  is  rekindled,  as 
is  invariably  the  case  after  persecutions.  When  the  clergy  were 
massacred  in  France,  when  they  were  stripped  of  their  posses 
sions  and  honors,  many  were  ordained  priests  in  secret;  the 
proscribed  bishops  were  often  obliged  to  refuse  orders  to  young 
men  desirous  of  flying  to  martyrdom.  This  adds  one  more  to  the 
thousand  proofs  already  existing,  how  grossly  they  had  mistaken 

1  Lettr.  idif.  2  Lettr.  6dif.,  tome  xvii.  p.  152,  et  seq. 


MISSIONS   OF   PARAGUAY.  57] 

the  spirit  of  Christianity  who  hoped  to  annihilate  it  by  fire 
and  fagot.  Unlike  all  human  things,  whose  nature  is  to 
perish  under  torments,  the  true  religion  nourishes  in  adversity : 
for  God  has  impressed  it  with  the  same  seal  that  he  has  set  upon 
virtue. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MISSIONS   OF   PARAGUAY. 

Conversion  of  the  Savages.* 

WHILE  Christianity  flourished  among  the  worshippers  of 
Fohi,  and  other  missionaries  were  announcing  it  to  the  noble 
Japanese  or  at  the  courts  of  sultans,  it  was  seen  gliding,  as  it 
were,  into  the  inmost  forests  of  Paraguay,  to  tame  those  Indian 
nations  who  lived  like  birds  on  the  branches  of  trees.  What  an 
extraordinary  religion  must  that  be  which,  at  its  will,  unites  the 
political  and  moral  forces,  and  from  its  superabundant  resources 
produces  governments  as  excellent  as  those  of  Minos  and  Lycur- 
gus !  While  Europe  had  as  yet  but  barbarous  constitutions, 
formed  by  time  and  chance,  the  Christian  religion  revived  in  the 
New  World  all  the  wonders  of  the  ancient  systems  of  legislation. 
The  wandering  tribes  of  the  savages  of  Paraguay  became  fixed, 
and  at  the  word  of  God  an  evangelical  republic  sprang  up  in  the 
wildest  of  deserts.  And  who  were  the  men  of  great  genius  that 
performed  these  prodigies?  Simply  Jesuits,  who  were  often 
thwarted  in  their  designs  by  the  avarice  of  their  countrymen. 

It  was  a  practice  generally  adopted  in  Spanish  America,  tc 
make  slaves  of  the  Indians  and  to  sacrifice  them  to  the  labors  of 
the  mines.  In  vain  did  the  clergy,  both  secular  and  regular,  a 
thousand  times  remonstrate  against  this  practice,  not  less  impo 
litic  than  barbarous.  The  tribunals  of  Mexico  and  Peru,  and 
even  the  court  of  Madrid,  re-echoed  with  the  continual  com- 

1  For  this  and  the  following  chapter,  see  Lettres  tdifiantes,  vols.  viii.and  ix. ; 
the  History  of  Parayuriy,  by  Chnrlevoix  ;  Lozano's  Historia  de  la  Compaynia 
de  Jesnt  en  la  provincia  del  Paraguay  ;  Muratori's  //  Chrietianenimo  felice,  ; 
and  Montesquieu's  Spirit  of  the  Law*. 


572  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

plaints  of  the  missionaries.1  "We  pretend  not/'  said  they  tc 
the  colonists,  "  to  prevent  your  making  a  profit  of  the  Indians 
in  legitimate  ways;  but  you  know  that  it  never  was  the  king's 
intention  that  you  should  consider  them  as  slaves,  and  that  the 

law  of  God  expressly  forbids  this We  deem  it  wrong 

to  deprive  them  of  their  liberty,  to  which  they  have  a  natural 
right;  and  nothing  can  authorize  us  to  call  that  right  in  ques 
tion/'3 

At  the  fooi  of  the  Cordilleras,  on  the  side  next  to  the  Atlantic, 
between  the  Oronoko  and  Rio  de  la  Plata,  there  was  still  an 
immense  region,  peopled  by  savages,  to  which  the  Spaniards  had 
not  extended  the'ir  devastations.  In  the  recesses  of  its  forests 
the  missionaries  undertook  to  found  a  Christian  republic  and  to 
confer  at  least  upon  a  small  number  of  Indians  those  blessings 
which  they  had  not  been  able  to  procure  for  all. 

The  first  step  they  took  was  to  obtain  of  the  court  of  Spain 
the  liberty  of  all  the  savages  whom  they  might  convert  to  the 
faith.  At  this  intelligence  the  colonists  took  the  alarm,  and  it 
was  only  by  the  aid  of  wit  and  address  that  the  Jesuits  stole,  in 
some  measure,  the  permission  to  shed  their  blood  in  the  forests 
of  the  New  World.  At  length,  having  triumphed  over  human 
rapacity  and  malice,  and  meditating  one  of  the  noblest  designs 
that  ever  entered  into  the  heart  of  man,  they  embarked  for  Rio 
de  la  Plata. 

That  great  river  has  for  its  tributary  the  stream  which  gave 
name  to  the  country  and  the  missions  whose  history  we  are 
sketching.  Paraguay,  in  the  language  of  the  savages,  signifies 
the  Crowned  River,  because  it  rises  in  the  lake  Xarayes,  by 
which  it  thus  seems  to  be  crowned.  Before  it  swells  the  Rio  de 
la  Plata,  it  receives  the  waters  of  the  Parana  and  Uraguay. 
Forests,  in  which  are  embosomed  other  forests,  levelled  by  the 
hand  of  time, — morasses  and  plains  completely  inundated  in  the 
rainy  season, — mountains  which  rear  deserts  over  deserts, — form 
part  of  the  vast  regions  watered  by  the  Paraguay.  All  kinds  of 
game  abound  in  them,  as  well  as  tigers  and  bears.  The  woods 
are  full  of  bees,  which  produce  remarkably  white  wax  and 


1  Robertson's  History  of  America. 

2  Charlevoix,  Hist,  de  Paraguay,  tome  ii.  pp.  26  and  27, 


MISSIONS   OF  PARAGUAY.  573 

honey  of  uncommon  fragrance.  Here  are  seen  birds  with  the 
most  splendid  plumage,  resembling  large  flowers  of  red  and  blue, 
among  the  verdant  foliage  of  the  trees.  A  French  missionary, 
who  lost  himself  in  these  wilds,  gives  the  following  description 
of  them  : — 

"  I  continued  my  route  without  knowing  whither  it  would 
lead  me,  and  without  meeting  any  person  from  whom  I  could 
obtain  information.  In  the  midst  of  these  woods  I  sometimes 
met  with  enchanting  spots.  All  that  the  study  and  ingenuity 
of  man  could  devise  to  render  a  place  agreeable  would  fall  short 
of  the  beauties  which  simple  nature  has  here  collected. 

"  These  charming  situations  reminded  me  of  the  ideas  which 
I  had  formerly  conceived  when  reading  the  lives  of  the  ancient 
recluses  of  Thebais.  I  formed  a  wish  to  pass  the  rest  of  my 
days  in  these  forests,  whither  Providence  had  conducted  me,  that 
I  might  devote  all  my  attention  to  the  affair  of  my  salvation, 
far  from  all  intercourse  with  men ;  but,  as  I  was  not  the  master 
of  my  destiny,  and  the  commands  of  the  Lord  were  expressly 
signified  in  those  of  my  superiors,  I  rejected  this  idea  as  an 
illusion/'1 

The  Indians  who  were  found  in  these  retreats  resembled  their 
place  of  habitation  only  in  its  worst  points.  This  indolent, 
stupid,  and  ferocious  race  exhibited  in  all  its  deformity  the 
degradation  of  man  after  his  fall.  Nothing  affords  a  stronger 
proof  of  the  degeneracy  of  human  nature  than  the  littleness  of 
the  savage  amid  the  grandeur  of  the  desert. 

On  their  arrival  at  Buenos  Ayres,  the  missionaries  sailed  up 
the  Rio  de  la  Plata,  entered  the  waters  of  the  Paraguay,  and 
dispersed  over  its  wilds.  The  ancient  accounts  portray  them 
with  a  breviary  under  the  left  arm,  a  large  cross  in  the  right 
hand,  and  with  no  other  provision  than  their  trust  in  the 
Almighty.  They  represent  them  forcing  their  way  through 
forests,  wading  through  morasses  where  they  were  up  to  the 
waist  in  water,  climbing  rugged  rocks,  searching  among  caverns 
and  precipices,  at  the  risk  of  meeting  with  serpents  and  ferocious 
beasts  instead  of  men  whom  they  were  seeking. 

Several  perished  with   hunger  and  from  the  hardships  thej 

1  Lettr.  fdif.,  tome  viii.  p.  381. 


574  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

endured.  Others  were  massacred  and  devoured  by  the  savages. 
Father  Lizardi  was  found  transfixed  with  arrows  upon  a  rock ; 
half  of  his  body  was  mangled  by  birds  of  prey,  and  his  breviary 
lay  open  beside  him  at  the  office  for  the  dead.  When  a  mis 
sionary  thus  discovered  the  remains  of  one  of  his  companions, 
he  hastened  to  perform  the  funeral  rites ;  and,  filled  with 
great  joy,  he  sung  a  solitary  Te  Deum  over  the  grave  of  the 
martyr. 

Such  scenes,  perpetually  recurring,  astonished  the  barbarous 
hordes.  Sometimes  they  gathered  round  the  unknown  priest 
who  spoke  to  them  concerning  God,  and  looked  at  the  firmament 
to  which  he  pointed ;  at  others  they  ran  from  him  as  a  magician, 
and  were  overcome  by  unusual  terrors.  The  religious  followed, 
stretching  out  his  hands  to  them  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ. 
If  he  could  not  prevail  on  them  to  stop,  he  planted  his  cross  in 
a  conspicuous  place  and  concealed  himself  in  the  woods.  The 
savages  by  degrees  approached  to  examine  the  standard  of  peace 
erected  in  the  wilderness ;  some  secret  magnet  seemed  to  attract 
them  to  this  emblem  of  their  salvation.  The  missionary  then, 
sallying  forth  all  at  once  from  his  ambuscade,  and  taking 
advantage  of  the  surprise  of  the  barbarians,  invited  them  to 
relinquish  their  miserable  way  of  life,  and  to  enjoy  the  comforts 
of  society. 

When  the  Jesuits  had  succeeded  in  their  eiforts  with  a  few 
Indians,  they  had  recourse  to  another  method  of  winning  souls. 
They  had  remarked  that  the  savages  of  that  region  were  ex 
tremely  sensible  to  the  charms  of  music :  it  is  even  asserted 
that  the  waters  of  the  Paraguay  impart  a  finer  tone  to  the  voice. 
The  missionaries,  therefore,  embarked  in  canoes  with  the  new 
converts,  and  sailed  up  the  rivers  singing  religious  hymns.  The 
neophytes  repeated  the  tunes,  as  tame  birds  sing  to  allure  the 
wild  ones  into  the  net  of  the  fowler.  The  savages  were  always 
taken  by  this  pious  snare.  Descending  from  their  mountains, 
they  hastened  to  the  banks  of  the  rivers  to  listen  to  the  cap 
tivating  sounds  j  and  many,  plunging  into  the  water,  swam 
after  the  enchanted  bark.  The  bow  and  arrow  dropped  from 
the  hand  of  the  savage,  and  a  foretaste  of  the  social  virtues  and 
of  the  first  sweets  of  humanity  seemed  to  take  possession  of  his 
wondering  and  confused  soul.  He  beheld  his  wife  and  his 


MISSIONS   OF   PARAGUAY.  575 

infant  weep  for  unknown  joy;  soon,  yielding  to  an  irresistible 
impulse,  he  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  mingled  torrents 
of  tears  with  the  regenerating  waters  that  were  poured  upou 
his  head. 

Thus  the  Christian  religion  realized  in  the  forests  of  America 
what  fabulous  history  relates  of  an  Orpheus  and  an  Amphion, — • 
a  reflection  so  natural  that  it  occurred  to  the  missionaries  them 
selves.1  Certain  it  is  that  their  relation,  though  strictly  true, 
wore  all  the  semblance  of  a  fiction. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MISSIONS    OP   PARAGUAY,   CONTINUED. 

Christian  Republic — Happiness  of  the  Indians. 

THE  first  savages  who  complied  with  the  exhortations  of  the 
Jesuits  were  the  Guaranis, — a  tribe  scattered  along  the  rivers 
Paranapane,  Pirape,  and  Uraguay.  They  formed  a  large  village 
under  the  direction  of  Fathers  Maceta  and  Cataldino,  whose  names 
it  is  but  just  to  preserve  among  those  of  the  benefactors  of  man 
kind.  This  village  was  called  Loretto;  and,  in  the  sequel,  as 
other  Indian  churches  were  successively  established,  they  were 
all  comprehended  under  the  general  name  of  Reductions.  In  a 
few  years  their  number  amounted  to  thirty,  and  they  collectively 
composed  that  celebrated  Christian  commomccalth  which  seemed 
to  be  a  relic  of  antiquity  discovered  in  the  New  World.  Thej 
confirmed  under  our  own  eyes  the  great  truth  known  to  Greece 
and  Rome, — that  men  are  to  be  civilized  and  empires  founded,  not 
by  the  abstract  principles  of  philosophy,  but  by  the  aid  of 
religion. 

Each  village  was  governed  by  two  missionaries  who  superin 
tended  the  affairs,  both  spiritual  and  temporal,  of  the  little  repub 
lics.  No  stranger  was  permitted  to  reside  there  longer  than  three 
days;  and,  to  prevent  all  such  intercourse  as  was  liable  to  corrupt 

1  Charlevoix. 


576  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


the  manners  of  the  new  Christians,  they  were  not  permitted  to 
learn  the  Spanish  language  so  as  to  speak  it,  though  all  the  con 
verts  could  read  and  write  it  correctly. 

In  each  Reduction  there  were  two  schools,  the  one  for  the 
first  rudiments  of  learning,  the  other  for  dancing  and  music.  The 
latter,  which  likewise  served  as  a  foundation  for  the  laws  of  the 
ancient  republics,  was  particularly  cultivated  by  the  Gruaranis, 
who  could  themselves  build  organs  and  make  harps,  flutes,  guitars, 
and  our  martial  instruments. 

As  soon  as  a  boy  had  attained  the  age  of  seven  years,  the  two 
superiors  began  to  study  his  character.  If  he  appeared  adapted 
for  mechanical  occupations,  he  was  placed  in  one  of  the  workshops 
of  the  Reduction,  the  choice  of  which  was  left  to  himself.  Here 
he  became  a  goldsmith,  gilder,  watchmaker,  locksmith,  carpenter, 
cabinet-maker,  weaver,  or  founder.  All  these  trades  were  origi 
nally  established  by  the  Jesuits  themselves,  who  had  learned  all 
the  useful  arts  for  the  express  purpose  of  instructing  the  Indians 
in  them  without  being  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  strangers. 

Such  of  the  young  people  as  preferred  agricultural  pursuits 
were  enrolled  in  the  class  of  husbandmen ;  and  those  who  still 
retained  any  strolling  propensity,  from  their  former  way  of  life, 
wandered  about  with  the  flocks. 

The  women  worked  apart  from  the  men,  at  their  own  homes. 
At  the  beginning  of  every  week  a  certain  quantity  of  wool  and 
cotton  was  distributed  among  them.  This  they  were  to  return 
on  the  Saturday  evening  following,  ready  for  further  operations. 
They  were  likewise  engaged  in  rural  employments,  which  occu 
pied  their  leisure  without  exceeding  their  strength. 

There  were  no  public  markets  in  the  villages ;  but  on  stated 
days  each  family  was  supplied  with  the  necessaries  of  life.  One 
of  the  missionaries  superintended  the  distribution,  and  took  care 
that  the  shares  should  be  proportionate  to  the  number  of  persons 
belonging, to  each  cottage. 

The  ringing  of  a  bell  was  the  signal  for  beginning  and  leaving 
ofif  work.  It  was  heard  at  the  first  dawn  of  day,  when  the  children 
immediately  assembled  in  the  church,  and  their  matin  concert, 
like  that  of  the  birds,  lasted  till  sunrise.  The  men  and  women 
afterward  attended  mass,  and  then  repaired  to  their  respective  la 
bor0  A  t  the  decline  of  day  the  bell  again  summoned  the  new 


MISSIONS   OF   PARAGUAY.  577 

citizens  to  the  altar,  and  evening  prayers  were  chanted  in  two 
j»urts,  accompanied  by  a  full  band. 

The  ground  was  divided  into  lots,  and  each  family  cultivated 
one  of  them  for  the  supply  of  its  wants.  There  was  besides  a 
public  field  called  the  Possession  of  God.1  The  produce  of  this 
common  field  was  destined  to  make  up  for  the  deficiency  of  bad 
crops,  and  to  support  the  widows,  orphans,  and  infirm.  It  like 
wise  served  as  a  fund  for  war.  If,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  any 
surplus  remained  in  the  public  exchequer,  it  went  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  Church  and  to  discharge  the  tribute  of  a  gold 
crown  paid  by  every  family  to  the  king  of  Spain.3 

A  cacique  or  war-chief,  a  correyidor  for  the  administration  of 
justice,  regidon  and  alcaldes  for  the  police  and  the  superintend 
ence  of  the  public  works,  composed  the  civil,  military,  and  poli 
tical  establishment  of  the  Reductions.  These  magistrates  were 
elected  by  the  general  assembly  of  the  citizens ;  but  it  appears 
that  they  were  only  permitted  to  choose  out  of  a  certain  number 
of  persons  proposed  by  the  missionaries.  This  was  a  law  borrowed 
from  the  senate  and  people  of  Home.  There  was,  moreover,  an 
officer  called  fiscal,  a  kind  of  public  controller,  elected  by  the 
elders.  He  kept  a  register  of  all  the  males  capable  of  bearing 
arms.  A  (entente  was  the  prefect  of  the  children.  He  conducted 
them  to  the  church,  and  attended  them  to  the  schools,  carrying 
a  long  stick  in  his  hand.  He  reported  to  the  missionaries  such 
observations  as  he  had  made  on  the  manners,  dispositions,  and 
good  or  bad  qualities  of  his  pupils. 

Finally,  the  village  was  divided  into  several  quarters,  each  of 
which  had  a  superintendent.  As  the  Indians  are  naturally  slug 
gish  and  improvident,  a  person  was  appointed  to  examine  the 
agricultural  implements,  and  to  compel  the  heads  of  families  to 
cultivate  their  lands. 

In  case  of  any  infringement  of  the  laws,  the  first  fault  was 
punished  by  a  secret  reprimand  from  the  missionaries ;  the  second 
by  a  public  penance  at  the  door  of  the  church,  as  among  the  early 
Christians;  the  third  by  the  discipline  of  the  whip.  But,  during 

1  Montesquieu  was  mistaken  in  supposing  thut  there  was  a  community  of 
property  in  Paraguay.  Here  we  see  what  led  him  into  this  error. 

*  Charlevoix's  Hint,  of  Paraguay.  Montesquieu  has  estimated  this  tribute  at 
one-fifth  of  the  capital. 

4«  8.  M 


578  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

the  century  and  a  half  that  this  republic  subsisted,  we  scarcely 
find  a  single  instance  of  an  Indian  who  incurred  the  last- 
mentioned  chastisement.  "All  their  faults/'  says  Charlevoix, 
"are  the  faults  of  children.  They  continue  such  all  their  lives 
in  many  things,  and  have  likewise  all  the  good  qualities  of 
childhood." 

The  indolent  were  sentenced  to  cultivate  a  larger  portion  of 
the  common  field ;  so  that  a  judicious  economy  had  made  the  very 
defects  of  these  innocent  creatures  subservient  to  the  general 
prosperity. 

In  order  to  prevent  licentiousness,  care  was  taken  to  marry  the 
young  people  at  an  early  age.  Women  that  had  no  children  re 
tired,  during  the  absence  of  their  husbands,  to  a  particular  build 
ing  called  the  House  of  Refuge.  The  sexes  were  kept  separate, 
very  much  as  in  the  Grecian  republics.  They  had  distinct  benches 
at  church,  and  different  doors  at  which  they  went  in  and  out  with 
out  intermingling. 

There  were  fixed  regulations  for  every  thing,  not  excepting 
dress,  which  was  decent  and  becoming,  yet  not  ungraceful.  The 
women  wore  a  plain  white  tunic,  fastened  round  the  waist.  Their 
arms  and  legs  were  uncovered,  and  their  loosely-flowing  hair 
served  them  instead  of  a  veil. 

The  men  were  habited  like  the  ancient  Castilians.  When  they 
went  to  their  work  they  put  a  white  frock  over  this  dignified  dress. 
Those  who  had  signalized  themselves  by  acts  of  courage  or  virtue 
were  distinguished  by  frocks  of  a  purple  color. 

The  Spaniards,  and  the  Portuguese  of  Brazil  in  particular, 
made  incursions  into  the  territory  of  the  Christian  Republic,  and 
often  carried  off  some  of  its  citizens  into  slavery.  Determined  to 
put  an  end  to  these  depredations,  the  Jesuits,  by  delicate  manage 
ment,  contrived  to  obtain  permission  from  the  Court  of  Madrid 
to  arm  their  converts.  They  procured  the  raw  materials,  esta 
blished  foundries  for  cannon  and  manufactories  of  gunpowder, 
and  trained  to  war  those  who  were  not  suffered  to  live  in  peace. 
A  regular  military  force  assembled  every  Monday  to  perform 
evolutions  and  to  be  reviewed  by  the  cacique.  There  were  prizes 
for  the  archers,  the  pikemen,  the  slingers,  the  artillerymen,  and 
the  musketeers.  The  Portuguese,  when  they  returned,  instead 
of  finding  a  few  straggling  and  panic-struck  husbandmen,  were 


MISSIONS   OF   PARAGUAY.  579 

met  by  battalions  which  cut  them  in  pieces  and  pursued  them  to 
their  very  forts.  It  was  remarked  that  these  new  troops  never 
receded,  and  that  they  rallied  without  confusion  amid  the  fire  of 
the  enemy.  Such  was  their  ardor  that  they  were  often  hurried 
away  by  it  in  their  military  exercises,  and  it  was  found  necessary 
to  interrupt  them  for  fear  of  accidents. 

Paraguay  then  afforded  an  example  of  a  state  exempt  both 
from  the  dangers  of  a  wholly  military  constitution,  like  that  of 
Lacedaemon,  and  the  inconveniences  of  a  wholly  pacific  commu 
nity,  such  as  that  of  the  Quakers.  The  great  political  problem 
was  solved.  Agriculture,  which  sustains,  and  arms,  which  pre 
serve,  were  here  united.  The  Guaranis  were  planters  though 
they  had  no  slaves,  and  soldiers  without  being  ferocious, — 
immense  and  sublime  advantages,  which  they  owed  to  the  Chris 
tian  religion,  and  which  neither  the  Greeks  nor  the  Romans  had 
ever  enjoyed  under  their  system  of  polytheism. 

In  every  thing  a  wise  medium  was  observed.  The  Christian 
Republic  was  neither  absolutely  agricultural,  nor  exclusively  ad 
dicted  to  war,  nor  entirely  cut  off  from  letters  and  commerce.  It 
had  a  little  of  all,  and  a  great  number  of  festivals.  It  was  neither 
morose  like  Sparta,  nor  frivolous  like  Athens.  The  citizen  was 
neither  oppressed  with  toil  nor  intoxicated  with  pleasure.  Finally, 
the  missionaries,  while  they  confined  the  multitude  to  the  neces 
saries  of  life,  were  capable  of  distinguishing  among  the  flock  those 
children  whom  nature  had  marked  for  higher  destinies.  Accord 
ing  to  Plato's  plan,  they  separated  such  as  gave  indications  of 
genius,  in  order  to  initiate  them  in  the  sciences  and  letters.  This 
select  number  was  called  the  Congregation.  The  children  be 
longing  to  it  were  educated  in  a  kind  of  seminary,  and  subjected 
to  the  same  rigid  silence,  seclusion,  and  study,  as  the  disciples  of 
Pythagoras.  Such  was  the  emulation  which  prevailed  among 
them,  that  the  mere  threat  of  being  sent  back  to  the  inferior 
schools  plunged  a  pupil  into  the  deepest  distress.  It  was  this 
excellent  institution  that  was  destined  one  day  to  furnish  the 
country  with  priests,  magistrates,  and  heroes. 

The  villages  of  the  Reductions  occupied  a  considerable  space, 
generally  on  the  bank  of  a  river  and  in  an  agreeable  situation. 
All  the  houses  were  uniform,  built  of  stone,  and  of  a  single  story; 
the  streets  were  spacious  and  straight.  In  the  centre  of  the  vil- 


580  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


lage  was  the  public  square,  formed  by  the  church,  the  habitation 
of  the  missionaries,  the  arsenal,  the  public  granary,  the  House  of 
Refuge,  and  the  inn  for  strangers.  The  churches  were  handsome 
and  highly  ornamented ;  the  walls  were  covered  with  pictures 
separated  by  festoons  of  natural  foliage.  On  festivals,  perfumed 
waters  were  sprinkled  in  the  nave  and  the  sanctuary  was  strewed 
with  the  flowers  of  lianas. 

The  cemetery,  situated  behind  the  church,  formed  an  oblong 
square  enclosed  with  walls  about  breast  high.  It  was  bordered 
all  round  by  an  alley  of  palm-trees  and  cypresses,  and  intersected 
longitudinally  by  other  alleys  of  lemon  and  orange-trees.  That 
in  the  middle  led  to  a  chapel  where  was  celebrated  every  Monday 
a  mass  for  the  dead. 

From  the  end  of  the  streets  of  the  village,  avenues  of  the  finest 
and  largest  trees  led  to  other  chapels  in  the  country,  and  which 
could  be  seen  in  the  distance.  These  religious  monuments  served 
as  boundaries  to  the  processions  on  occasions  of  extraordinary 
solemnity. 

On  Sunday,  after  the  mass,  the  ceremonies  of  betrothing  and 
marriage  were  performed,  and  in  the  evening  the  catechumens 
and  infants  were  baptized  in  the  same  manner  as  in  the  primitive 
church,  with  three  immersions,  with  singing,  and  the  use  of  the 
white  costume. 

The  principal  festivals  were  announced  by  extraordinary  parade. 
On  the  preceding  evening  bonfires  were  kindled,  the  streets  were 
illuminated,  and  the  children  danced  in  the  public  square.  Next 
morning,  at  daybreak,  the  soldiers  appeared  under  arms.  The 
war-cacique  who  headed  them  was  mounted  on  a  stately  charger, 
and  proceeded  under  a  canopy  borne  by  two  horsemen  at  his  side. 
At  noon,  after  divine  service,  an  entertainment  was  given  to  such 
strangers  as  happened  to  be  at  the  place,  and  a  small  quantity  of 
wine  was  allowed  to  be  used.  In  the  evening  there  was  the  racs 
of  the  ring,  at  which  the  two  fathers  were  present  to  deliver  thft 
prizes  to  the  victors;  and  as  soon  as  it  was  dark  they  gave  tho 
signal  for  retiring,  at  which  all  these  happy  and  peaceful  families 
repaired  to  their  homes  to  enjoy  the  sweets  of  repose. 

In  the  midst  of  these  wild  forests,  and  among  this  ancient 
people,  the  celebration  of  the  feast  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  pre 
sented  an  extraordinary  spectacle.  The  Jesuits  allowed  them  to 


MISSIONS   OF   PARAGUAY.  581 


dance,  after  the  Greek  fashion,  as  they  had  nothing  to  fear  for 
the  morals  of  Christians  who  were  so  remarkable  for  their  inno 
cence.  We  shall  here  give  the  description  which  Father  Charle- 
voix  has  left  us  of  this  ceremony : — 

"  I  have  remarked  that  there  was  nothing  very  valuable  to  be 
seen  at  this  celebration.  All  the  beauties  of  simple  nature  are 
brought  into  requisition,  with  a  variety  that  presents  it  in  the 
most  favorable  light.  Nature  here,  if  I  may  so  speak,  is  all  life  : 
for,  on  the  flowers  and  branches  of  the  trees  which  form  the  tri 
umphal  arches  under  which  the  Blessed  Sacrament  is  carried, 
birds  of  every  variety  of  plumage  are  seen  hovering,  confined  by 
long  cords,  which  give  them  the  appearance  of  being  perfectly 
free  and  of  coming  of  their  own  accord  to  mingle  their  notes  with 
the  sacred  song  of  the  musicians  and  the  people,  and  to  praise  in 
their  own  way  that  God  whose  providence  never  fails  them.  .  .  . 

u  At  certain  distances  are  seen  tigers  and  lions,  securely  chained, 
so  as  not  to  disturb  the  celebration,  and  beautiful  fishes  sporting 
in  large  basins  of  water.  In  a  word,  every  species  of  living  crea 
ture  is  made  to  assist  at  the  ceremony,  as  if  deputed  to  render 
homage  to  the  Man-God  in  his  august  sacrament. 

"  The  solemnity  of  this  festival  is  further  enhanced  by  the  in 
troduction  of  whatever  is  used  by  the  people  in  times  of  great 
rejoicing.  The  first-fruits  of  the  harvest  are  offered  to  the  Lord, 
and  the  grain  which  is  to  be  sown  is  presented  to  receive  his 
blessing.  The  warbling  of  the  birds,  the  roaring  of  the  lions,  the 
howling  of  the  tigers,  all  is  heard  without  confusion,  and  forms  a 
concert  unique  in  its  kind 

"  As  soon  as  the  procession  returns  to  the  church,  all  the 
eatables  that  were  exposed  during  the  ceremony  are  presented 
to  the  missionaries,  who  send  the  choicest  portion  of  them  to  the 
sick,  and  distribute  the  rest  among  the  people  of  the  village.  In 
the  evening  there  is  a  display  of  fireworks,  which  takes  place  on 
all  the  great  solemnities  and  on  days  of  public  rejoicing." 

Under  a  government  so  paternal  and  so  analogous  to  the  simple 
and  pompous  nature  of  the  savage,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the 
new  Christians  were  the  purest  and  the  happiest  of  men.  The 
change  which  took  place  in  their  habits  and  morals  was  a  miracle 
in  the  eyes  of  the  New  World.  That  spirit  of  cruelty  and  ven 
geance,  that  subjection  to  the  grossest  vices  which  characterize  the 

49* 


582  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

Indian  tribes,  were  transformed  into  a  spirit  of  meekness,  patience, 
and  chastity.  We  may  form  some  idea  of  their  virtues  from  an 
expression  of  the  Bishop  of  Buenos  Ayres  in  a  letter  to  the  king 
of  Spain  : — "  Sire/'  said  he,  "  among  those  numerous  tribes  of 
Indians,  who  are  naturally  prone  to  all  sorts  of  vice,  there  pre 
vails  so  much  innocence  that  I  do  not  think  they  ever  commit-  a 
mortal  sin." 

In  these  communities  of  Christian  savages  there  were  neither 
lawsuits  nor  quarrels.  Even  the  distinctions  of  mine  and  thine 
were  unknown  •  for,  as  Charlevoix  observes,  he  possesses  nothing 
of  his  own  who  is  always  ready  to  share  the  little  he  has  with 
those  who  are  in  want.  Abundantly  supplied  with  all  the  neces 
saries  of  life,  governed  by  the  same  persons  who  had  rescued 
them  from  barbarism  and  whom  they  justly  regarded  as  a  kind 
of  divinities,  indulging  the  best  feelings  of  nature  in  the  bosom 
of  their  families  and  among  their  countrymen  at  large,  enjoying 
the  advantages  of  civilized  life  without  having  ever  quitted  the 
desert,  and  the  pleasures  of  society  without  having  lost  those  of 
solitude,  these  Indians  might  boast  of  a  happiness  unprecedented 
in  the  world.  Hospitality,  friendship,  justice,  and  the  tender 
virtues,  flowed  naturally  from  their  hearts  under  the  influence  of 
religion,  as  the  ripe  fruit  of  the  olive  falls  by  the  action  of  the 
winds.  Muratori  has  in  one  single  word  portrayed  this  Chris 
tian  commonwealth,  by  entitling  the  description  he  has  given  of 
it  II  Cristianesimo  felice. 

In  perusing  this  history,  we  seem  to  have  but  one  desire — • 
namely,  to  cross  the  ocean,  and,  far  distant  from  troubles  and  re 
volutions,  to  seek  an  obscure  life  in  the  huts  of  these  savages 
and  a  peaceful  grave  under  the  palm-trees  of  the  cemeteries. 
But  no  deserts  are  so  solitary  nor  seas  so  vast  as  to  secure  man 
from  the  afflictions  which  pursue  him.  Whenever  we  delineate 
the  felicity  of  a  nation,  we  must  at  last  come  to  the  catastrophe ; 
amid  the  most  pleasing  pictures,  the  heart  of  the  writer  is  har 
rowed  by  this  melancholy  reflection,  which  is  incessantly  recur 
ring  : — All  this  is  no  more.  The  missions  of  Paraguay  are  de 
stroyed  ;  the  savages,  assembled  together  with  so  much  trouble, 
are  again  wandering  in  the  woods  or  buried  alive  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth ;  and  this  destruction  of  one  of  the  fairest  works  ever 
produced  by  the  hand  of  man  has  been  applauded.  It  was  a 


MISSIONS  OF   GUIANA.  583 


creation  of  Christianity,  a  field  fertilized  by  the  blood  of  apostles; 
this  was  enough  to  make  it  an  object  of  hatred  and  contempt. 
Nevertheless,  at  the  very  moment  when  infidelity  triumphed  at 
the  sight  of  Indians  consigned  in  the  New  World  to  an  execrable 
servitude,  all  Europe  re-echoed  its  pretended  philanthropy  and 
love  of  liberty  !  These  disgraceful  variations  of  human  nature, 
according  as  it  is  actuated  by  contrary  passions,  stupify  the  soul, 
and  would  be  sufficient  to  excite  a  hatred  of  our  species  were  we 
to  keep  our  eyes  too  long  fixed  upon  them.  Let  us  then  rather 
say  that  we  are  weak  creatures,  that  the  ways  of  the  Almighty 
are  inscrutable,  and  that  he  is  pleased  to  try  his  servants.  While 
we  here  indulge  our  grief,  the  simple  Christians  of  Paraguay,  now 
buried  in  the  mines  of  Potosi,  are  doubtless  adoring  the  hand 
which  has  smitten  them,  and,  by  their  patient  endurance  of  afflic 
tion,  are  acquiring  a  place  in  that  republic  of  the  saints  which  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  persecutions  of  men. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MISSIONS    OF   GUIANA. 

IF  these  missions  astonish  by  their  grandeur,  there  are  others 
which,  though  less  known,  are  not  less  worthy  of  admiration.  It 
is  often  in  the  obscure  cottage  and  on  the  grave  of  the  indigent 
that  the  King  of  kings  loves  to  display  the  riches  of  his  grace 
and  of  his  miracles.  In  proceeding  northward  from  Paraguay  to 
the  extremity  of  Canada,  you  formerly  met  with  a  great  number 
of  small  missions,  where  the  convert  had  not  become  civilized  to 
attach  himself  to  the  apostle,  but  where  the  apostle  had  turned 
savage  to  accompany  the  convert.  The  French  religious  were  at 
the  head  of  these  wandering  churches,  whose  perils  and  perpetual 
change  of  place  seemed  exactly  calculated  for  our  courage  and 
genius. 

Father  Creuilli,  a  Jesuit,  founded  the  missions  of  Cayenne. 
What  he  accomplished  for  the  comfort  of  the  negroes  and  savages 
ieeriis  to  surpass  the  powers  of  human  nature.  Lombard  and 


584  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


Ramette,  treading  in  the  steps  of  this  holy  man,  penetrated  into 
the  morasses  of  Guiana.  Here  they  gained  the  affections  of  the 
Galibis,  by  devoting  themselves  to  the  relief  of  their  sufferings, 
and  prevailed  on  those  Indians  to  intrust  them  with  some  of  their 
children,  whom  they  instructed  in  the  Christian  religion.  On 
returning  to  their  native  forests  these  civilized  youths  preached 
the  gospel  to  their  aged^nd  savage  parents,  who  were  easily  con 
vinced  by  the  eloquence  of  the  new  missionaries.  The  converts 
assembled  at  a  place  called  Kourou,  where  Father  Lombard,  with 
two  negroes,  had  erected  a  hut.  Their  settlement  daily  increas 
ing,  they  resolved  to  have  a  church.  But  how  were  they  to  pay 
the  builder,  a  carpenter  of  Cayenne,  who  demanded  fifteen  hun 
dred  francs  for  the  work?  The  missionary  and  his  disciples, 
though  rich  in  virtues,  were  in  other  respects  the  poorest  of  men. 
Faith  and  charity  are  ingenious ;  the  Galibis  engaged  to  hollow 
out  seven  canoes,  for  which  the  carpenter  agreed  to  allow  two 
hundred  francs  a  piece.  To  make  up  the  rest  of  the  sum,  the 
women  spun  as  much  cotton  as  would  suffice  for  eight  hammocks. 
Twenty  others  of  the  savages  labored  as  voluntary  slaves  for  a 
planter  the  whole  time  that  his  two  negroes,  whom  he  consented 
to  lend  for  the  purpose,  were  employed  in  sawing  boards  for  the 
roof  of  the  edifice.  Thus  the  whole  business  was  accomplished, 
and  a  temple  of  God  arose  in  the  desert. 

He  who  from  all  eternity  has  marked  out  the  course  of  things, 
has  recently  unfolded  in  those  regions  one  of  those  designs  whose 
first  principles  escape  the  sagacity  of  men,  and  whose  depths  we 
cannot  penetrate  till  the  very  instant  of  their  fulfilment.  When 
Father  Lombard,  upward  of  a  century  ago,  laid  the  foundations 
of  his  mission  among  the  Galibis,  little  did  he  imagine  that  he 
was  only  disposing  the  savages  to  receive  at  some  future  period 
the  martyrs  of  the  faith,  and  that  he  was  preparing  the  deserts 
of  a  new  Thebais  for  persecuted  religion.  What  a  fertile  subject 
for  reflection  !  Billaud  de  Varennes  and  Pichegru,  the  one  the 
tyrant,  the  other  the  victim,  met  in  the  same  cabin  at  Synna- 
mary ! — hearts  which  the  extremity  of  misery  itself  had  proved 
incapable  of  uniting1.  Irreconcilable  animosities  raged  among 

1  Pichegru  was  a  French  general  of  distinguished  abilities  during  the  Revo 
lution,  but  opposed  to  the  excesses  of  the  times.  He  was  banished  under  the 
Directory  to  Cayenne,  whence  he  afterward  escaped.  He  had  been  preceded 


MISSIONS   OF   THE   ANTILLES.  585 


the  partners  of  the  same  chains,  and  the  cries  of  unfortunate 
wretches  ready  to  tear  one  another  in  pieces  were  mingled  with 
the  yell  of  tigers  in  the  forests  of  the  New  World. 

Amid  this  tumult  of  the  passions,  behold  evangelical  composure 
and  serenity  !  confessors  of  Jesus  Christ  cast  among  the  converts 
of  Guiana,  and  finding  among  Christian  barbarians  that  compas 
sion  which  was  denied  them  by  their  own  countrymen ;  indigent 
nuns,  who  seemed  to  have  exiled  themselves  to  a  destructive  cli 
mate  merely  to  nurse  a  Collot  d'Herbois  on  his  deathbed,  and 
to  bestow' on  him  all  the  attentions  of  Christian  charity, — these 
pious  females  making  no  distinction  between  the  innocent  and 
the  guilty  in  their  love  of  humanity,  shedding  tears  over  all, 
praying  to  God  to  bless  both  the  persecutors  of  his  name  and  the 
martyrs  of  his  faith.  What  a  lesson  !  what  a  scene !  How 
wretched  are  men,  and  how  beautiful  is  religion ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MISSIONS   OF   THE   ANTILLES. 

THE  establishment  of  the  French  colonies  in  the  Antilles,  or 
Ant-Ides,  (thus  named  because  they  are  the  first  you  come  to  at 
the  entrance  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,)  dates  no  further  back  than 
the  year  1627,  when  M.  d'Enauibuc  built  a  fort  and  left  a  few 
families  in  the  island  of  St.  Christopher. 

It  was  customary  at  that  time  to  send  missionaries  as  ministers 
to  distant  settlements,  that  religion  might  partake  in  some  mea 
sure  of  that  spirit  of  intrepidity  and  adventure  which  distin 
guished  those  who  first  went  to  seek  their  fortune  in  the  New 
World.  The  Friars  Preachers  of  the  congregation  of  St.  Louis, 
the  Carmelites,  the  Capuchins,  and  the  Jesuits,  devoted  them 
selves  to  the  instruction  of  the  Caribbees  and  Negroes,  and  to  all 
the  duties  required  by  the  infant  colonies  of  St.  Christopher's, 
Guadaloupe,  Martinique,  and  St.  Domingo. 

thither  by  Billaud  de  Varennes  and  Collot  d'Herbois,  among  the  most  ferocioui 
characters  of  the  Reiijn  of  Terror,  the  latter  of  whom  died  in  that  country.     T. 


5S6  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Even  at  the  present  day,  we  know  of  no  account  of  the  Antilks 
more  satisfactory  and  complete  than  the  history  of  Father  Du- 
tertre,  a  missionary  of  the  congregation  of  St.  Louis. 

"  The  Caribbees,"  says  he,  "  are  greatly  prone  to  musing.  Their 
faces  bear  the  stamp  of  a  pensive  and  melancholy  character. 
They  pass  half  the  day  together  seated  on  the  summit  of  a  rock 
or  on  the  shore,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth  or  on  the  sea,  with 
out  uttering  a  single  word They  are  of  a  kind,  gentle, 

affable,  and  compassionate  disposition,  being  very  often  affected 
even  to  tears  by  the  distresses  of  the  French,  and  cruel  to  none 
but  their  sworn  enemies. 

"  Mothers  are  tenderly  attached  to  their  children,  and  are  always 
on  the  alert  to  prevent  any  accident  that  may  befall  them.  They 
keep  them  almost  always  at  the  breast,  even  in  the  night;  and  it 
is  a  wonder  that,  lying  as  they  do  in  suspended  hammocks,  which 
are  very  inconvenient,  they  never  smother  any  of  their  infants. 
....  In  all  their  excursions,  either  by  sea  or  land,  they  carry 
them  along  under  their  arms  in  little  beds  of  cotton,  suspended 
from  the  shoulder  in  a  scarf,  that  they  may  have  the  objects  of 
their  anxious  care  continually  before  their  eyes/'1 

You  almost  imagine  here  that  you  are  reading  a  passage  of 
Plutarch. 

With  a  disposition  to  dwell  on  the  simple  and  tender,  Dutertre 
cannot  fail  to  be  deeply  affecting  when  he  speaks  of  the  Negroes. 
He  has  not  represented  them,  however, — after  the  manner  of  the 
philanthropists, — as  the  most  virtuous  of  mankind ;  but  he  has 
given  us  a  picture  of  their  sentiments  which  is  characterized  by 
feeling,  good-nature,  and  sound  judgment. 

"  There  was  an  instance  at  Guadeloupe,"  says  he,  "of  a  young 
negress  so  profoundly  impressed  with  the  wretchedness  of  her 
condition,  that  her  master  never  could  prevail  upon  her  to  marry 

the  negro  whom  he  had  selected  for  her She  waited  till 

the  priest  (at  the  altar)  asked  if  she  would  have  such  a  person 
for  her  husband,  and  then  she  replied,  with  a  firmness  that  asto 
nished  us,  '  No,  father ;  I  will  neither  have  him  nor  any  other.  I 
am  content  to  be  miserable  myself,  without  bringing  into  the 
world  children  who  would,  perhaps,  be  still  more  miserable  than 

1  Hist,  dcs  Ant.,  tome  ii.  p.  375. 


MISSIONS  OF  THE  ANTILLES.  587 

I  am,  and  whose  sufferings  would  be  much  more  painful  to  me 
than  my  own.'  She  accordingly  remained  unmarried,  and  was 
commonly  called  the  Maid  of  the  Isles." 

Thus  does  the  good  father  delineate  the  manners  of  the  Ne 
groes,  describe  the  economy  of  their  humble  dwellings,  and 
interest  the  reader  in  their  affection  for  their  children.  He  inter- 
mingles  with  his  narrative  sentences  from  Seneca,  who  speaks  of 
the  simplicity  of  the  cottages  inhabited  by  the  people  of  the 
Golden  Age.  Then  he  qnotes  Plato,  or  rather  Homer,  who  says 
that  the  gods  take  from  the  slave  one-half  of  his  energies.  He 
compares  the  free  Caribbean  savage  with  the  enslaved  Negro 
savage,  and  shows  how  much  Christianity  assists  the  latter  to 
endure  his  afflictions. 

It  has  been  the  fashion  of  our  times  to  accuse  priests  of  foster 
ing  servitude  and  countenancing  the  oppression  of  the  people, 
while  it  is  certain  that  no  class  of  men  have  ever  raised  their 
voice  with  so  much  courage  and  energy  in  behalf  of  the  slave 
and  for  the  relief  of  the  poor  and  helpless  as  the  Catholic  clergy. 
They  have  always  maintained  that  liberty  is  an  imprescriptible 
right  of  the  Christian.  Convinced  of  this,  the  Protestant  colo 
nist,  with  a  view  to  conciliate  cupidity  and  conscience,  deferred 
the  baptism  of  the  Negro  until  the  hour  of  death  j  and,  in  many 
cases,  he  allowed  the  slave  to  die  without  the  benefit  of  this 
regenerating  rite,  fearing  lest,  recovering  from  his  illness,  he 
should  claim  his  liberty  on  the  ground  of  being  a  Christian.1 

1  Histoire  det  Antil.,  tome  ii.  p.  503.  By  her  wise  legislation  the  Church  con 
tributed  vastly  to  the  mitigation  of  the  evils  of  slavery  under  the  old  Roman 
civilization  and  during  subsequent  periods,  and  finally  succeeded  in  abolishing  it 
from  Europe.  In  the  twelfth  century  Alexander  III.  forbade  Christians  to  be 
held  in  slavery  j  for  it  was  an  axiom  which  had  grown  out  of  the  salutary 
operation  of  Christianity  upon  society  that  a  Christian  should  not  be  kept  as  a 
slave.  The  Catholic  missionaries,  however,  in  the  New  World,  advocated  the 
cause  of  the  Indians  who  were  reduced  to  slavery  by  the  cruel  rapacity  of  the 
European  colonists,  not  only  on  the  ground  of  their  being  Christians,  but  of 
their  belonging  to  the  great  i'aniily  of  Adam.  This  was  a  sufficient  title  to  their 
liberty;  for  the  latter  was  a  natural  right,  the  invasion  of  which  could  not  be 
justified  by  any  motives  of  human  passion.  But,  as  the  author  well  observes 
in  the  sequel  of  this  chapter,  where  the  missionaries  found  domestic  slaverj 
existing  as  a  social  evil,  they  strove  to  mitigate  the  sufferings  of  those  in  bond 
age,  without  aiming  at  the  overthrow  of  the  established  order  or  violating  the 
rights  of  property.  T. 


588  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


Religion  here  shows  itself  as  noble  and  beautiful  as  avarice  ia 
mean  and  hateful. 

The  compassionate  and  religious  spirit  which  the  missionaries 
evinced,  in  speaking  of  the  Negroes  in  our  colonies,  was  alone  in 
accordance  with  the  dictates  of  reason  and  humanity.  It  ren 
dered  the  master  more  merciful  and  the  slave  more  virtuous.  It 
served  the  cause  of  mankind  without  injury  to  the  country,  to 
the  existing  order,  or  to  the  rights  of  property.  But  a  vain, 
boasting  philanthropy  has  ruined  every  thing.  Even  the  senti 
ment  of  pity  has  been  extinguished;  for  who  would  now  dare  to 
espouse  the  cause  of  the  blacks  after  the  crimes  which  they  have 
committed?  Such  is  the  result  of  our  pretensions!  The  most 
laudable  objects  have  been  frustrated  by  our  short-sighted  policy.1 

In  natural  history  Father  Dutertre  has  a  happy  talent  of  descrip 
tion.  He  sometimes  gives  you  an  idea  of  an  animal  by  a  single 
expression.  The  humming-bird  he  calls  a  celestial  flower,  imi 
tating  the  language  of  Commire  in  regard  to  the  butterfly : — 

Florem  putares  nare  per  liquidum  aethera. 

"The  plumage  of  the  flamingo/'  says  he,  "has  a  flesh-color; 
and,  when  flying  against  the  rays  of  the  sun,  it  shines  like  a  fire 
brand."  Buffon  has  not  described  the  flight  of  a  bird  more  suc 
cessfully  than  the  historian  of  the  Antilles.  Speaking  of  the 
sea-swallow,  he  says: — "This  bird  has  much  difficulty  in  rising 
above  the  branches  of  a  tree ;  but  when  it  has  once  taken  its 
flight  it  skims-  peacefully  through  the  air,  its  wings  extended  and 
scarcely  moving,  yet  without  its  experiencing  the  slightest  fatigue. 
If  a  heavy  rain  or  violent  wind  impedes  its  way,  it  makes  for  the 
clouds,  soaring  aloft  to  the  middle  region  of  the  atmosphere  and 
disappearing  from  the  sight  of  man."2 

He  thus  describes  the  female  humming-bird  in  the  process  of 
building  its  nest : — 

"  She  cards,  as  it  were,  all  the  cotton  that  is  brought 

to  her  by  her  mate,  and  turns  it  over  thread  after  thread  with  her 
bill  and  diminutive  feet.  Then  she  forms  her  nest,  which  is  not 

1  The  author  had  before  his  eyes  the  massacres  of  St.  Domingo,  which  had 
but  recently  occurred.  His  remarks  on  the  ultra  philanthropy  of  his  time  will 
be  easily  applied  in  our  own  day  and  country.  T. 

*  Hietoire  des  Antil.,  tome  ii.  p.  268,  <fcc. 


MISSIONS   OF    NEW   FRANCE.  589 

;arger  than  the  half  of  a  pigeon-egg.  While  raising  this  little 
structure,  she  goes  round  it  innumerable  times,  smoothing  the 

border  of  it  with  her  neck  and  the  interior  with  her  tail 

I  have  never  been  able  to  ascertain  what  food  the  mother 
brings  her  young  ones,  except  that  she  gives  them  her  tongue  to 
puck,  which  is  all  covered,  I  believe,  with  the  sweets  of  various 
flowers/' 

If  perfection  in  the  art  of  delineation  consists  in  giving  a 
precise  idea  of  objects  and  always  exhibiting  them  in  an  agree 
able  point  of  view,  that  perfection  must  be  awarded  to  the  mission 
ary  of  the  Antilles. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MISSIONS    OF    NEW     FRANCE. 

WE  shall  not  treat  of  the  missions  of  California,  because  they 
exhibit  no  peculiar  characteristic;  nor  of  those  of  Louisiana, 
which  resemble  the  fearful  missions  of  Canada,  where  the  intre 
pidity  of  the  apostles  of  Jesus  Christ  shone  forth  in  all  its  glory. 

When  the  French,  under  the  command  of  Champlain,  sailed 
up  the  river  St.  Lawrence,  they  found  the  forests  of  Canada  in 
habited  by  savages  very  different  from  those  who  had  heretofore 
been  discovered  in  the  New  World.  They  were  robust,  courageous 
men,  proud  of  their  independence,  capable  of  reasoning  and  cal 
culation,  neither  astonished  at  the  manners  of  the  Europeans 
nor  dismayed  by  their  arms  j1  and,  instead  of  admiring  us  like 
the  innocent  Caribbeans,  manifesting  for  our  customs  naught  but 
scorn  and  disgust. 

Three  nations  shared  the  empire  of  the  desert: — the  Algonquin, 
(the  principal  and  most  ancient  of  all,  but  which,  having  by  its 
power  incurred  the  hatred,  was  also  about  to  succumb  under  the 

1  In  the  first  engagement  which  took  place  between  Champlain  and  the 
Iroquois,  those  Indians  sustained  the  fire  of  the  French  without  showing  the 
least  sign  of  surprise  or  terror. 


590  GENIUS    OF    CHRISTIANITY. 

united  attacks,  of  the  other  two,)  the  Huron,  our  ally,  and  the 
Iroquois,  our  enemy. 

These  were  not  roving  nations.  They  had  fixed  habitations 
and  regular  governments.  We  have  had  opportunities  of  observ 
ing,  among  the  Indians  of  the  New  World,  all  the  constitutions 
of  civilized  nations.  Thus,  the  Natchez,  in  Louisiana,  afforded 
an  example  of  despotism  in  the  state  of  nature ;  the  Creeks,  of 
Florida,  had  a  monarchy ;  and  the  Iroquois,  in  Canada,  a  repub 
lican  government. 

These  last  and  the  Hurons  were  the  Spartans  and  Athenians 
of  those  savage  regions.  The  Hurons — witty,  gay,  and  sprightly, 
yet  deceitful,  brave,  and  eloquent,  elated  with  success,  dispirited 
by  adverse  fortune,  and  governed  by  their  women — had  more 
honor  than  patriotism.  The  Iroquois  —  divided  into  cantons 
which  were  under  the  direction  of  ambitious  old  men,  politic, 
taciturn,  and  demure,  burning  with  the  desire  of  dominion, 
capable  of  the  greatest  vices  and  of  the  most  sublime  virtues, 
sacrificing  every  thing  to  the  welfare  of  their  country — were  at 
once  the  most  ferocious  and  the  most  intrepid  of  men.  No  sooner 
did  the  French  and  English  appear  in  those  regions  than,  by  a 
natural  instinct,  the  Hurons  joined  the  former  and  the  Iroquois 
sided  with  the  latter,  but  without  feeling  any  attachment  for  them, 
and  only  making  use  of  them  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  arms. 
They  forsook  their  new  allies  whenever  they  became  too  powerful, 
and  united  with  them  again  when  the  French  proved  victorious. 
Thus  did  a  petty  band  of  savages  artfully  temporize  between  two 
great  civilized  nations,  seeking  to  destroy  the  one  by  the  other, 
frequently  on  the  point  of  accomplishing  this  deep  design,  and  of 
becoming  at  once  the  masters  and  deliverers  of  this  vast  portion 
of  the  New  World. 

Such  were  the  nations  whom  our  missionaries  undertook  to 
conciliate  by  means  of  religion.  If  France  beheld  her  empire 
in  the  New  World  extended  beyond  the  banks  of  the  Mescha- 
cebe, — if  she  retained  Canada  for  so  long  a  period  against  the 
united  force  of  the  English  and  Iroquois,— she  owed  almost  all 
her  success  to  the  Jesuits.  They  saved  the  infant  colony  by 
placing  before  it  as  a  bulwark  a  village  of  Christian  Hurons  and 
Iroquois — by  preventing  general  coalitions  of  the  Indians — by 
negotiating  treaties  of  peace — by  exposing  themselves  singly  to 


MISSIONS   OF   NEW  FRANCE.  591 

the  fury  of  the  Iroquois  in  order  to  frustrate  the  designs  of  the 
English.  The  despatches  of  the  governors  of  the  provinces  com 
posing  New  England  are  continually  characterizing  the  French 
missionaries  as  the  most  dangerous  enemies,  and  represent  them 
as  disconcerting  the  plans  of  the  British  power,  discovering  its 
secrets,  and  bereaving  it  of  the  affections  and  the  aid  of  the 
savages. 

The  wretched  administration  of  Canada,  the  wrong  measures 
taken  by  the  governors,  a  narrow  or  oppressive  policy,  often 
proved  greater  obstacles  to  the  good  intentions  of  the  Jesuits 
than  the  opposition  of  the  enemy.  If  they  presented  the  most 
judicious  and  best-concerted  plans  for  the  prosperity  of  the  colony, 
they  were  commended  for  their  zeal,  while  other  counsels  were 
adopted;  but  no  sooner  did  the  state  of  affairs  become  critical 
than  application  was  made  to  them  for  advice.  The  governors 
scrupled  not  to  employ  them  in  the  most  dangerous  negotiations, 
regardless  of  the  perils  to  which  they  exposed  them.  Of  this  the 
history  of  New  France  affords  a  remarkable  instance : — 

A  war  had  broken  out  between  the  French  and  Iroquois.  For 
tune  favored  the  latter.  They  had  advanced  to  the  very  walls  of 
Quebec,  and  had  massacred  and  devoured  the  inhabitants  of  the 
adjacent  country.  Every  thing  was  given  up  for  lost.  Father 
Lamberville  was  at  this  very  moment  living  as  a  missionary  among 
the  Iroquois.  Though  continually  in  danger  of  being  burned 
alive  by  the  conquerors,  he  had  been  induced  to  remain  with  the 
savages  in  the  hope  of  bringing  them  into  pacific  measures,  and 
thus  saving  the  relics  of  the  colony.  The  elders  loved  him,  and 
had  protected  him  against  the  warriors. 

At  this  juncture  he  received  a  letter  from  the  governor  of 
Canada  beseeching  him  to  persuade  the  savages  to  send  ambassa 
dors  to  Fort  Catarocouy  to  treat  of  peace.  The  missionary  re 
paired  to  the  elders,  and,  by  his  entreaties,  prevailed  upon  them  to 
accept  the  truce  and  depute  their  principal  chiefs.  These  chiefs, 
on  reaching  the  place  appointed  for  the  meeting,  were  made 
prisoners,  thrown  into  irons,  and  sent  to  France  to  the  galleys. 

Lamberville  was  ignorant  of  the  secret  design  of  the  governor 
Such  was  the  sincerity  with  which  he  had  acted  that  he  still  con 
tinued  to  reside  as  before  among  the  savages.  When  he  received 
intelligence  of  what  had  happened,  he  gave  himself  up  for  lost 


592  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


When  summoned  to  appear  before  the  elders,  he  found  them  as 
sembled  in  council  with  stern  looks  and  a  threatening  aspect 
One  of  them,  in  terms  of  just  indignation,  related  the  treachery 
of  the  governor,  and  then  added: — "It  cannot  be  denied  that 
we  have  every  reason  to  treat  thee  as  an  enemy ;  but  this  we 
cannot  prevail  upon  ourselves  to  do.  We  know  thee  too  well 
not  to  be  convinced  that  thy  heart  had  no  share  in  the  treachery 
of  which  thou  hast  been  the  instrument;  and  we  are  not  so 
unjust  as  to  punish  thee  for  a  crime  of  which  we  believe  thee  to 
be  innocent,  and  for  which  thou  undoubtedly  feelest  as  strong 

an  abhorrence  as  we It  is  not,  however,  fit  that  thou 

shouldst  remain  here.  All  our  people  would  not,  perhaps,  do 
thee  the  same  justice;  and,  when  once  our  young  men  have  sung 
the  war-song,  they  will  consider  thee  as  a  traitor  who  has  con 
signed  our  chiefs  to  hard  and  cruel  slavery,  and  will  listen  only 
to  their  fury,  from  which  it  will  not  then  be  in  our  power  to  de 
liver  thee."1 

After  this  they  constrained  the  missionary  to  depart,  and  gave 
him  guides  to  conduct  him  by  unfrequented  roads  beyond  the 
frontiers  of  their  country.  Louis  XIV.,  being  informed  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  Indians  had  been  arrested,  gave  orders  for 
their  release.  The  chief  who  had  addressed  Lamberville  was 
soon  afterward  converted,  and  retired  to  Quebec.  His  conduct  on 
this  occasion  was  the  first-fruits  of  the  virtues  of  Christianity, 
which  had  already  begun  to  spring  up  in  his  heart. 

But  what  men,  too,  were  a  Brebceuf,  a  Lallemant,  a  Jogues, 
who  fertilized  with  their  blood  the  frozen  wastes  of  New  France ! 
I  myself  met  one  of  these  apostles  of  religion  amid  the  solitudes 
of  America.  One  morning,  as  we  were  slowly  pursuing  our  course 
through  the  forests,  we  perceived  a  tall,  venerable  old  man,  with  a 
white  beard,  approaching  us.  He  was  dressed  in  a  long  robe, 
and  walked  with  the  aid  of  a  staif,  at  the  same  time  reading 
attentively  in  a  book.  He  appeared  radiantly  illumined  by  the 
rising  sun,  which  threw  a  beam  upon  him  athwart  the  foliage  of 
the  trees.  Fancy  would  fain  have  believed  him  to  be  Therm- 
osiris  issuing  from  the  sacred  wood  of  the  Muses  in  the  deserts  of 
Upper  Egypt.  He  proved  to  be  a  missionary  of  Louisiana  ou 

1  Charlevoix,  Histoire  de  la  Nouv.  France,  tome  i.  livre  xi. 


MISSIONS   OF    NEW   FRANCE.  593 


his  way  from  New  Orleans,  returning  to  the  country  of  the  Illinois, 
where  he  had  the  superintendence  of  a  little  flock  of  French 
people  and  Christian  savages.  He  accompanied  us  for  several 
days;  and,  however  early  we  were  up  in  the  morning,  we  always 
found  the  aged  traveller  risen  before  us,  and  reading  his  breviary 
while  walking  in  the  forest.  This  holy  man  had  suffered  much. 
Pie  related  to  us  many  of  the  afflictions  of  his  life,  concerning 
which  he  spoke  without  a  murmur,  still  less  with  pleasure,  but 
yet  with  serenity.  Never  did  we  behold  a  more  placid  smile  than 
his.  He  frequently  and  aptly  recited  verses  of  Virgil  and  Homer, 
which  he  applied  to  the  enchanting  scenes  that  successively  pre 
sented  themselves  to  our  view  or  to  the  thoughts  with  which  we 
were  engaged.  He  seemed  to  possess  great  attainments  of  every 
kind,  which  he  scarcely  suffered  to  appear  under  his  evangelical 
simplicity.  Like  his  predecessors,  the  apostles,  though  knowing 
every  thing,  he  seemed  to  know  nothing.  We  had  one  day  a 
conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  we 
felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  talking  of  the  troubles  of  men  amid  the 
most  tranquil  scenes.  We  were  seated  in  a  valley  on  the  banks 
of  a  river  whose  name  we  knew  not,  and  which,  for  a  long  series 
of  ages,  had  poured  its  refreshing  waters  through  this  unknown 
region.  On  making  this  observation,  we  perceived  that  our  aged 
companion  was  affected.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  this  image 
of  a  life  passed  in  the  deserts  in  conferring  benefits  unknown  to 
the  world.1 

Charlevoix  describes  one  of  the  missionaries  of  Canada  in  these 
terms : — "  Father  Daniel  was  too  near  Quebec  not  to  pay  it  a  visit 

before  he    returned    to  his    mission He  arrived    at  the 

port  in  a  canoe  with  the  oar  in  his  hand,  and  accompanied  by 
three  or  four  savages.  He  was  barefoot,  exhausted,  his  under 
clothes  worn  out  and  his  cassock  hanging  in  rags  on  his  emaciated 
body;  yet  his  countenance  was  expressive  of  content  and  satis 
faction  with  the  life  which  he  led,  and  excited  both  by  his  looks 
and  conversation  a  desire  to  go  and  share  with  him  the  crosses  tc 


i  The  life  led  by  the  missionaries  among  the  bloodthirsty  savages  of  New 
France,  the  hardships  which    they  underwent,  and  the  crown  of  martyrdom 
which  many  of  them  received,  form  so  pathetic  a  page  in  the  annals  of  Chris 
tianity  that  no  heart  can  remain  unmoved  at  the  perusal.     S. 
50»  2N 


594  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


which  the  Lord  attached  such  unction."1  What  a  genuine  picture 
of  those  joys  and  tears  which  Jesus  Christ  has  promised  to  his 
elect ! 

Hear  what  the  historian  of  New  France  says  in  another  place 
concerning  the  missionaries  among  the  Hurons: — "Nothing  was 
more  apostolical  than  the  life  which  they  led.  All  their  moments 
were  marked  by  some  heroic  action,  by  conversions,  or  by  suffer 
ings  which  they  considered  as  a  real  indemnity  when  their  labors 
had  not  produced  all  the  fruit  which  they  had  hoped  for.  From 
the  hour  of  four  in  the  morning,  when  they  rose,  till  eight,  they 
generally  kept  within ;  this  was  the  time  for  prayer,  and  the  only 
part  of  the  day  which  they  had  for  their  private  exercises  of  de 
votion.  At  eight,  each  went  whithersoever  his  duty  called  him : 
some  visited  the  sick,  others  walked  into  the  fields  to  see  those 
who  were  engaged  in  cultivating  the  earth,  others  repaired  to 
the  neighboring  villages  which  were  destitute  of  pastors.  These 
excursions  answered  many  good  purposes;  for  in  the  first  place 
no  children,  or  at  least  very  few,  died  unbaptized;  even  adults 
who  had  refused  to  receive  instruction  while  in  health  applied 
for  it  when  they  were  sick :  they  were  not  proof  against  the  in 
genious  and  indefatigable  charity  of  their  physicians/' 

Were  such  descriptions  to  be  found  in  Telemachus,  how  would 
the  simple  and  pathetic  style  of  these  passages  be  extolled  !  The 
fiction  of  the  poet  would  be  praised  with  enthusiasm ;  and  yet 
people  are  insensible  to  the  truth  when  presented  with  the  same 
attractions. 

But  these  were  only  the  least  of  the  labors  of  these  evangelical 
ministers.  Sometimes  they  accompanied  the  savages  in  long  hunt 
ing  excursions,  which  lasted  several  years;  at  others  they  were 
exposed  to  the  inconceivable  caprices  of  those  Indians,  who,  like 
children,  are  never  capable  of  resisting  any  impulse  of  their 
imagination  or  their  desires.  But  they  deemed  themselves 
rewarded  for  their  trouble  if,  during  their  protracted  sufferings, 
they  had  gained  one  soul  to  God,  opened  the  gate  of  heaven  to 
an  infant,  relieved  one  sick  person,  or  dried  up  the  tears  of  one 
unfortunate  being.  We  have  already  seen  that  their  country  had 
not  more  faithful  citizens;  the  honor  of  being  Frenchmen  often 

1  Charlcvoix,  Histoire  de  la  Nouv.  France,  tome  i.  livre  v. 


MISSIONS   OF   NEW   FRANCE.  595 


drew  upon  them  persecution  and  death.  The  savages  discovered 
them  to  be  of  the  white  flesh  of  Quebec,  by  the  fortitude  which 
they  evinced  in  enduring  the  most  excruciating  torments. 

Heaven,  satisfied  with  their  virtues,  bestowed  on  several  of 
them  that  palm  which  they  so  anxiously  desired,  and  which  has 
raised  them  to  the  rank  of  the  primitive  apostles.  The  Huron 
village  where  Father  Daniel1  officiated  as  missionary  was  sur 
prised  by  the  Iroquois  on  the  morning  of  July  4,  1648.  The 
young  warriors  were  absent.  The  Jesuit  was  just  at  that  moment 
saying  mass,  surrounded  by  his  converts;  he  had  only  time  to 
finish  the  consecration  and  to  run  to  the  place  whence  the 
shrieks  proceeded.  A  homd  scene  met  his  view :  women,  chil 
dren,  and  old  men,  lay  promiscuously  in  the  agonies  of  death. 
All  who  yet  survived  fell  at  his  feet  soliciting  baptism.  The 
father  dipped  a  napkin  in  water,  and  with  it  sprinkled  the  kneel 
ing  crowd,  thus  procuring  everlasting  life  for  those  whom  he  was 
unable  to  rescue  from  temporal  death.  He  then  recollected  hav 
ing  left  in  the  huts  some  sick  persons  who  had  not  yet  received 
the  seal  of  Christianity.  He  flew  thither,  enrolled  them  among 
the  number  of  the  faithful,  returned  to  the  chapel,  hid  the 
sacred  vessels,  gave  a  general  absolution  to  the  Hurons  who  had 
betaken  themselves  to  the  altar,  exhorted  them  to  attempt  their 
escape,  and,  to  give  them  time  to  accomplish  it,  went  forth  to 
meet  the  enemy.  At  the  appearance  of  this  priest  advancing 
alone  against  an  army,  the  astonished  barbarians  paused  and  fell 
back  a  few  steps ;  not  daring  to  approach  the  saint,  they  pierced 
him  at  a  distance  with  their  arrows.  "  Though  transfixed  with 
them  in  every  part,"  says  Charlevoix,  "he  still  continued  to 
speak  with  extraordinary  emphasis,  sometimes  addressing  the 
Almighty,  to  whom  he  offered  up  his  blood  for  his  flock,  and  some 
times  his  murderers,  whom  he  threatened  with  the  wrath  of 
heaven,  assuring  them,  nevertheless,  that  they  would  always  find 
the  Lord  willing  to  forgive  them  if  they  had  recourse  to  his  cle 
mency."9  He  expired,  and,  by  thus  attracting  the  attention  of 
the  Iroquois  to  himself,  saved  part  of  his  congregation. 

Father  Gamier  displayed  equal  heroism  in  another  settlement. 


1  The  same  person  described  by  Charlevoix. 

2  Hist,  de  la  Nouv.  Fr.,  tomo  ii.  lib.  vii.  p.  5. 


596  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

He  was  but  a  very  young  man,  and  had  recently  torn  himself 
from  his  weeping  friends  for  the  purpose  of  saving  souls  in  the 
forests  of  Canada.  Having  received  two  balls  on  the  field  of 
carnage,  he  fell  senseless,  and  was  stripped  by  an  Iroquois  who 
supposed  him  to  be  dead.  Some  time  afterward  the  father  came 
to  himself;  he  raised  his  head  and  beheld  at  some  distance  a 
Huron  just  expiring.  The  apostle  mustered  all  his  strength  to 
go  and  absolve  the  converted  Indian ;  he  crawled  toward  him, 
but  fell  down  again  by  the  way.  A  barbarian,  perceiving  him, 
i  an  and  dispatched  him  with  his  hatchet.  "  He  breathed  his 
last/'  observes  Charlevoix,  "  in  the  exercise,  and,  as  it  were,  in 
the  very  bosom,  of  charity."1 

Lastly,  Father  Brebceuf,  uncle  to  the  poet  of  that  name,  was 
burned  with  those  excruciating  torments  which  the  Iroquois  in 
flicted  on  their  prisoners.  "  This  missionary — who  had  endured 
for  twenty  years  hardships  the  most  likely  to  extinguish  the  sen 
timents  of  nature, — who  possessed  a  courage  which  nothing  could 
appal, — a  virtue  familiarized  with  the  prospect  of  a  speedy  and 
cruel  death,  and  so  elevated  as  even  to  make  it  the  object  of  his 
most  ardent  wishes, — who  had  moreover  been  apprised  by  more 
than  one  celestial  token  that  his  prayers  were  heard  —  was 
equally  proof  against  menaces  and  tortures;  but  the  sight  of  his 
dear  disciples  cruelly  treated  before  his  face,  mingled  no  small 
degree  of  pain  with  the  joy  which  he  felt  on  finding  his  hopes 
accomplished 

"  The  Iroquois  were  fully  aware  that  they  had  to  do  with  a 
man  from  whom  they  should  not  have  the  pleasure  of  extorting 
the  least  sign  of  weakness ;  and,  as  if  they  were  apprehensive 
that  he  would  communicate  his  intrepidity  to  others,  they  sepa 
rated  him,  after  a  while,  from  the  rest  of  the  prisoners,  made 
him  ascend  the  scaffold  alone,  and  were  so  exasperated  against 
him  that  they  seemed  beside  themselves  with  rage  and  despe 
ration. 

"  All  this  did  not  prevent  the  servant  of  God  from  speaking 
in  a  loud  voice,  sometimes  to  the  Hurons,  who,  though  they 
could  not  see  him,  were  within  hearing;  sometimes  to  his  exe 
cutioners,  whom  he  warned  that  they  would  incur  the  wrath 


Hist,  de  la  Nouv.  Fr.,  toine  ii.  lib.  vii.  p.  24. 


MISSIONS    OF   NEW   FRANCE.  597 


of  heaven,  if  they  continued  to  persecute  the  worshippers 
of  the  true  God.  This  boldness  astonished  the  barbarians. 
Having  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  reduce  him  to  silence,  they 
cut  off  his  lower  lip  and  the  end  of  his  nose,  held  lighted 
torches  to  every  part  of  his  body,  and  burned  his  gums,"  &c. 

Another  missionary,  named  Lallemant,  was  tortured  at  the 
same  time  with  Father  Breboauf.  He  had  but  just  entered 
upon  the  ministerial  career.  The  pain  sometimes  forced  from 
him  involuntary  cries.  He  applied  to  the  aged  apostle  to 
strengthen  his  fortitude  j  but  the  latter,  unable  to  speak,  could 
merely  nod  his  head  and  smile  with  his  mangled  lips  to  euctm- 
rage  the  young  martyr.  The  smoke  of  the  two  funeral  piles 
ascended  together  toward  heaven,  and  excited  in  angelic  bosoms 
mingled  emotions  of  joy  and  grief.  The  savages  made  a  collar 
of  .red-hot  hatchets  for  Father  Breboeuf ;  they  cut  from  him 
pieces  of  flesh,  which  they  devoured  before  his  face,  telling  him 
that  the  flesh  of  Frenchmen  was  excellent  eating.1  Then,  con 
tinuing  their  railleries,  "  Thou  assuredst  us  just  now,"  cried  the 
barbarians,  "  that  the  more  a  person  suffers  on  earth  the  more 
happy  he  is  in  heaven ;  it  is,  therefore,  out  of  kindness  to  thee 
that  we  study  to  increase  thy  tortures."9 

When,  during  the  reign  of  terror,  the  hearts  of  priests  were 
paraded  on  the  tops  of  pikes  through  the  streets  of  Paris,  the 
rabble  exclaimed,  Ah  !  il  n'est  point  de  fete  quand  le  cceur  n'en 
e&tpas!  "Ah!  there  is  no  festivity  where  the  heart  does  not 
partake  of  it !" 

At  length,  after  enduring  many  other  torments,  which  we  dare 
not  transcribe,  Father  Breboeuf  breathed  forth  his  soul,  which 
winged  its  flight  to  the  mansions  of  Him  who  healeth  all  the 
wounds  of  his  servants. 

It  was  in  1649  that  these  events  occurred  in  Canada;  that  is 
to  say,  at  the  moment  of  the  highest  prosperity  of  France  and 
during  the  /&es  of  Louis  XIV.  All  then  triumphed,  the  mis 
sionary  as  well  as  the  soldier. 

Those  to  whom  a  priest  is  an  object  of  hatred  and  of  ridicule 
will  rejoice  in  these  torments  of  the  confessors  of  the"  faith. 
Certain  wise  men,  with  a  greater  spirit  of  prudence  and  modera- 

i  Hi*,  de  la  Nouv.  Fr,,  tome  i.  livre  7. 


598  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

tion,  will  observe  that,  after  all,  the  missionaries  were  the  victims 
of  their  fanaticism.  With  a  disdainful  pity  they  will  ask, 
What  business  had  those  monks  in  the  wilds  of  America  ? 
We  must  admit,  indeed,  that  they  did  not  visit  those  regions, 
after  the  manner  of  men  of  science,  to  attempt  some  great  philo 
sophical  discoveries;  they  went  merely  in  obedience  to  the 
injunction  of  that  Master  who  said  to  them,  "  Go  ye  and  teach 
all  nations."  Complying  in  perfect  simplicity  with  this  com 
mand,  they  relinquished  all  the  attractions  of  their  native 
country,  and  undertook,  even  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  to  reveal 

to   a   barbarian   whom    they   had   never   seen what? 

In  the  opinion  of  the  world,  nothing — a  mere  nothing: — the 
existence  of  God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CONCLUSION   OF   THE    MISSIONS. 

WE  have  thus  indicated  the  course  taken  by  the  different 
missions,  which  shows  that  they  were  characterized  by  a  spirit 
of  simplicity  and  heroism,  and,  at  the  same  time,  evinced  a  great 
devotion  to  science  and  the  highest  wisdom  of  legislation.  In 
our  opinion  it  was  a  just  subject  of  pride  for  Europe,  and,  in 
particular,  for  France,  which  furnished  the  greatest  number  of 
missionaries,  to  behold  these  men  annually  quitting  her  shores 
to  display  wonders  of  the  arts,  of  laws,  of  humanity,  and  of 
courage,  in  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Hence  proceeded 
the  high  idea  which  strangers  formed  of  our  nation  and  of  the 
God  whom  we  adore.  The  inhabitants  of  the  remotest  regions 
Bought  our  alliance ;  the  -ambassador  of  the  savage  of  the  West 
met  at  our  court  the  envoy  of  the  nations  of  the  East.  We 
pretend  not  to  the  gift  of  prophecy ;  but  you  may  rest  assured 
(and  experience  will  prove  it)  that  never  will  men  of  science, 
despatched  to  distant  countries  with  all  the  instruments  and  all 
the  plans  of  an  academy,  be  able  to  effect  what  a  poor  monk, 


CONCLUSION   TO   THE    MISSIONS.  5D9 


setting  out  on   foot  from  his  convent,  accomplished  singly  with 
his  rosary  and  his  breviary.1 

1  since  tne  first  publication  of  this  work,  the  Catholic  missions  have 
expanded  over  a  much  vaster  field,  and  have  admitted  a  fifth  geographical 
division,  embracing  the  islands  of  Oceanica.  They  also  continue  to  ex 
hibit  all  the  admirable  features  here  sketched  by  our  author  In  China, 
Tongking,  Siam,  Oceanica,  and  even  in  the  western  wilds  of  our  own 
United  States,  we  still  behold  the  apostle,  the  martyr,  and  the  niim  of  science, 
nmong  the  missionaries  of  the  Catholic  Church.  The  support  and  extension 
of  missionary  enterprise  are  chiefly  due  to  the  aid  furnished  by  the  Association 
for  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith,  whose  receipts  annually  exceed  $700,000. 
For  full  details,  in  confirmation  of  these  statement*,  gee  Annalu  of  tk« 
Aitociation,  Ac.  T. 


BOOK    V. 

MILITARY  ORDERS,  OR  CHIVALRY 
CHAPTER  I. 

KNIGHTS   OF   MALTA. 

THERE  is  not  one  pleasing  recollection,  not  one  useful  institu 
tion,  in  modern  times,  that  Christianity  may  not  claim  as  its  own. 
The  only  poetical  period  of  our  history — the  age  of  chivalry — 
likewise  belongs  to  it.  The  true  religion  possesses  the  singular 
merit  of  having  created  among  us  the  age  of  fiction  and  en 
chantment. 

Sainte-Palaye  seems  inclined  to  separate  military  from  reli 
gious  chivalry,  whereas  every  thing  would,  on  the  contrary, 
induce  us  to  blend  them  together.  In  his  opinion  the  institu 
tion  of  the  former  cannot  be  dated  earlier  than  the  eleventh 
century  ;*  but  this  is  precisely  the  era  of  the  Crusades,  which 
gave  rise  to  the  Hospitallers,  the  Templars,  and  the  Teutonic 
order.3  The  formal  law  by  which  the  military  knights  bound 
themselves  to  defend  the  faith,  the  resemblance  between  their 
ceremonies  and  those  of  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  their 
fasts,  ablutions,  prayers,  confessions,  monastic  engagements,3  are 
sufficient  evidence  that  all  the  knights  had  the  same  religious 
origin.  Lastly,  the  vow  of  celibacy,  which  seems  to  make  a  wide 
distinction  between  chaste  heroes  and  warriors  who  talk  of 
nothing  but  love,  can  form  no  valid  objection  to  our  opinion ; 
for  this  vow  was  not  general  among  the  Christian  military 
orders.  The  knights  of  St.  Jago-of-the-Sword,  in  Spain,  were 

1  Mem.  sur  I'anc.  Chev.,  tome  i.  part  ii.  p.  66. 

2  Hen.,  Hist,  de  Fr.,  tome  i.  p.  167 ;  Fleury,  Hist.  Eccles.,  tome  xiv.  p.  387 
V>me  xv.  p.  604;  Helyot,  Hist,  dee  Ordres  Relig.,  tome  iii.  pp.  74,  143. 

1  Sainte-Palaye,  loc.  cit. 
600 


KNIGHTS   OF   MALTA.  601 


at  liberty  to  marry  j!  and,  in  the  order  of  Malta,  only  such  mem 
bers  were  obliged  to  celibacy  as  attained  to  the  dignities  of  the 
order  or  were  presented  to  its  benefices. 

According  to  Giustiniaui,  or  the  more  authentic  but  less 
pleasing  testimony  of  Helyot,  there  were  thirty  religious  military 
orders : — nine  subject  to  the  rule  of  St.  Basil,  fourteen  to  that 
of  St.  Augustin,  and  seven  belonging  to  the  institution  of  St. 
Benedict.  We  shall  confine  our  observations  to  the  principal  of 
these  : — the  Hospitallers  or  knights  of  Malta  in  the  east,  the 
Teutonic  order  in  the  west,  and  the  knights  of  Calatrava, 
including  those  of  Alcantara  and  St.  Jago-of-the-Sword,  in  the 
south,  of  Europe. 

If  authors  are  correct,  we  may  reckon  upward  of  twenty- 
eight  other  military  orders,  which,  not  being  subject  to  any 
particular  rules,  are  considered  only  as  illustrious  religion 
fraternities.  Such  are  all  those  knights  of  the  Lion,  the  Cres 
cent,  the  Dragon,  the  White  Eagle,  the  Lily,  the  Golden  Sword, 
and  those  female  chevaliers  of  the  Battle-axe,  whose  names 
remind  you  of  the  Rolands,  the  Rogers,  the  Renauds,  the  Clo- 
rindas,  the  Bradamantes,  and  the  prodigies  of  the  Round  Table. 

A  few  traders  of  Auialti  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples  obtain  per 
mission  of  Almansor,  caliph  of  Egypt,  to  build  a  Latin  church 
at  Jerusalem ;  they  annex  to  it  lodgings  for  the  reception  of 
strangers  and  pilgrims,  under  the  superintendence  of  Gerard  de 
Provence.  The  Crusades  begin.  Godfrey  de  Bouillon  arrives, 
and  grants  certain  lands  to  the  new  Hospitallers.  Gerard  is 
succeeded  by  Boyant  Roger,  and  Roger  by  Raymond  Dupuy. 
The  latter  assumes  the  title  of  grand-master,  and  divides  the 
Hospitallers  into  three  classes: — kniyhtx,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
protect  the  pilgrims  on  the  road  and  to  fight  the  infidels ;  chap 
lains,  devoted  to  the  ministry  of  the  altar;  and  •ervtifoff,  who 
were  also  required  to  bear  arms. 

Italy,  Spain,  France,  England,  Germany,  and  Greece,  which 
euccessively  or  all  together  discharge  their  hosts  on  the  shores 
of  Syria,  are  supported  by  the  brave  Hospitallers.  But  fortune 
changes  without  abating  their  valor.  Saladin  retakes  Jerusalem. 
Acre  or  Ptolemais  is  soon  the  only  port  left  to  the  Crusaders  in 


1  Floury,  Hint.  Ecclen.,  tome  xv.  p.  400. 
M 


602  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Palestine.  Here  you  behold  assembled  the  King  of  Jerusalem 
and  Cyprus,  the  King  of  Naples  and  Sicily,  the  King  of  Armenia, 
the  Prince  of  Autioch,  the  Count  of  Jaffa,  the  Patriarch  of  Jeru 
salem,  the  knights  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  the  papal  legate,  tho 
Count  of  Tripoli,  the  Prince  of  Galilee,  the  Templars,  the  Hospi 
tallers,  the  Teutonic  knights,  those  of  St.  Lazarus,  the  Vene 
tians,  the  Genoese,  the  Pisans,  the  Florentines,  the  Prince  of 
Tarento,  and  the  Duke  of  Athens.  All  these  princes,  all  these 
nations,  all  these  orders,  had  separate  quarters,  where  they 
lived  wholly  independent  of  one  another;  "so  that  there  were 
fifty-eight  tribunals,"  as  Fleury  remarks,  il  which  exercised  the 
power  of  life  and  of  death."1 

It  was  not  long  before  discord  appeared  among  all  these  people 
of  such  various  manners  and  interests.  They  came  to  war  in 
the  town.  Charles  of  Anjou  and  Hugh  III.,  King  of  Cyprus, 
who  both  aspired  at  the  same  time  to  the  throne  of  Jerusalem, 
increased  the  confusion.  The  sultan,  Melec-Messor,  taking 
advantage  of  these  intestine  broils,  advanced  with  a  powerful 
army  with  a  view  to  wrest  from  the  Crusaders  this  their  last 
retreat.  He  was  poisoned  on  leaving  Egypt  by  one  of  his  emirs; 
but  before  he  expired  he  exacted  an  oath  from  his  son  that 
he  would  not  give  the  rites  of  burial  to  his  remains  till  he  had 
taken  Ptolemais.  Melee-Seraph  punctually  fulfilled  the  last 
injunction  of  his  father.  Acre  was  besieged  and  carried  by 
assault  on  the  18th  of  May,  1291.  On  this  occasion  a  commu 
nity  of  nuns  afforded  a  memorable  example  of  Christian  chastity. 
They  mangled  their  faces,  and  were  found  in  that  state  by  the 
infidels,  who,  filled  with  disgust  and  resentment,  put  them  all  to 
the  sword. 

After  the  reduction  of  Ptolemais,  the  Hospitallers  retired  to 
the  island  of  Cyprus,  where  they  remained  eighteen  years. 
Rhodes,  having  revolted  against  Andronicus,  Emperor  of  the 
East,  invited  the  Saracens  within  its  walls.  Villaret,  Grand- 
Master  of  the  Hospitallers,  obtained  of  Andronicus  a  grant  of 
the  island,  in  case  he  could  rescue  it  from  the  yoke  of  the 
Mahommedans.  His  knights  covered  themselves  with  sheep 
skins,  and,  crawling  on  their  hands  and  knees  in  the  midst  of  a 

1  Hist.  Eccles. 


KNIGHTS  OF   MALTA.  603 

flock,  they  stole  into  the  town  in  a  thick  fog,  gained  possession 
of  one  of  the  gates,  dispatched  the  guards,  and  introduced  the 
rest  of  the  Christian  army  into  the  place. 

Four  times  did  the  Turks  attempt  to  recover  the  island  of 
Rhodes  from  the  knights,  and  four  times  were  they  repulsed. 
At  the  third  effort  the  siege  of  the  city  lasted  five  years,  and  at 
the  fourth,  Mohammed  battered  the  walls  with  sixteen  pieces 
of  cannon  of  larger  calibre  than  had  ever  before  been  seen  in 
Europe. 

These  same  knights  had  no  sooner  escaped  the  overwhelming 
weight  of  the  Ottoman  power  than  they  all  at  once  became  its 
protectors.  Ziziin,  a  son  of  that  Mohammed  II.  who  had  sc 
lately  cannonaded  the  ramparts  of  Rhodes,  implored  the  assist 
ance  of  the  knights  against  his  brother  Bajazet,  who  had  robbed 
him  of  his  inheritance.  Bajazet,  apprehensive  of  a  civil  war, 
hastened  to  make  peace  with  the  order,  and  agreed  to  pay  it  a 
certain  annual  sum  for  the  support  of  Zizim.  Thus,  by  one 
of  those  vicissitudes  of  fortune  that  are  so  common,  a  powerful 
emperor  of  the  Turks  became  tributary  to  a  few  Christian 
Hospitallers. 

At  length,  under  the  Grand-Master  Villiers-de-1' lie- Adam, 
Solyman  made  himself  master  of  Rhodes,  after  losing  one 
hundred  thousand  men  before  its  walls.  The  knights  retired 
to  Malta,  which  was  given  to  them  by  the  Emperor  Charles  V. 
Here  they  were  again  attacked  by  the  Turks,  but,  delivered  by 
their  courage,  they  remained  in  peaceful  possession  of  the  island, 
by  whose  name  they  still  continue  to  be  known.1 

1  Vertot,  Hi9t.deiChev.de  Mnlte ;  Fleury,  Hint.  Eccleg. ;  Giuatiniani,  Hi*, 
dcgli  Ordin.  Milit.  \  Helyot,  Hist,  dea  Ordre*  Itfliy.,  tome  iii. 


004  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    TEUTONIC    ORDER, 

AT  the  other  extremity  of  Europe,  religious  chivalry  laid  the 
foundation  of  states  which  have  grown  into  mighty  kingdoms. 

The  Teutonic  order  was  instituted  during  the  first  siege  of  Acre 
by  the  Christians,  about  the  year  1190.  In  the  sequel  it  was 
summoned  by  the  Duke  of  Massovia  and  Poland  to  defend  his 
dominions  against  the  incursions  of  the  Prussians.  These  were 
then  a  barbarous  people,  who,  from  time  to  time,  sallied  from  their 
forests  to  ravage  the  neighboring  countries.  They  had  reduced 
the  province  of  Culm  to  a  frightful  desert,  and  had  left  nothing 
standing  on  the  banks  of  the  Vistula  but  the  single  castle  of 
Plotzko.  The  Teutonic  knights,  penetrating  by  degrees  into  the 
woods  of  Prussia,  erected  fortresses  there.  The  Warmians,  the 
Barthes,  and  the  Natangues,  were  successively  subdued,  and  the 
navigation  of  the  northern  seas  was  rendered  secure. 

The  Knights  of  the  Sword,  whose  efforts  had  likewise  been 
directed  to  the  conquest  of  the  northern  countries,  by  uniting 
with  the  Teutonic  order  gave  it  a  truly  royal  power.  The  pro 
gress  of  this  order  was,  however,  retarded  by  the  long-continued 
quarrels  of  the  knights  with  the  bishops  of  Livonia;  but  at 
length,  the  whole  North  of  Europe  being  subdued,  Albert,  Mar 
grave  of  Brandenburg,  embraced  the  doctrine  of  Luther,  drove 
the  knights  from  their  governments,  and  made  himself  sole  mas 
ter  of  Prussia,  which  then  assumed  the  name  of  Ducal  Prussia. 
This  new  duchy  was  in  1701  erected  into  a  kingdom  under  the 
grandfather  of  Frederick  the  Great. 

The  remains  of  the  Teutonic  order  still  subsist  in  Germany,  ind 
trie  Archduke  Charles  of  Austria  is  the  present  grand-master.1 


1  Schoonbeck,  Ord.  Milit.;  Giustiniani,  Hist,  degli.  Ord.  Milit.;  Helyot,  Hist. 
de8  Ord  -es  Relig.,  tome  iii. ;  Fleury,  Hist.  Eccle*. 


TUB   KNIGHTS   OF   CAL.vTRAVA.  605 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    KNIGHTS   OP   CALATRAVA   AND   OP   ST.  JAGO-OF-THE- 
SWORD   IN    SPAIN. 

CHIVALRY  made  the  like  progress  in  the  centre  as  at  the  ex« 
tremities  of  Europe. 

About  the  year  1147,  Alphonso  the  Fighter,  King  of  Castile, 
took  from  the  Moors  the  fortress  of  Calatrava,  in  Andalusia. 
Eight  years  afterward,  the  Moors  prepared  to  recover  it  from 
Don  Sanchez,  the  successor  of  Alphonso.  Don  Sanchez,  intimi 
dated  by  their  design,  caused  public  proclamation  to  be  made 
that  he  would  give  the  town  to  any  person  who  would  defend  it. 
None  durst  undertake  the  task  but  a  Benedictine  of  the  Cister 
cian  order,  named  Don  Didacus  Velasquez,  and  Raymond,  his 
abbot.  They  threw  themselves  into  Calatrava  with  the  peasants 
and  dependants  on  their  monastery  of  Fiterno ;  they  armed  the 
lay  brothers,  and  fortified  the  menaced  town.  The  Moors,  being 
informed  of  these  preparations,  relinquished  their  enterprise; 
Raymond,  the  abbot,  retained  the  place,  and  the  lay  brothers 
were  transformed  into  knights,  who  assumed  the  appellation  of 
Calatrava. 

These  new  knights  in  the  sequel  made  several  conquests  from 
the  Moors  of  Valencia  and  Jaen.  Favera,  Maella,  Macalon, 
Valdetormo,  La  Fresueda,  Valderobbes,  Calenda,  Aquaviva,  and 
Ozpipa,  fell  successively  into  their  hands.  But  the  order  sus 
tained  an  irreparable  check  at  the  battle  of  Alarcos,  where,  in 
1195,  the  Moors  of  Africa  defeated  the  King  of  Castile.  The 
knights  of  Calatrava  were  almost  all  cut  off,  together  with  those 
of  Alcantara  and  St.  Jago-of-thc-Sword. 

We  shall  not  enter  into  any  particulars  respecting  the  latter 
orders,  the  object  of  whose  institution  also  was  to  fight  the  Moors 
and  to  protect  travellers  from  the  incursions  of  the  infidels.1 

We  need  but  take  a  general  survey  of  history  at  the  period  of 

1  See  Schoonbeck,  Giustiniani,  Helyot,  Fleury,  and  Mariana. 
51* 


(JOG  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

the  institution  of  religious  chivalry,  to  be  convinced  of  the  im« 
portant  services  which  it  rendered  to  society.  The  order  of 
Malta  in  the  East  protected  reviving  commerce  and  navigation, 
and  for  more  than  a  century  was  the  only  bulwark  that  prevented 
the  Turks  from  inundating  Italy.  In  the  North,  the  Teutonic 
order,  by  subjugating  the  roving  nations  on  the  shores  of  the 
Baltic,  extinguished  the  focus  of  those  terrible  eruptions  which 
had  so  often  desolated  Europe  :  it  afforded  time  for  the  progress 
of  civilization,  and  for  the  perfecting  of  those  weapons  which 
secure  us  forever  from  future  Alarics  and  Attilas. 

This  will  not  appear  to  be  mere  conjecture,  if  we  observe  that 
the  expeditions  of  the  Normans  did  not  cease  till  about  the  tenth 
century,  and  that  the  Teutonic  knights,  on  their  arrival  in  the 
North,  found  a  renewed  population,  and  innumerable  barbarians, 
who  had  already  overflowed  the  adjacent  countries.  The  Turks, 
coming  down  from  the  East,  and  the  Livonians,  Prussians,  and 
Pomeranians,  advancing  from  the  West  and  North,  would  have 
harassed  Europe  with  a  repetition  of  the  scenes  produced  by  the 
Huns  and  Goths,  from  whose  ravages  it  had  scarcely  recovered. 

The  Teutonic  knights,  indeed,  rendered  a  twofold  service  to 
humanity;  for,  while  they  brought  the  savages  into  subjection, 
they  obliged  them  to  embrace  a  social  life  and  to  attend  to  agri 
cultural  pursuits.  Christburg,  Bartenstein,  Weissemburg,  Wesel, 
Brumberg,  Thorn,  most  of  the  towns  of  Prussia,  Courland,  and 
Semigalla,  were  founded  by  this  military  religious  order ;  and, 
while  it  may  boast  of  having  insured  the  existence  of  the  French 
and  English  nations,  it  may  also  assume  the  merit  of  having 
civilized  the  whole  of  the  north  of  Germany. 

But  there  was  another  enemy  still  more  dangerous,  perhaps, 
than  the  Turks  and  the  Prussians,  because  fixed  in  the  very 
centre  of  Europe  : — the  Moors  were  several  times  on  the  point  of 
enslaving  Christendom.  Though  these  people  seem  to  have  had 
in  their  religion,  which  allowed  polygamy  and  slavery,  and  in 
their  despotic  and  jealous  disposition,  there  was  an  invincible 
obstacle  to  civilization  and  the  welfare  of  mankind. 

The  military  orders  of  Spain,  therefore,  by  their  opposition  to 
the  infidels,  like  the  Teutonic  order  and  that  of  St.  John  of  Jeru 
salem,  prevented  very  great  calamities.  The  Christian  knights 


THE  KNIGHTS  OF  CALATRAVA.         007 

supplied  in  Europe  the  place  of  hired  soldiers,  and  were  a  kind 
of  regular  troops  who  always  repaired  to  that  quarter  where  the 
danger  was  most  urgent.  The  kings  and  the  barons,  being 
obliged  to  dismiss  their  vassals  after  a  service  of  a  few  months, 
had  frequently  been  surprised  by  the  barbarians.  What  experi 
ence  and  the  genius  of  the  age  could  not  effect  was  accomplished 
by  Religion  j  she  formed  associations  of  men  who  swore  in  the 
name  of  God  to  spill  the  last  drop  of  blood  for  their  country. 
The  roads  were  rendered  safe,  the  provinces  were  cleared  of  the 
banditti  by  whom  they  were  infested,  and  external  foes  found  a 
barrier  opposed  to  their  ravages. 

Some  have  censured  the  knights  for  pursuing  infidels  even 
into  their  own  countries ;  but  such  are  not  aware  that,  after  all, 
this  was  but  making  just  reprisals  upon  nations  who  had  been  the 
first  aggressors.  The  Moors  exterminated  by  Charles  Martel  justify 
the  Crusades.  Did  the  disciples  of  the  Koran  remain  quiet  in  the 
deserts  of  Arabia  ?  Did  they  not,  on  the  contrary,  extend  their 
doctrines  and  their  ravages  to  the  walls  of  Delhi  and  the  ramparts 
of  Vienna  ?  But  perhaps  a  Christian  people  should  have  waited 
until  the  haunts  of  these  ferocious  beasts  had  been  again  re 
plenished  !  Because  our  forefathers  marched  against  them  under 
the  banner  of  religion,  the  enterprise,  forsooth,  was  neither  just 
nor  necessary !  Had  the  cause  been  that  of  Theutates,  Odin, 
Allah,  or  any  other  than  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  it  would  all  be 
considered  right  enough.1 

1  See  note  TT,  at  the  end.  After  perusing  this  extract  from  Michaud's  His 
tory  of  the  Crusades,  the  reader  will  be  better  prepared  to  understand  the  fol 
lowing  chapter  of  our  author  on  chivalry,  in  which  he  seems  to  include  the 
period  when  the  institution  had  more  or  less  degenerated.  Chivalry,  in  its 
first  development,  was  an  instrument  of  peace,  an  agent  of  morality.  The 
knight,  on  his  accession  to  the  order,  swore  "  to  fear,  reverence,  and  serve  God 
religiously,  to  battle  for  the  faith,  to  die  rather  than  renounce  Christianity,  to 
be  faithful  to  his  lord,  to  support  the  rights  of  the  weak,  of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan,  never  to  offend  the  neighbor  deliberately,  never  to  undertake  an  action 
through  a  motive  of  sordid  gain,  and  to  keep  his  faith  inviolably  in  regard  to 
all."  Such  was  the  kind  of  chivalry  that  the  Catholic  Church  sanctioned,  that 
was  extended  by  the  Crusades,  and  that  rose  to  its  loftiest  expression  in  the 
military  orders.  Hence  it  became  in  the  hands  of  the  Church  a  most  powerful 
auxiliary  for  the  advancement  of  civilization. 

But,  as  Digby  well  observes,  we  must  carefully  distinguish  between  this  kind 
of  chivalry,  which  was  a  form  or  expression  of  Catholic  life,  and  that  which, 


608  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LIFE   AND    MANNERS   OF   THE   KNIGHTS. 

SUBJECTS  that  address  themselves  chiefly  to  the  imagination 
are  not  always  the  easiest  to  be  delineated, — either  because,  taken 
altogether,  they  present  a  certain  vagueness  more  pleasing  than 
any  description,  that  can  possibly  be  produced,  or  because  the 
reader  always  goes  beyond  your  representations.  The  mere  word 
chivalry,  the  mere  expression  an  illustrious  knight,  imply  some 
thing  wonderful  in  themselves,  which  no  details  of  explanation 
can  surpass.  They  embrace  every  thing,  from  the  fables  of  Ariosto 
to  the  exploits  of  real  knight-errants ;  from  the  palaces  of  Alcina 
and  Armida  to  the  turrets  of  Cceuvre  and  Anet. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  treat  even  historically  of  chivalry 
without  having  recourse  to  the  troubadours  who  sang  its  exploits, 
as  we  adduce  the  authority  of  Homer  in  all  that  relates  to  the 
heroes  of  antiquity.  This  the  most  rigid  critics  have  admitted. 
But  then  the  writer  has  the  appearance  of  dealing  in  nothing 
but  fictions.  We  are  accustomed  to  such  barren  and  unadorned 
truth,  that  whatever  is  not  equally  dry  has  the  semblance  of 
falsehood.  Like  the  natives  of  the  icy  regions  of  the  pole,  we 
prefer  our  dreary  deserts  to  those  climes  where 

La  terra  molle,  e  lieta,  e  dilettossa, 
Simili  a  segli  abitator  produce.1 

The  education  of  the  knight  began  at  the  age  of  seven  years.2 

at  a  later  period,  was  but  the  embodiment  of  a  worldly  principle.  The  former 
claims  our  admiration,  because  it  was  an  agent  of  immense  good  in  the  diffu 
sion  of  sound  morals.  The  latter,  on  the  contrary,  which  aimed  solely  at  the 
exaltation  of  material  beauty,  which  pushed  virtue  to  extravagance  by  as- 
sumiug  the  existence  of  higher  motives  than  those  of  the  Christian  faith,  which 
introduced  an  imaginary  and  independent  principle  of  honor  outside  of  the 
duty  imposed  by  the  divine  law,  and  which,  consequently,  undertook  to  legiti 
matize  the  duel,  or  the  resentment  of  injury  by  deadly  combat, — such  chivalry, 
far  from  being  approved  by  the  Church,  was  always  held  in  abhorrence.  Sea 
Moahler's  Hist,  du  Moyen  Age,  p.  320  ;  Digby,  Ages  of  Faith,  b.  i.  and  ix.  T. 
1  Tasso,  canto  i.  stanza  62.  2  Sainte-Palaye,  tome  i.  part  1. 


LIFE   AND   MANNERS   OF   THE   KNIGHTS.  609 

Duguesclin,  while  yet  a  child,  amused  himself  in  the  venerable 
avenues  to  his  father's  castle  by  representing  sieges  and  battles 
with  little  peasant  boys  of  his  own  age.  He  was  seen  forcing  his 
way  through  the  woods,  struggling  against  the  winds,  leaping 
wide  ditches,  climbing  elms  and  oaks,  and  among  the  heaths  of 
Brittany  already  giving  an  earnest  of  the  hero  destined  to  be  the 
saviour  of  France.1 

The  aspirant  to  knighthood  soon  passed  to  the  office  of  page  in 
the  castle  of  some  baron.  Here  were  inculcated  the  first  lessons 
of  fidelity  to  God  and  the  fair  sex.9  Here,  too,  the  youthful  page 
often  conceived  for  the  daughter  of  his  lord  one  of  those  durable 
attachments  which  prodigies  of  valor  were  wont  to  immortalize. 
Vast  Gothic  mansions,  venerable  forests,  large  solitary  lakes, 
cherished,  by  their  romantic  aspect,  those  passions  which  nothing 
was  capable  of  destroying,  and  which  became  a  kind  of  enchant 
ment  or  fatality. 

Excited  by  love  to  valor,  the  page  practised  the  manly  exer 
cises  which  opened  for  him  the  way  to  honor.  Mounted  on  a 
mettlesome  steed,  he  pursued  with  the  lance  the  wild  beasts  in 
the  recesses  of  the  woods ;  or,  training  the  falcon  soaring  in  the 
skies,  he  compelled  the  tyrant  of  the  air  to  alight,  timid  and  sub 
missive,  on  his  skilful  hand.  Sometimes,  like  the  young  Achilles, 
he  sprang  from  one  horse  to  another  while  flying  over  the  plain, 
at  one  leap  bounding  over  them  or  vaulting  upon  their  backs ;  at 
others,  he  climbed,  in  complete  armor,  to  the  top  of  a  bending 
ladder,  and,  fancying  himself  already  on  the  breach,  shouted, 
Mountjoy  and  St.  Dennis  !*  In  the  court  of  his  lord  he  received 
all  the  instructions  and  examples  adapted  to  his  future  life. 
Hither  were  constantly  repairing  knights,  both  known  and  un 
known,  who  had  devoted  themselves  to  perilous  adventures,  and 
were  returning  alone  from  the  kingdoms  of  Cathay,  from  the  ex 
tremities  of  Asia,  and  all  those  extraordinary  regions,  where  they 
had  been  redressing  wrongs  and  fighting  the  infidels. 

"There  you  saw,"  says  Froissart,  speaking  of  the  house  of  the 
Duke  de  Foy,  "  there  you  saw  in  the  hall,  the  chamber,  and  the 
court,  knights  and  esquires  going  and  coming,  and  heard  them 


1  Vie  de  Duguetclin.  2  Sainte-Palaye,  toino  i.  part  7 

3  Sainte-Palaye,  tome  ii.  part  2. 

20 


610  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

converse  on  arms  and  love.  All  honor  was  there  to  be  found  j  all 
the  news,  from  whatever  country  or  whatever  kingdom  it  might 
be,  was  sure  to  be  learned  there ;  for  it  found  its  way  from  all 
parts  to  this  house,  on  account  of  the  valor  of  the  master." 

The  page,  having  finished  his  service,  became  an  esquire;  and 
religion  always  presided  over  these  changes.  Illustrious  god 
fathers  or  beauteous  godmothers  promised  at  the  altar,  for  the 
future  hero,  religion,  fidelity,  and  love.  The  duties  of  the  esquire 
in  time  of  peace  consisted  in  carving  at  table,  in  serving  up  the 
dishes  himself,  like  the  warriors  of  Homer,  and  in  supplying  the 
guests  with  water  for  washing.  Men  of  the  highest  rank  were 
not  ashamed  to  perform  these  offices.  "  At  a  table  before  the 
king,"  says  the  Sire  de  Joinville,  "  ate  the  King  of  Navarre, 
who  was  superbly  dressed  in  a  coat  and  mantle  of  cloth  of  gold, 
and  adorned  with  a  cincture,  clasp,  and  chain  of  the  same  metal, 
....  and  for  whom  I  carved." 

The  esquire  attended  the  knight  in  war,  carried  his  lance  and 
his  helmet  raised  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  and  with  the  right 
hand  led  his  horses.  "  When  he  entered  the  forest,  he  met  four 
esquires  leading  four  white  horses  with  their  right  hand."  It 
was  his  duty  in  duels  and  battles  to  supply  his  knight  with  arms, 
to  raise  him  when  overthrown,  to  give  him  a  fresh  horse,  to  parry 
the  strokes  that  were  aimed  at  him ;  but  he  durst  not  himself 
take  any  part  in  the  combat. 

At  length,  when  he  had  acquired  all  the  necessary  qualities, 
he  was  admitted  to  the  honors  of  knighthood.  The  lists  of  a 
tournament,  a  battle-field,  the  ditch  of  a  castle,  the  breach  of  a 
tower,  were  frequently  the  glorious  theatres  where  the  order  of 
the  valiant  and  brave  was  conferred.  Amid  the  tumult  of  a  bat 
tle,  gallant  esquires  fell  on  their  knees  before  their  king  or  their 
general,  who  made  them  knights  by  striking  them  three  times 
over  the  shoulders  with  the  flat  side  of  his  sword.  When  Bayard 
had  conferred  this  distinction  on  Francis  I.,  "  How  fortunate  art 
thou,"  said  he,  addressing  his  sword,  "in  having  this  day  given 
the  order  of  knighthood  to  such  a  brave  and  powerful  king  !  In 
truth,  my  good  sword,  thou  shalt  be  preserved  as  a  relic,  and 
valued  beyond  any  other."  "  On  which,"  adds  the  historian,  "  he 
gave  two  leaps,  and  then  returned  his  sword  into  the  scabbard." 

No  sooner  was  the  new  knight  possessed  of  all  his  arms  than 


LIFE   AND   MANNERS   OF   THE   KNIGHTS.  611 

he  burned  to  distinguish  himself  by  some  extraordinary  achieve 
ments.  He  explored  mountains  and  valleys  in  quest  of  adven 
tures;  he  traversed  venerable  forests,  vast  heaths,  and  dreary 
deserts.  Toward  evening  he  directed  his  course  to  a  castle 
whose  solitary  towers  he  perceived  at  a  distance,  hoping  that  he 
would  there  find  an  opportunity  of  performing  some  signal  ex 
ploit.  Already  he  lowered  his  visor,  and  commended  himself 
t(3  the  lady  of  his  thoughts,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn  saluted  his 
ear.  On  the  top  of  the  castle  was  hoisted  a  helmet,  the  conspicu 
ous  signal  of  the  habitation  of  a  hospitable  knight.  The  draw 
bridge  was  let  down,  and  the  adventurous  traveller  entered  the 
sequestered  mansion.  If  he  was  desirous  of  remaining  unknown, 
he  covered  his  shield  with  a  saddle-cloth,  or  with  a  green  veil,  or 
a  handkerchief  whiter  than  a  lily.  The  ladies,  with  officious 
haste,  took  oft7  his  armor,  furnished  him  with  rich  garments,  and 
filled  the  crystal  goblets  with  generous  wine.  Sometimes  he 
found  his  host  making  merry.  "  The  lord,  Amanieu  des  Escas, 
on  leaving  the  table,  being  by  the  side  of  a  good  fire,  (for  it  was 
winter,)  in  a  hall  thickly  strewed  with  rushes  or  covered  with 
mats,  having  his  esquires  about  him,  conversed  with  them  on 
arms  and  love ;  for  everybody  in  the  house,  even  to  the  lowest 
page,  was  engaged  in  love."1 

These  festivities  of  the  castle  had  always  something  enigmati 
cal  about  them.  At  one  time  it  was  the  feast  of  the  unicorn 
at  another,  it  was  the  vow  of  the  peacock  or  of  the  pheasant. 
The  company  itself  was  not  less  mysterious.  Among  the  guests 
were  Knights  of  the  Swan,  of  the  White  Shield,  of  the  Golden 
Lance,  and  of  Silence, — warriors  who  were  known  only  by  the 
device  of  their  bucklers  and  by  the  penances  to  which  they  had 
submitted.2 

Toward  the  end  of  the  feast,  troubadours,  decked  off  in  pea 
cocks'  feathers,  entered  the  hall  and  commenced  an  amorous 
strain  : — 

Armes,  amours,  deduit,  joie  et  plaisance, 
Espoir,  d6sir,  souvenir,  hardement, 
Jeunesse,  aussi  maniere  et  contenance, 
Humble  regard,  trait  amoureusement, 
Gents  corps,  jolis,  parez  tres-richement ; 

i  Sainte-Palaye.  2  Hint,  fin  M«rfch.  de  Boucicaidt. 


612  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


Avisez  bien  cette  saison  nouvelle 

Le  jour  de  May,  cette  grande  feste  et  belle, 

Qui  par  le  roi  se  fait  a  Saint-Denys ; 

A  bien  j outer,  gardez  votre  querelle, 

Et  vous  serez  honorez  et  cheris. 

The  motto  of  the  chivalric  profession  was — 

"  Grand  bruit  au  champ,  et  grand'  joie  au  logisj" 
"  Bruit  es  chans,  et  joie  d  I'ostel." 

But  the  knight,  on  his  arrival  at  the  castle,  did  not  always 
witness  a  scene  of  rejoicing.  Sometimes  it  was  the  dwelling  of 
a  lady  in  grief,  who  was  compelled  to  defend  herself  against  a 
jealous  lover.  The  handsome,  noble,  courteous,  and  gallant  che 
valier,  if  refused  admittance  to  the  mansion,  would  pass  the  night 
at  the  foot  of  a  tower,  where  he  could  hear  the  sighs  of  some 
Gabriella  calling  in  vain  upon  the  valorous  Conci,  and  with  equal 
sympathy  and  courage  would  swear,  by  his  durandal  and  aqui- 
lain — his  faithful  sword  and  swift  charger, — to  challenge,  in  single 
combat,  the  traitor  who  thus  tormented  beauty  against  every  law 
of  honor  and  of  chivalry. 

If  the  knight  gained  admittance  into  the  gloomy  fortress,  all 
his  greatness  of  soul  was  brought  into  requisition  Fierce-look 
ing  pages  conducted  him  in  silence,  through  long  and  dismal  gal 
leries,  to  a  lonely  chamber, — a  prison-room  which  recalled  the 
memory  of  some  remarkable  occurrence,  and  was  known  as  the 
Chamber  of  King  Richard,  or  of  the  Lady  of  the  Seven  Towers. 
The  ceiling  was  covered  with  the  representation  of  ancient 
heraldry,  and  the  walls  were  hung  with  tapestry,  concealing 
secret  doors,  and  bearing  the  portraits  of  distinguished  person 
ages,  who  seemed  to  follow  the  knight  with  their  eyes.  About 
midnight,  a  slight  noise  was  heard;  the  hangings  began  to  shake, 
the  lamp  of  the  stranger  went  out,  and  a  coffin  arose  near  his 
couch.  As  all  his  armor  would  have  been  useless  for  protecting 
him  against  the  dead,  he  had  recourse  to  the  pilgrim's  vow,  and, 
rescued  by  the  divine  favor  from  his  unpleasant  situation,  he 
failed  not  to  consult  the  Hermit  of  the  Rock,  from  whom  he 
heard  these  words  : — "  If  you  had  the  possessions  of  Alexander, 
the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  and  the  chivalry  of  the  gallant  Hector, 
pride  alone,  did  you  allow  it  to  control  thee,  would  be  thy  de- 


LIFE   AND   MANNERS   OF   THE   KNIGHTS.  613 

struction."1  The  good  knight  understood  from  this  that  the 
visions  he  had  seen  were  but  the  punishment  of  his  faults, 
and  he  endeavored  to  acquire  a  character  sans  peur  et  sans 
reproche. 

In  this  manner  he  continued  his  course  till  he  had  terminated 
all  those  adventures  sung  by  our  poets  and  recorded  in  our  an 
cient  chronicles.  He  delivered  princesses  detained  in  caverns, 
punished  miscreants,  succored  orphans  and  widows,  and  defended 
himself  alike  against  the  treachery  of  dwarfs  and  the  strength  of 
giants.  The  guardian  of  morals  as  well  as  the  protector  of  the 
weak,  when  he  passed  the  mansion  of  a  lady  of  bad  reputation, 
without  deigning  to  enter,  he  left  a  mark  of  infamy  on  the  gate.8 
If,  on  the  contrary,  he  came  to  the  habitation  of  a  pious  and  vir 
tuous  female,  he  addressed  her  in  these  words  : — "  My  good  friend, 
(or  my  good  lady,)  I  pray  God  to  keep  you  thus  in  virtue  and 
honor  among  the  number  of  the  good ;  for  you  are  well  worthy 
of  commendation  and  respect." 

The  honor  of  these  knights  was  sometimes  carried  to  that  ex 
treme  which  was  witnessed  among  the  primitive  Romans,  and 
which  excites  within  us  mingled  sentiments  of  admiration  and 
aversion.  When  Queen  Margaret,  wife  of  St.  Lewis,  was  ap 
prised  at  Damietta,  where  she  was  on  the  point  of  delivery,  of 
the  defeat  of  the  Christian  ^urmy  and  of  the  king  being  taken 
prisoner,  "  she  ordered  all  out  of  her  apartment,"  says  Joinville, 
"  except  the  knight,  (who  was  eighty  years  old;)  she  went  on  her 
knees  before  him,  and  begged  one  particular  favor,  which  he 
pledged  himself  by  oath  to  confer,  and  she  said,  '  I  ask  you,  in 
virtue  of  the  oath  you  have  taken,  that  if  the  Saracens  become 
masters  of  this  city  you  will  cut  off  my  head  before  I  fall  into 
their  hands/  And  the  knight  answered,  '  Be  convinced  I  shall 
willingly  do  so,  for  I  had  it  already  in  contemplation  to  kill  you 
before  they  should  have  taken  us.'  "' 

Private  achievements  served  the  knight  as  so  many  steps  for 
attaining  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  glory.  Apprised  by  the 
minstrels  of  the  tournaments  that  were  in  preparation  in  beautiful 
France,  he  immediately  repaired  to  the  rendezvous  of  the  brave. 
The  lists  are  already  arranged.  Already  the  ladies,  stationed  on 

»  Sainte-Palaye.  2  D  icange,  Glot*.  3  Edit,  of  Caperronier,  p.  84. 

52 


014  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

scaffolds  erected  in  the  form  of  towers,  are  looking  for  the  cham 
pions  adorned  with  their  colors.  The  lays  of  the  troubadour  are 
heard :  — 

Servants  d'amour,  regardez  doulcement, 
Aux  Schafouds  anges  de  paradis, 
Lors  jousterez  fort  et  joyeusement, 
Et  vous  serez  honorez  et  cheris. 

All  at  once  is  heard  the  shout  of  Honor  to  the  sons  of  the  brave  ! 
The  trumpets  sound,  the  barriers  fall ;  a  hundred  knights  ad 
vance  from  both  ends  of  the  lists  and  meet  in  the  middle ;  lances 
fly  shattered  in  the  air ;  front  against  front,  the  horses  encounter 
one  another  and  fall.  Happy  the  hero  who,  like  a  loyal  knight, 
dexterously  applies  his  thrusts  only  from  the  waist  to  the  shoul 
der,  and  overthrows  without  wounding  his  adversary  !  All  hearts 
are  his;  all  the  ladies  are  anxious  to  send  him  new  favors  to  de 
corate  his  arms.  Meanwhile  heralds  stationed  in  all  parts  pro 
claim  : — Remember  whose  son  thou  art,  and  be  not  degenerate  I 
Jousts,  tilts,,  and  conflicts  of  every  kind,  alternately  display  the 
valor,  strength,  and  address  of  the  combatants.  A  thousand 
shouts,  mingled  with  the  clash  of  arms,  rend  the  skies.  Each 
lady  encourages  her  knight,  and  throws  him  a  bracelet,  a  lock  of 
hair,  or  a  scarf.  A  Sargine,  new  to  the  field  of  glory,  but  trans 
formed  by  love  into  a  hero, — a  valiant  stranger  who  has  fought 
without  arms  and  without  garments,  and  is  distinguished  by  his 
blood-stained  shirt,1 — are  proclaimed  the  victors.  They  receive  ar 
embrace  from  their  lady-loves,  and  are  greeted  with  shouts  of 
"  The  love  of  the  ladies  and  the  death  of  heroes  are  the  glory  and 
prize  of  valiant  knights." 

At  these  splendid  festivities  shone  the  valor  and  courtesy  of  a 
Tremouille,  a  Boucicault,  and  a  Bayard,  whose  achievements  give 
probability  to  the  exploits  of  a  Perceforest,  a  Lancelot,  and  a 
Gandifer.  The  foreign  knights  who  ventured  to  attack  those  of 
France  paid  dearly  for  their  boldness.  During  the  unfortunate 
wars  in  the  reign  of  Charles  VI.,  Sampi  and  Boucicault  alone 
answered  the  challenges  sent  them  from  all  quarters  by  the  con 
querors  ;  and,  combining  generosity  with  valor,  they  restored  the 
horses  and  arms  of  the  rash  combatants  by  whom  they  had  been 

1  Sainte-Palaye,  Hint,  des  trois  Chevaliers  et  de  la.  Chanise. 


LIFE   AND   MANNERS   OF   THE   KNIGHTS.  615 


called  out.  The  king  wished  to  prevent  his  knights  from  accept 
ing  a  challenge  or  resenting  such  personal  insults.  But  they 
answered,  "  Sire,  the  honor  of  France  is  so  naturally  dear  to  her 
children,  that,  if  the  devil  himself  canie  to  challenge  us,  he  would 
find  those  among  us  prepared  to  fight  him  " 

"  At  that  time,'*  says  an  old  historian,  "  there  were  some 
knights  from  Spain  and  Portugal,  three  of  whom,  from  the  latter 
kingdom  of  high  renown  for  chivalry,  conceived  the  foolish  de 
sign  of  fighting  against  three  knights  of  France ;  but,  as  God  is 
tine,  in  less  time  than  you  might  go  on  horseback  from  the  gate 
of  St.  Martin  to  that  of  St.  Antoine,  the  Portuguese  were  dis 
comfited  by  their  opponents."1 

The  knights  of  England  were  the  only  champions  who  could 
withstand  those  of  France.  They,  moreover,  had  fortune  on  their 
side,  for  we  were  tearing  ourselves  to  pieces  with  our  own  hands. 
The  battle  of  Poictiers,  so  ruinous  to  France,  was  nevertheless 
honorable  to  chivalry.  The  Black  Prince,  who,  out  of  respect, 
would  never  sit  down  at  the  table  of  King  John,  his  prisoner, 
thus  addressed  him  : — "  I  am  informed  that  you  have  great  reason 
to  be  proud,  though  the  issue  has  not  been  according  to  your 
wish ;  for  you  have  this  day  gained  a  high  reputation  for  valor, 
and  have  surpassed  the  bravest  of  your  followers.  I  am  not  say 
ing  this  out  of  compliment  to  you,  sire,  for  all  those  of  our  people 
who  saw  both  the  one  and  the  other  are  fully  convinced  of  it,  and 
accord  you  the  praise  which  is  your  due." 

A  knight  named  Ribaumont,  in  an  engagement  which  took 
place  near  the  gates  of  Calais,  twice  brought  Edward  III.  of 
England  upon  his  knees ;  but  the  monarch,  recovering  himself, 
at  length  compelled  Kibuumont  to  surrender.  The  English, 
having  gained  the  victory,  returned  to  the  town  with  their  pri 
soners.  Edward,  accompanied  by  the  Prince  of  Wales,  gave  a 
grand  entertainment  to  the  French  knights,  and,  going  up  to 
Kibaumont,  said  to  him,  "  Never  did  I  see  a  knight  assault  his 
enemies  with  greater  valor  than  you."  The  king  then  took  the 
crown  which  he  wore,  and  which  was  both  handsome  and  rich, 
and,  putting  it  on  my  lord  Eustace,  said  to  him,  "  My  lord,  I 
give  you  this  crown  as  the  most  valiant  soldier  of  the  day.  I 

I  Journal  de  Paris  son*  Chnrlet  VI.  et  VII. 


616  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

know  that  you  are  of  a  gay  and  amorous  disposition,  and  that 
you  are  fond  of  the  society  of  the  ladies ;  therefore,  tell  them 
wherever  you  go  that  I  gave  it  you.  You  are  no  longer  a  pri 
soner,  and  may  depart  to-morrow  if  you  please."1 

Joan  of  Arc  revived  the  spirit  of  chivalry  in  France ;  her  arm 
is  said  to  have  wielded  the  famous  sword  of  Charlemagne,  which 
she  had  discovered  in  the  church  of  St.  Catherine  de  Fierbois, 
in  Touraine. 

If  we  were  sometimes  forsaken  by  fortune,  our  courage  never 
failed.  Henry  IV.,  at  the  battle  of  Ivry,  called  out  to  his  men, 
who  began  to  fly,  "  Turn  your  heads,  if  not  to  fight,  at  least  to 
see  me  die."  Our  soldiers  in  defeat  might  always  repeat  the 
expression  suggested  by  the  genius  of  the  nation  to  the  last 
French  knight  at  the  battle  of  Pavia,  "  We  have  lost  every  thing 
but  our  honor." 

Such  virtue  and  valor  were  certainly  entitled  to  respect.  If 
the  hero  died  in  his  native  land,  chivalry  in  mourning  gave  him 
a  magnificent  funeral.  If,  on  the  contrary,  he  fell  in  distant  ex 
peditions, — if  he  had  no  brother  in  arms,  no  esquire  to  afford  him 
the  rites  of  sepulture, — heaven  sent  one  of  those  recluses  to  bury 
him  who  then  inhabited  every  desert,  and  who 

Su'l  Libano  spesso  e  su'l  Carmelo 

In  aera  magion  fan  dimoranza. 

It  was  this  that  furnished  Tasso  with  his  admirable  episode  of 
Sweno.  Every  day  an  anchoret  of  Thebais  or  a  hermit  of  Leba 
non  rescued  the  remains  of  some  knight  murdered  by  the  infidels. 
The  bard  of  Solyma  has  only  lent  to  truth  the  language  o^  the 
Muses : — 

"  Then  from  the  peaceful  region  of  the  night 
I  saw  descend  a  ray  of  slanting  light: 
Where  on  the  field  the  breathless  corse  was  laid, 
There  full  the  lunar  beam  resplendent  played, 
And  showed  each  limb  deformed  with  many  a  wound, 
'Midst  all  the  mangled  scene  of  carnage  round. 
He  lay  not  prone,  but,  as  his  .zealous  mind 
Still  soared  beyond  the  views  of  human  kind, 
In  death  he  sought  above  the  world  to  rise, 
And  claimed,  with  upward  looks,  his  kindred  ckie*. 


1  Froigoart. 


LIFE  AND  MANNERS   OF   THE   KNIGHTS.  .  617 

One  hand  was  closed,  and  seemed  the  sword  to  rear; 
One  pressed  his  bosom  with  a  suppliant  air, 
As  if  to  Heaven  he  breathed  his  humble  prayer. 

While  thus  intent,  the  sage's  word  I  heard; 
Where  Sweno  lay  a  sepulchre  appeared 
That,  rising  slow,  by  miracle  disposed, 
Within  its  marble  womb  a  corse  enclosed. 
'Graved  on  the  monumental  stone  were  read 
The  name  and  merits  of  the  warrior  dead. 
Struck  with  the  sight,  I  stood  with  looks  amazed, 
And  on  the  words  and  tomb  alternate  gazed. 

Then  thus  the  sage : — "  Beside  his  followers  slam 
Thy  leader's  corse  shall  here  enshrined  remain; 
While  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest  above 
Their  happy  souls  enjoy  celestial  love."1 

But  the  knight  who  had  formed  in  his  youth  these  heroic 
attachments,  which  were  not  dissolved  but  with  life  itself,  had  no 
occasion  to  be  afraid  of  dying  alone  in  the  desert.  If  the  mira 
cles  of  heaven  were  not  exerted  in  his  behalf,  he  was  at  least 
attended  by  the  miracles  of  friendship.  Constantly  accompanied 
by  his  brother-in-arms,  he  found  in  him  officious  hands  to  dig  his 
grave  and  an  arm  to  avenge  his  death.  These  sacred  friendships 
were  confirmed  by  the  most  awful  oaths.  Sometimes  the  two 
friends  mingled  their  blood  in  the  same  cup;  and,  as  a  pledge  of 
their  mutual  fidelity,  they  wore  either  a  golden  heart,  a  chain,  or 
a  ring.  Love,  though  it  so  powerfully  swayed  the  bosoms  of  the 
knights,  had,  on  these  occasions,  but  a  secondary  claim  upon 
their  hearts;  and  each  succored  his  friend  in  preference  to  his 

lady. 

One  circumstance,  however,  was  capable  of  dissolving  these 
ties,  and  that  was  the  enmity  of  their  native  countries.  Two 
brothers-in-arms  of  different  nations  ceased  to  be  united  when 
ever  those  nations  were  at  variance.  Hugh  de  Carvalay,  an 
English  knight,  was  the  friend  of  Bertrand  Duguesclin.  When 
the^Black  Prince  had  declared  war  against  Henry  of  Castile, 
Hugh,  obliged  to  part  from  Bertrand,  came  to  take  his  leave  of 
the  latter,  and  said,  "  Gentle  sir,  we  must  part.  We  have  been 
good  company  to  one  another,  and,  as  we  have  always  had  a  common 
purse,  and  I  think  I  have  received  more  than  you,  I  beg  that  we 

1  Jerusalem  Delivered,  canto  viii. 
52» 


618  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


may  settle  our  accounts  together."  "No,"  said  Bertrand;  "that 
is  but  a  trifling  matter,  which  I  should  never  have  thought  of. 

.  .  .  We  have  but  to  do  good,  and  reason  commands  that  you 
should  follow  your  master.  This  is  the  line  of  conduct  which 
every  brave  man  must  pursue.  Our  attachment  was  honorable, 
and  so  shall  our  separation  also  be;  but  it  grieves  me  much  that  it 
must  take  place."  Bertrand  then  embraced  him,  and  all  his 
companions  likewise,  and  great  lamentation  attended  their 
parting.1 

This  disinterestedness  of  the  knights — this  elevation  of  soul 
which  acquired  for  some  of  them  the  glorious  title  of  irreproach 
able — shall  crown  the  delineations  of  their  Christian  virtues. 
This  same  Duguesclin,  the  flower  and  glory  of  chivalry,  being  a 
prisoner  of  the  Black  Prince,  equalled  the  magnanimity  of  Porus 
when  in  the  power  of  Alexander.  The  Prince  having  left  the 
terms  of  his  ransom  to  himself,  he  fixed  it  at  an  exorbitant  sum. 
"Where  will  you  get  all  that  money?"  asked  the  English  hero 
in  astonishment.  "Of  my  friends,"  replied  the  haughty  con 
stable  ;  "  there  is  not  a  spinner  in  France  who  would  not  contribute 
her  bobbin  to  release  me  out  of  your  hands." 

The  English  Queen,  deeply  impressed  with  the  virtues  of 
Duguesclin,  was  the  first  to  give  a  large  sum  to  procure  the  liberty 
of  the  most  formidable  enemy  of  her  country.  "  Ah  !  madam," 
cried  the  Briton  knight,  throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  "  I  thought 
myself  till  now  the  ugliest  man  in  France;  but  I  begin  to  have 
not  quite  so  bad  an  opinion  of  myself,  since  ladies  make  me  such 
presents." 

1  Vie  de  Bertrand. 


BOOK  VI 

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


CHAPTER  I. 

IMMENSITY    OF    THE    BENEFITS    CONFERRED    BY    CHRISTIANITY.3 

To  have  only  a  superficial  acquaintance  with  the  benefits  con 
ferred  by  Christianity  would  be,  in  fact,  to  know  nothing  of  the 
subject.  If  we  would  understand  the  extent  of  her  beneficence, 
we  must  enter  into  its  details.  We  must  consider  the  ingenuity 
with  which  she  has  varied  her  gifts,  dispensed  her  succors,  distri 
buted  her  treasures,  her  remedies,  and  her  intelligence.  In  sooth 
ing  all  the  sorrows  of  humanity  she  has  paid  a  due  regard  to  its 
imperfection,  consulting  with  a  wise  condescension  even  our  deli 
cacy  of  feeling,  our  self-love,  and  our  frailties.  During  the  few 
years  that  we  have  devoted  to  these  researches,  so  many  acts  of 
charity,  so  many  admirable  institutions,  so  many  inconceivable 
sacrifices,  have  passed  in  review  before  us,  that  we  firmly  believe 
that  this  merit  alone  of  the  Christian  religion  would  be  sufficient 
to  atone  for  all  the  sins  of  mankind.  Heavenly  religion,  that 
compels  us  to  love  those  wretched  beings  by  whom  it  is  calum 
niated  ! 

The  facts  which  we  are  about  to  state  form  but  a  very  small 
portion  of  the  mass  which  we  might  have  adduced,  and  many 
volumes  could  be  filled  with  what  has  been  omitted.  Neither  are 
we  sure  of  having  selected  the  most  striking  illustrations  of  Chris- 

1  On  the  subject  of  this  whole  part  consult  Helyot,  Hist.  de«  Ordres  Relig.  el 
Milit.,S  vols.  4to;  Herrraant,  Etab.  des  Ordret  Relig.;  Bonnani,  Catal.  omn. 
Ordin.  Relig.;  Qiustiniani,  Mennehius,  and  Schoonbeck's  Histories  of  the  Mili- 
tary  Orders;  Saint  Foix,  Esnais  anr  Paris;  Vie  de  Saint  Vincent  de  Paul,  Via* 
dei  Peres  du  De*ert;  Saint  Basil,  Oper. ;  and  Lobineau,  Hist,  de  Bretagne. 

619 


620  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

tian  charity.  Impossible  as  it  is  to  describe  every  thing,  and  to 
judge  which  of  so  great  a  number  of  charitable  works  are  superior 
in  virtue  to  the  others,  we  select,  almost  at  random,  the  subjects 
of  the  following  pages. 

In  order  to  form  a  just  idea  of  the  immensity  of  these  benefits, 
we  should  look  upon  Christendom  as  a  vast  republic,  where  all 
that  we  relate  concerning  one  portion  is  passing  at  the  same  time 
in  another.  Thus,  when  we  treat  of  the  hospitals,  the  missions, 
the  colleges,  of  France,  the  reader  should  also  picture  to  himself 
the  hospitals,  the  missions,  and  the  colleges,  of  Italy,  Spain, 
Germany,  Russia,  England,  America,  Africa,  and  Asia.  He 
should  take  into  his  view  two  hundred  millions  of  men  at  least, 
among  whom  the  like  virtues  are  practised,  the  like  sacrifices  are 
made.  He  should  recollect  that  for  eighteen  hundred  years  these 
virtues  have  existed  and  these  same  acts  of  charity  have  been 
repeated.  Now  calculate,  if  your  mind  is  not  lost  in  the  effort, 
the  number  of  individuals  cheered  and  enlightened  by  Chris 
tianity  among  so  many  nations  and  during  such  a  long  series 
of  ages. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOSPITALS. 

CHARITY — an  exclusively  Christian  virtue,  unknown  to  the 
ancients — originated  in  Jesus  Christ.  It  was  this  virtue  that 
principally  distinguished  him  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  was 
in  him  the  seal  of  the  regeneration  of  human  nature.  By  charity 
it  was  that  the  apostles,  after  the  example  of  their  divine  Master, 
so  rapidly  won  the  hearts  of  their  fellow-men  and  so  irresistibly 
carried  conviction  home  to  their  bosoms. 

The  primitive  believers,  instructed  in  this  great  virtue,  formed 
a  general  fund  for  the  relief  of  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  tra 
veller.  This  was  the  commencement  of  hospitals.  The  Church, 
having  become  more  opulent,  founded  institutions  for  the  afflicted 
worthy  of  herself.  From  that  moment  works  of  beneficence  had 
no  bounds.  A  flood  of  charity  may  be  said  to  have  burst  upon 


HOSPITALS.  G'2l 

the  wretched,  heretofoie  unheeded  by  the  prosperous  of  the  world. 
It  will  perhaps  be  asked,  How,  then,  did  the  ancients  manage  if 
they  had  no  hospitals?  They  had  two  methods  which  Christians 
have  not,  to  rid  themselves  of  the  poor  and  the  unfortunate — 
'infanticide  and  slavery. 

The  Lazarettos,  or  Hospitals  dedicated  to  St.  Lazarus,  seem 
to  have  been  the  first  houses  of  refuge  in  the  East.  Into  these 
establishments  were  received  such  leprous  persons  as,  renounced 
by  their  relatives,  were  languishing  in  the  streets  of  the  cities— 
the  horror  of  the  passers-by.  These  hospitals  were  attended  by 
the  monks  of  the  order  of  St.  Basil. 

We  have  already  alluded  to  the  Trinitarians,  or  Fathers  for 
the  Redemption  of  Captive  Slaves.  St.  Peter  Nolasco  in  Spain 
followed  the  example  of  St.  John  of  Matha  in  France.  It  is  im 
possible  to  peruse  without  emotion  the  austere  rules  of  these 
orders.  By  their  original  constitution  the  Trinitarians  were 
restricted  to  a  diet  of^vegetables  and  milk.  But  why  did  they 
live  so  austerely  ?  Because  the  more  these  fathers  denied  them 
selves  the  necessaries  of  life  the  larger  was  the  sum  reserved  for 
the  barbarians; — because,  if  the  wrath  of  Heaven  required  victims, 
it  was  hoped  that  the  Almighty  would  receive  the  expiations  of 
these  religious  in  exchange  for  the  sufferings  from  which  they 
might  deliver  the  prisoners.1 

The  order  of  Mercy  gave  several  saints  to  the  world.  St.  Peter 
Pascal,  Bishop  of  Jacn,  after  expending  all  his  revenues  in  the 
redemption  of  captives  and  the  relief  of  the  poor,  went  among 
the  Turks,  by  whom  he  was  thrown  into  prison.  The  clergy 
and  people  of  his  diocese  sent  him  a  sum  of  money  for  his  ran 
som.  "The  saint,"  says  Helyot,  "received  it  very  thankfully, 
but,  instead  of  employing  it  in  obtaining  his  own  liberty,  he 
redeemed  a  number  of  women  and  children,  whose  weakness 
made  him  apprehensive  lest  they  should  forsake  the  Christian 
religion;  and  he  thus  remained  in  the  hands  of  the  barbarians, 
who  procured  him  the  crown  of  martyrdom  in  the  year  1300." 

In  this  order  there  was  also  formed  a  congregation  of  females, 
who  devoted  themselves  to  the  relief  of  indigent  strangers  of 

1  A  third  reason  may  be  assigned, — viz. :  the  greater  the  self-denial  of  the 
Rcderaptionists  the  more  courage  would  they  hare  to  endure  the  hardships 
consequent  upon  the  duties  of  their  vocation.  T. 


622  GENIUS    OF    CHRISTIANITY. 

their  own  sex.  One  of  the  foundresses  was  a  lady  of  distinction 
at  Barcelona,  who  divided  her  whole  fortune  among  the  indigent 
Her  family  name  is  lost;  and  she  is  now  known  only  by  the 
appellation  of  Mary  of  Succor ,  which  the  poor  have  given  her. 

The  order  of  Religious  Penitents  in  Germany  and  France 
rescued  from  vice  unfortunate  females  who  were  in  danger  of 
perishing  from  want  after  leading  a  life  of  debauchery.  It  was 
a  sight  truly  divine  to  behold  religion,  by  an  excess  of  charity, 
rising  superior  to  circumstances,  however  disgusting,  and  requir 
ing  even  an  evidence  of  vice,  lest  its  institutions  should  be 
diverted  from  their  purposes,  and  innocence,  under  the  garb  of 
repentance,  should  usurp  a  retreat  that  was  intended  only  for 
guilt.  "  You  know/'  says  Jehan  Simon,  Bishop  of  Paris,  in  the 
constitutions  of  this  order,  "that  some  who  were  virgins  have 
come  to  us,  at  the  suggestion  of  their  mothers  and  relatives,  who 
were  anxious  only  to  get  rid  of  them;  we  therefore  direct  that, 
if  any  one  apply  for  admission  into  your  congregation,  she  be 
examined,"  &c. 

The  tenderest  names  were  employed  to  cover  the  past  errors 
of  these  unfortunate  females.  They  were  called  daughters  of 
the  Good  Shepherd,  or  daughters  of  Magdalen,  to  denote  their 
repentance  and  the  forgiveness  which  awaited  them.  The  vows 
which  they  pronounced  were  but  simple.  Matches  were  even 
sought  for  such  as  wished  to  marry,  and  a  small  dowry  was 
granted  on  those  occasions.  That  every  thing  about  them  might 
suggest  ideas  of  purity,  they  were  dressed  in  white,  whence  they 
were  likewise  called  White  Daughters.  In  some  cities  crowns 
were  placed  on  their  heads,  and  they  were  greeted  with  the 
words,  Veni,  sponsa  Christi,  "Come,  spouse  of  Christ."  These 
contrasts  were  affecting;  and  this  delicacy  was  truly  worthy  of  a 
religion  which  can  relieve  without  wounding  the  feelings,  and 
spare  the  weaknesses  of  the  human  heart  at  the  same  time  that 
it  eradicates  its  vices.1  At  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Ghost  at 
Rome  it  is  forbidden  to  follow  such  persons  as  come  to  deposit 
orphans  at  the  door  of  the  universal  Father. 

1  In  the  seventeenth  century  other  orders  were  established  having  the  same 
object  in  view,  as  those  of  Our  Lady  of  Refuge,  and  Our  Lady  of  Charity 
of  the  Good  Shepherd.  There  are  several  houses  of  the  latter  institute  in  the 
United  States,  which  do  an  immense  good.  T. 


HOSPITALS.  G23 

There  are  many  unfortunate  persons  in  society  whose  situation 
does  not  obtrude  itself  upon  your  notice,  because,  descended  from 
respectable  but  indigent  parents,  they  are  obliged  to  keep  up 
appearances  amid  the  privations  of  poverty.  Scarcely  can  any 
situation  be  more  cruel;  the  heart  is  wounded  on  every  side; 
and,  to  those  who  possess  ever  so  little  elevation  of  soul,  life  is  a 
perpetual  suffering.  What  is  to  become  of  the  unhappy  daugh 
ters  of  such  persons  ?  Will  they  go  into  the  families  of  rich 
and  haughty  relatives,  and  there  submit  to  every  kind  of  con 
tempt?  or  will  they  embrace  occupations  which  the  prejudices  of 
society  and  their  native  delicacy  forbid  them  in  spite  of  all  the 
arguments  of  sophistry?  For  this  case  also  religion  has  provided 
a  remedy.  Our  Lady  of  Pity  opens  her  pious  and  respectable 
retreats  for  this  class  of  females.  Some  years  since  we  durst  not 
have  mentioned  St.  Cyr,  for  it  was  then  understood  that  women 
sprung  from  noble  but  decayed  families  deserved  neither  asylum 
nor  compassion. 

God  has  various  ways  of  calling  his  servants.  Captain  Caraffa 
was  soliciting  at  Naples  a  recompense  for  the  military  services 
which  he  had  performed  for  the  crown  of  Spain.  One  morning, 
on  his  way  to  the  palace,  he  happened  to  go  into  the  church 
belonging  to  a  convent.  A  young  nun  was  singing;  he  was 
affected,  even  to  tears,  by  the  sweetness  of  her  voice  and  the 
fervent  piety  of  her  accents ;  he  concluded  that  the  service  of 
God  must  be  fraught  with  delight,  since  it  confers  such  .charms 
on  those  who  have  devoted  their  days  to  it.  He  immediately 
returned  home,  threw  all  his  certificates  of  service  into  the  fire, 
cut  off  his  hair,  embraced  the  monastic  life,  and  founded  the 
order  of  Goo<1  Works,  whose  efforts  are  directed  to  the  relief  of 
all  the  afflictions  incident  to  mankind.  This  order  at  first  made 
but  little  progress,  because  in  a  pestilence  which  broke  out  at 
Naples  all  the  monks,  with  the  exception  of  two  priests  and 
three  lay-brothers,  died  while  attending  the  infected. 

Peter  de  Betancourt,  a  friar  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  being 
at  Guatemala,  a  town  of  Spanish  America,  was  deeply  affected  at 
the  state  of  the  slaves  who  had  no  place  of  refuge  during  illness 
Having  obtained  by  way  of  alms  a  small  building  which  he  had 
before  used  as  a  school  for  the  poor,  he  there  built  himself  a  kind 
of  infirmary,  which  he  thatched  with  straw,  for  tho  accomnioda- 


624  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

tion  of  such  slaves  as  had  no  retreat.  He  soon  met  with  a  negro 
woman,  a  cripple,  who  had  been  turned  out  by  her  master.  The 
pious  monk  immediately  took  the  slave  on  his  shoulders,  and, 
proud  of  his  burden,  carried  her  to  the  wretched  hut  which  he 
called  his  hospital.  He  then  went  about  through  the  whole  city, 
endeavoring  to  procure  some  relief  for  his  patient.  She  did  not 
long  survive  these  charitable  attentions;  but,  while  shedding  her 
last  tears,  she  promised  her  attendant  a  celestial  reward. 

Several  wealthy  people,  impressed  with  the  virtues  of  the  friar, 
furnished  him  with  money;  and  Betancourt  saw  the  hut  which 
had  sheltered  the  negro  woman  transformed  into  a  magnificent 
hospital.  This  religious  died  young;  the  love  of  humanity 
had  exhausted  his  constitution.  As  soon  as  his  death  became 
publicly  known,  the  poor  and  the  slaves  thronged  to  the  hospital, 
that  they  might  for  the  last  time  behold  their  benefactor.  They 
kissed  his  feet;  they  cut  off  pieces  of  his  clothes;  they  would 
even  have  torn  his  body  to  obtain  some  relic  of  him,  had  not 
guards  been  stationed  at  his  coffin.  A  stranger  would  have  sup 
posed  that  it  was  the  corpse  of  a  tyrant,  which  they  were  de 
fending  from  the  fury  of  the  populace,  and  not  a  poor  monk, 
whom  they  were  preserving  from  its  love. 

The  order  of  Friar  Betancourt  prospered  after  his  death  j1 
America  was  filled  with  hospitals,  attended  by  religious  who 
assumed  the  name  of  Bethlehemites.  The  form  of  their  vow  was 
as  follows: — "I,  Brother ,  make  a  vow  of  poverty,  chas 
tity,  and  hospitality,  and  bind  myself  to  attend  poor  convales 
cents,  even  though  they  be  unbelievers  and  infected  with  con 
tagious  diseases."2 

If  religion  has  fixed  her  stations  on  the  tops  of  mountains,  she 
has  also  descended  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  light  of  heaven,  in  quest  of  the  unfortunate.  The  Bethle- 
hemite  friars  have  hospitals  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  mines  of 
Peru  and  Mexico.  Christianity  has  endeavored  to  repair  in  the 
New  World  the  calamities  which  men  have  there  occasioned,  and 
which  have  been  so  unjustly  laid  to  her  charge.  From  this 
reproach  the  English  historian,  Dr.  Robertson, — a  Protestant,  and 

1  In  1667.     T.  2  Helyot,  tome  iii.  p.  366. 


HOSPITALS.  625 


even  a  Presbyterian  minister, — has  c.  mpletely  exonerated  the 
Church  of  Rome. 

"With  still  greater  injustice,"  says  he,  "have  many  aut.lors 
represented  the  intolerating  spirit  of  the  Roman  Catholic  reli 
gion  as  the  cause  of  exterminating  the  Americans,  and  have 
accused  the  Spanish  ecclesiastics  of  animating  their  countrymen 
to  the  slaughter  of  that  innoceil  people  as  idolaters  and  enemies 
of  Clod.  But  the  first  missionaries  who  visited  America,  though 
weak  and  illiterate,  were  pious  men.  They  early  espoused  the 
defence  of  the  natives,  and  vindicated  their  character  from  the 
aspersions  of  their  conquerors,  who,  describing  them  as  incapable 
of  being  formed  to  the  offices  of  civil  life  or  of  comprehending 
the  doctrines  of  religion,  contended  that  they  were  a  subordinate 
race  of  men,  on  whom  the  hand  of  nature  had  set  the  mark  of 
servitude.  From  the  accounts  which  I  have  given  of  the  humane 
and  persevering  zeal  of  the  Spanish  missionaries  in  protecting 
the  helpless  flock  committed  to  their  charge,  they  appear  in  a 
light  which  reflects  lustre  upon  their  function.  They  were 
ministers  of  peace,  who  endeavored  to  wrest  the  rod  from  the 
hands  of  oppressors.  To  their  powerful  interposition  the 
Americans  were  indebted  for  every  regulation  tending  to  miti 
gate  the  rigor  of  their  fate.  The  clergy  in  the  Spanish  settle 
ments,  regular  as  well  as  secular,  are  still  considered  by  the  In 
dians  as  their  natural  guardians,  to  whom  they  have  recourse 
under  the  hardships  and  exactions  to  which  they  are  too  often 
exposed."1 

This  passage  is  formal,  and  the  more  remarkable,  as  the  Pro 
testant  divine,  before  he  draws  this  conclusion,  furnishes  all  the 
evidence  that  decided  his  opinion.  He  quotes  the  remonstrances 
of  the  Dominicans  in  behalf  of  the  Caribbees :  for  it  was  not 
Las  Casas  alone  who  undertook  their  defence ;  it  was  his  whole 
order  and  the  rest  of  the  Spanish  ecclesiastics.  To  this  the  his 
torian  has  subjoined  the  bulls  of  the  popes,  and  the  royal  ordi 
nances,  issued  at  the  solicitation  of  the  clergy,  to  ameliorate  the 
condition  of  the  native  Americans  and  to  restrain  the  cruelty 
of  the  colonists. 

The  profound  silence  which  philosophy  has  observed  respecting 


1  Robertson's  America,  8vo,  vol.  iv.  pp.  8,  9. 
53  2  P 


626  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

this  decisive  passage  of  Robertson  is  very  strange,  and  deserves 
to  be  exposed.  Every  thing  of  that  author's  is  quoted  excepting 
the  important  fact  which  exhibits  the  conquest  of  America  in  a 
new  light,  and  which  refutes  one  of  the  most  atrocious  calumnies 
of  which  history  was  ever  guilty.  Sophists  have  assiduously 
endeavored  to  stigmatize  religion  with  a  crime  which  she  not 
only  never  committed,  but  of  wfcich  she  felt  the  utmost  abhor 
rence:  in  this  way  have  tyrants  often  accused  the  victims  of 
their  cruelty.1 


CHAPTER   III. 

HOTEL-DIEU — GRAY    SISTERS. 

WE  now  come  to  that  period  when  Religion  designed  to 
show,  as  it  were,  in  one  single  point  of  view,  that  there  are  no 
human  woes  which  she  dares  not  encounter,  that  there  is  no 
wretchedness  beyond  the  sphere  of  her  love. 

The  Hotel-Dieu  was  founded  by  St.  Landry,  the  eighth  bishop 
of  Paris.3  The  buildings  were  successively  increased  by  the 
chapter  of  Notre-Dame,  to  whom  the  hospital  belonged,  by  St. 
Louis,  by  the  Chancellor  Duprat,  and  by  Henry  IV. ;  so  that  it 
may  with  truth  be  said  that  this  receptacle  of  all  human  ills 
expanded  in  proportion  as  those  sufferings  were  multiplied,  and 
that  charity  increased  in  an  equal  ratio  with  affliction. 

The    hospital   was    originally  attended   by  monks    and    nuns 

1  See  note  UU,  where  the  passage  from  Robertson  will  be  found  in  full,  with 
an  explanation  of  the  massacre  of  Ireland  and  that  of  St.  Bartholomew.  The 
extract  from  the  English  historian  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired,  and  causes 
those  to  raise  their  eyes  in  astonishment  who  have  been  accustomed  to  all  the 
declamations  on  the  massacres  in  the  New  World.  The  point  in  question  is 
not  whether  monsters  burned  men  in  honor  of  the  twelve  apostles,  but  whether 
religion  instigated  those  atrocious  proceedings  or  denounced  them  to  the  exe 
cration  of  posterity.  One  solitary  priest  undertook  to  justify  the  Spaniards: 
but  Robertson  will  tell  how  be  was  treated  by  the  clergy,  and  what  ourats  of 
indignation  he  excited. 

*  About  the  middle  of  the  seventh  century.     T. 


HOTEL-DIEU.  627 


under  the  rule  of  St.  Augustin ;  but  it  has  for  a  long  time  been 
left  exclusively  to  the  latter.  "  Cardinal  Vitry,"  says  Helyot, 
"  doubtless  alluded  to  the  nuns  of  the  Hotel-Dieu  when  he  said 
that  some  of  them  did  violence  to  their  feelings,  endured  with 
joy  and  without  repugnance  the  loathsome  sight  of  all  human 
afflictions,  and  that  in  his  opinion  no  sort  of  penance  could  be 
compared  to  this  kind  of  martyrdom/' 

"  There  is  no  one,"  continues  the  same  author,  "  who  sees 
the  nuns  of  the  Hotel-Dieu  not  only  dress  the  wounds  of  the 
patients,  keep  them  clean,  and  make  their  beds,  but  also,  in  the 
most  intense  cold  of  winter,  break  the  ice  in  the  stream  which 
runs  through  the  hospital,  and  go  into  it  up  to  their  waists  tc 
wash  their  linen,  impregnated  with  filth  of  the  most  nauseous 
description,  but  must  consider  them  as  holy  victims,  who,  from 
excess  of  love  and  charity,  in  order  to  serve  their  fellow-crea 
tures,  voluntarily  run  into  the  jaws  of  death,  which  they  defy, 
in  a  manner,  amid  so  much  infection  occasioned  by  the  great 
number  of  patients." 

We  call  not  in  question  the  virtues  which  philosophy  inspires ; 
but  they  will  appear  much  more  striking  to  the  vulgar  when 
they  shall  have  exhibited  acts  of  self-devotion  similar  to  those  just 
mentioned.  The  simple  recital  of  Helyot,  however,  is  far  from 
giving  a  complete  idea  of  the  daily  sacrifices  of  these  Christian 
females.  He  mentions  not  the  abnegation  of  the  pleasures  of 
life,  nor  the  loss  of  youth  and  beauty,  nor  the  renunciation  of 
the  conjugal  character  and  the  endearments  of  a  family.  He 
says  nothing  concerning  all  the  sacrifices  of  the  heart,  the  ex 
tinction  of  all  the  tenderest  sentiments  except  pity,  which, 
among  such  varieties  of  wo,  becomes  only  an  additional  torment. 

Yet — would  you  believe  it? — -'we  have  seen  patients  in  the 
agony  of  death  raise  themselves  on  their  couches,  and  .muster 
all  their  strength  to  overwhelm  with  abuse  the  angels  who. 
attended  them.  And  for  what  reason  ?  Because  they  were 
Christians.  Ah  !  wretches,  who  would  attend  you  but  Christians? 
Other  charitable  women  like  these,  who  were  deserving  of  a  reli 
gious  worship,  were  publicly  scourged.  We  will  not  disguise 
the  word.  After  such  a  return  for  so  much  kindness,  who  would 
have  again  returned  to  the  miserable  ?  Who  ?  Why,  these 
came  women  j  they  flew  at  the  first  signal,  or  rather  they  never 


628  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

quitted  their  post.  Behold  here  religious  human  nature  and 
impious  human  nature  brought  into  one  view,  and  judge  between 
them. 

The  gray  sister1  did  not  always  confine  her  virtues,  like  the 
nuns  of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  within  the  house  of  infection;  she 
diffused  them  abroad  like  a  fragrant  odor  in  the  field ;  she  went 
to  visit  the  infirm  husbandman  in  his  cottage.  How  affecting  to 
.sec  a  young  woman,  beautiful  and  compassionate,  performing,  in 
tlio  name  of  God,  the  office  of  physician  for  the  rustic  !  We 
were  recently  shown,  in  a  meadow,  a  small  house  overhung  with 
willows,  formerly  occupied  by  three  gray  sisters.  From  this  rural 
abode  they  sallied  forth  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  as  well  as  day, 
to  administer  relief  to  the  country-people.  Thoy,  as  well  as  all 
their  sisters,  were  remarkable  for  the  neatness  of  their  external 
appearance  and  a  look  of  content,  indicating  that  body  and  soul 
were  alike  free  from  stain.  They  were  full  of  tenderness,  but 
yet  were  not  deficient  in  firmness  to  endure  the  sight  of  human 
sufferings  and  to  enforce  the  obedience  of  their  patients?.  They 
excelled  in  setting  a  limb  broken  by  a  fall  or  dislocated  by  those 
accidents  so  common  in  the  country.  But  a  circumstance  of 
still  greater  importance  was  that  the  gray  sister  never  failed  to 
drop  a  word  concerning  God  in  the  ear  of  the  husbandman  ; 
and  never  did  morality  assume  forms  more  divine  for  the  pur 
pose  of  insinuating  itself  into  the  human  heart. 

While  these  hospitallers  astonished  by  their  charity  even  those 
who  were  accustomed  to  their  sublime  acts,  other  wonders  were 
occurring  at  Paris.  Ladies  of  distinction  exiled  themselves  from 
the  city  and  the  court  and  set  out  for  Canada.  They,  doubtless, 
you  would  suppose,  went  to  acquire  some  property,  to  repair  a 
shattered  fortune,  or  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a  vast  estate.  Such 
was  not  their  object.  They  went  in  the  midst  of  a  sanguinary 
war  to  found  hospitals  in  the  forests  for  hostile  savages. 

In   Europe  we   fire   cannon   to   announce   the  destruction  of 


1  The  Daughters  of  Charity  were  so  called  in  several  cities  of  Franco,  from 
the  color  of  their  dress.  An  excellent  institute,  hearing  the  same  name,  was 
founded  at  Montreal,  Lower  Canada,  about  the  year  1738,  by  Madame  d'You- 
ville,  who,  with  her  companions,  took  charge  of  the  Hopital  General  in  that 
city.  The  sisters  devote  themselves  to  various  works  of  mercy.  T. 


GRAY  SISTERS.  629 


several  thousands  of  men  ;  but  in  new  and  distant  settlements, 
where  we  are  nearer  to  misfortune  and  to  nature,  we  rejoice  only 
in  what  is  really  deserving  of  thanks  and  blessings, — that  is  to  say, 
acts  of  beneficence  and  humanity.  Three  poor  nuns,  under  the 
conduct  of  Madame  de  la  Peltrie,  land  on  the  Canadian  shores, 
and  the  whole  colony  is  in  a  tumult  of  joy.1  "  The  day  of  the 
arrival  of  persons  so  ardently  desired,"  says  Charlevoix,  "  was  a 
holiday  for  the  whole  town.  All  work  was  suspended  and  the 
shops  were  closed.  The  governor  received  the  heroines  on  the 
shore  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  who  were  under  arms,  and  with 
the  discharge  of  cannon.  After  the  first  compliments,  he  led 
them,  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  people,  to  the  church,  where 
Te  Deum  was  sung. 

"  These  pious  nuns  and  their  generous  conductress,  on  their 
part,  eagerly  kissed  the  soil  after  which  they  had  so  long  sighed, 
which  they  hoped  to  bless  with  their  labors,  and  which  they  did 
not  despair  even  of  bedewing  with  their  blood.  The  French 
intermingling  with  the  savages,  and  even  unbelievers  with  the 
Christians,  were  unwearied  in  the  expression  of  their  joy.  They 
continued  for  several  days  to  make  the  air  resound  with  their 
shouts  of  gladness.,  and  gave  a  thousand  thanks  to  Him  who 
alone  could  impart  such  strength  and  courage  to  the  weakest  per 
sons.  At  the  sight  of  the  huts  of  the  savages  to  which  the  nuns 
were  conducted  the  day  after  their  arrival,  they  were  seized  with 
fresh  transports  of  joy.  They  were  not  disgusted  by  the  poverty 
and  want  of  cleanliness  which  pervaded  them ;  but  objects  so 
calculated  to  abate  their  zeal  tended  only  to  increase  its  ardor, 
and  they  expressed  the  utmost  impatience  to  enter  upon  the 
exercise  of  their  functions. 

"Madame  de  la  Peltrie,  who  had  never  desired  to  be  rich,  and 
had  so  cheerfully  made  herself  poor  for  the  sake  of  Jesus  Christ, 
spared  no  efforts  for  the  salvation  of  souls.  Her  zeal  even 
impelled  her  to  cultivate  the  earth  with  her  own  hands,  that  she 
might  have  wherewith  to  relieve  the  poor  converts.  In  a  few 
days  she  had  deprived  herself  of  what  she  had  reserved  for 
her  own  use,  so  as  to  be  reduced  to  the  want  even  of  what 

1  Madame  Peltrie,  with  three  Ursuline  nuns,  arrived  in  Quebec  in  1639,  and 
founded  there  the  convent  of  that  order,  which  is  still  flourish  in);.     T. 
53* 


630  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


was  necessary  to  clothe  the  children  who  were  brought  to  her 
almost  naked  ;  and  her  whole  life,  which  was  a  long  one,  was 
a  series  of  the  most  heroic  acts  of  charity."1 

Is  there  any  thing  in  ancient  history  as  affecting  as  this  ? — 
any  thing  capable  of  extorting  tears  so  pure  and  so  delicious  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FOUNDLING-HOSPITALS  —  LADIES    OP   CHARITY  —  ACTS    OP 
BENEFICENCE. 

LET  us  listen  for  a  moment  to  St.  Justin  the  philosopher. 
In  his  first  Apology,  addressed  to  the  emperor,  he  thus  expresses 
himself: — "It  is  a  common  practice,  in  your  empire,  to  expose 
infants;  and  there  are  persons  who  afterward  bring  up  these 
infants  for  the  business  of  prostitution.  Among  all  the  nations 
subject  to  you,  we  meet  only  with  children  destined  for  the  most 
execrable  purposes,  who  are  kept  like  herds  of  beasts,  and  upon 

whom  you  levy  a  tribute And  yet  those  who  abuse  these 

little  innocents,  besides  the  crime  which  they  commit  against 

God,  may  chance  to  abuse  their  own  offspring As 

for  us,  Christians,  detesting  these  enormities,  we  marry  only 
to  bring  up  a  family,  or  we  renounce  matrimony  to  live  in 
chastity."3 

Such,  then,  were  the  hospital?  which  polytheism  erected  for 
orphans.  0  venerable  Vincent  de  Paul,  where  wast  thou? 
Where  wast  thou,  to  address  the  ladies  of  Rome  as  thou  didst 
thy  pious  countrywomen  who  seconded  thy  benevolent  de 
signs  ? — "  Now,  ladies,  see  if  you  can,  in  your  turn,  forsake 
these  little  innocents,  to  whom  you  have  become  mothers  accord 
ing  to  grace  after  they  had  been  abandoned  by  their  mothers 
according  to  nature."  But  in  vain  shall  we  look  for  the  man  of 
mercy  among  the  votaries  of  an  idolatrous  worship. 

1  Hist,  de  la  Now.  France,  livre  v.  2  See  pp.  60,  61. 


LADIES   OF   CHARITY.  (331 


The  age  has  forgiven  Vincent  de  Paul  for  being  a  Christian. 
Philosophy  has  been  seen  to  weep  over  his  story.  Every  reader 
knows  that,  though  at  first  but  a  shepherd's  boy  and  afterward 
a  slave  at  Tunis,  he  at  length  became  a  priest  illustrious  for  his 
learning  and  his  good  works.  It  is  known  that  he  was  the 
founder  of  the  Foundling-Hospital,  of  that  for  the  aged  poor,  of 
the  hospital  for  the  galley-slaves  at  Marseilles,  of  the  Congrega 
tion  of  Priests  of  the  Mission,  (or  Lazarists,)  of  the  parochial 
fraternities  of  Charity,  of  the  Companies  of  Ladies  for  the 
service  of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  of  the  Daughters  of  Charity,  who 
attend  on  the  sick,  and,  lastly,  of  the  retreats  for  such  as  are  yet 
undetermined  in  the  choice  of  a  state  of  life.  Whence  does 
charity  derive  all  her  institutions,  all  her  foresight  ?* 

St.  Vincent  de  Paul  was  powerfully  seconded  by  Mademoiselle 
Legras,  who,  in  conjunction  with  him,  instituted  the  Daughters 
of  Charity.8  She  had  likewise  the  superintendence  of  a  hospi 
tal  of  the  name  of  Jesus,  which,  founded  for  forty  poor  persons, 
was  the  origin  of  the  general  hospital  of  Paris.  As  the  emblem 
and  the  reward  of  a  life  of  incessant  toil,  Mademoiselle  Legras 
desired  that  on  her  tomb  should  be  placed  a  little  cross  with 
these  words — Spes  mea.  Her  injunctions  were  fulfilled. 

Thus  pious  families,  in  the  name  of  Christ,  disputed  the  plea 
sure  of  doing  good  to  their  fellow-creatures.  The  wife  of  the 
Chancellor  of  France  and  Madame  Fouquet  belonged  to  the  con 
gregation  of  the  Ladies  of  Charity.  They  had  each  their  day  to 
visit,  instruct,  and  exhort  the  sick,  and  to  speak  to  them  in  a 
familiar  and  pathetic  manner  concerning  the  things  necessary  for 
salvation.  Other  ladies  received  the  alms  of  the  charitable. 
Others  again  had  the  care  of  the  linen,  furniture,  and  different 
articles  for  the  poor.  Some  author  informs  us  that  more  than 
seven  hundred  Calvinists  returned  to  the  bosom  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  having  recognised  the  truth  of  her  doctrines  in  the 
excellent  fruits  of  a  charity  so  ardent  and  so  widely  extended 

1  When  we  reflect  that  St.  Vincent  was  the  thaumaturgus  of  charity  in  tuo- 
dern  times,  and  that  his  life  and  character  have  made  him  venerable,  not  only 
among  Catholics,  but  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  at  large,  it  cannot  but  appear 
singular  that  as  yet  we  have  no  life  of  this  apostolical  man  in  English,  worthy 
of  the  name.     T. 

2  This  admirable  society,  still  vigorously  engaged  in  works  of  mercy  all  OVOJT 
the  world,  was  commenced  in  1633.     T 


632  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Ye  sainted  women, — De  Miramion,  De  Chantal,  De  La  Peltrie,  De 
Lamoignon, — your  works  were  the  works  of  peace !  The  poor 
accompanied  your  coffins.  They  took  them  from  the  bearers  that 
they  might  themselves  carry  your  remains.  Your  funerals  re 
echoed  their  sighs,  and  a  stranger  would  have  supposed  that  all 
the  benevolent  hearts  in  the  world  were  buried  with  you  in  the 
grave ! 

We  shall  conclude  this  article  on  the  Christian  institutions  in 
favor  of  suffering  humanity  with  an  important  remark.1  We  are 
assured  that  on  Mount  St.  Bernard  the  sharpness  of  the  air  injures 
the  organs  of  respiration,  and  that  a  person  seldom  lives  there 
longer  than  ten  years.  Thus,  the  monk  who  retires  to  its  convent 
may  nearly  calculate  the  number  of  days  that  he  has  to  spend  in 
the  world.  All  that  he  gains  in  the  ungrateful  service  of  men 
is  a  foreknowledge  of  the  moment  of  death,  which  is  hidden  from 
the  rest  of  mortals.  We  are  told  that  the  nuns  of  the  Hotel- 
Dieu  have  habitually  a  slow  fever  which  consumes  them,  land, 
which  proceeds  from  the  vitiated  atmosphere  they  breathe.  The 
monks  who  reside  in  the  mines  of  the  New  World,  at  the  bottom 
of  which,  amid  eternal  night,  they  have  founded  hospitals  for  the 
unfortunate  Indians, — these  men  also  shorten  their  lives.  They 
are  poisoned  by  the  metallic  effluvia.  Lastly,  the  fathers  who 
shut  themselves  up  in  the  infected  slave-prisons  of  Constantinople 
devote  themselves  to  the  most  speedy  martyrdom. 

The  reader  will  forgive  us  if  we  here  suppress  all  reflections. 
We  confess  our  incapacity  to  find  language  worthy  of  acts  so 
sublime.  Tears  and  admiration  are  all  that  is  left  us.  How 
much  are  those  persons  to  be  pitied  who  would  fain  destroy  re 
ligion,  and  who  relish  not  the  sweetness  of  the  fruits  which  the 
gospel  brings  forth!  "Stoicism,"  says  Voltaire,  "has  produced 
but  one  Epictetus;  and  Christianity  forms  thousands  of  such 
philosophers,  who  know  not  that  they  are  so,  and  who  carry  their 
virtue  to  such  a  length  as  to  be  ignorant  of  possessing  any."2 

i  See  note  W.  2  Corresp.  Gin.,  tome  iii.  p.  222. 


EDUCATION.  633 


CHAPTER  V. 

EDUCATION. 

Schools,  Colleges,  Universities,  Benedictines,  and  Jesuits. 

To  devote  one's  life  to  the  alleviation  of  the  sufferings  of  man 
kind  is  the  first  of  benefits.  The  second  is  to  enlighten  them. 
Here  again  we  meet  with  those  superstitious  priests  who  have 
cured  us  of  our  ignorance,  and  who  for  ten  centuries  buried 
themselves  in  the  dust  of  the  schools  to  rescue  us  from  barbarism. 
They  were  not  afraid  of  the  light,  since  they  opened  to  us  the 
sources  of  it.  They  were  anxious  only  to  impart  to  us  those  pre 
cious  stores  which  they  had  collected  at  the  hazard  of  their  lives 
among  the  ruins  of  Greece  and  Home. 

The  Benedictine,  who  had  studied  every  thing, — the  Jesuit, 
who  was  acquainted  with  the  sciences  and  the  world, — the  Ora- 
torian  and  the  professor  of  the  university, — are  perhaps  less  en 
titled  to  our  gratitude  than  those  humble  friars  who  devoted 
themselves  throughout  all  Christendom  to  the  gratuitous  instruc 
tion  of  the  poor.  "The  regular  clerics  of  the  pious  schools1 
undertook,  out  of  charity,  to  teach  the  lower  classes  reading, 
writing,  arithmetic,  and  book-keeping.  They  likewise  taught 
not  only  rhetoric  and  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  but  in  the 
towns  they  also  kept  schools  of  philosophy  and  theology,  scholastic 
and  moral,  mathematics,  geometry,  and  fortification.  When  the 
pupils  have  finished  their  lessons,  they  go  in  troops  to  their 
homes  under  the  superintendence  of  a  religious,  lest  they  should 
waste  their  time  in  playing  in  the  streets.7'51 

1  Founded  by  St.  Joseph  Calasanctius  about  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century.     T. 

2  Helyot,  tome  iv.  p.  307.    Of  nil  the  institutions  for  gratuitous  instruction  to 
which  Catholic  charity  has  given  birth,  that  founded  in  France  by  the  vene 
rable  Father  La  Salle  is  the  most  conspicuous.     It  originated  in  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  and  its  members  are  known  under  the  name  of  Jim 
then  of  the  Christian  Schools.    From  a  statistical  account  published  in  1842  w« 


C34  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Simplicity  of  style  is  always  pleasing;  but  when  it  is  united 
with  simplicity  in  conferring  benefits,  it  is  equally  admirable  and 
affecting. 

After  these  primary  schools  founded  by  Christian  charity,  we 
find  learned  congregations  bound,  by  the  express  articles  of  their 
institution,  to  the  service  of  letters  and  the  education  of  youth. 
Such  are  the  religious  of  St.  Basil  in  Spain,  who  have  not  less 
than  four  colleges  in  each  province.  They  had  one  at  Soissons 
in  France,  and  another  at  Paris — the  College  of  Beauvais,  found 
ed  by  Cardinal  Dorman.  As  early  as  the  ninth  century,  Tours, 
Corbeil,  Fontenelles,  Fulda,  St.  Grail,  St.  Denys,  St.  Germain 
d'Auxerre,  Ferriere,  Aniane,  and  Monte  Cassino  in  Italy,  were 
celebrated  seminaries.1  In  the  Netherlands  the  clergy  of  the  com 
mon  life  were  employed  in  the  collation  of  original  works  in  the 
libraries  and  in  restoring  the  text  of  manuscripts.3 

All  the  European  universities  were  founded  either  by  religious 
princes,  or  by  bishops  or  priests,  and  they  were  all  under  the  di 
rection  of  different  Christian  orders.  The  famous  university  of 
Paris,  whence  the  light  of  science  was  diffused  over  modern 
Europe,  was  composed  of  four  faculties.  It  dates  its  origin  from 
the  time  of  Charlemagne, — from  that  barbarous  age  when  Alcuin 
the  monk,  struggling  alone  against  ignorance,  formed  the  design 
of  making  France  a  Christian  Athens.3  Here  a  Budseus,  a 
Casaubon,  a  Grenan,  a  Rollin,  a  Cofiin,  a  Lebeau,  taught;  and 
here  were  formed  an  Abelard,  an  Amyot,  a  De  Thou,  and  a  Boi- 
leau.  In  England,  Cambridge  produced  a  Newton,  and  Oxford 
boasts  of  her  Friar  Bacon  and  her  Thomas  More,  her  Persian 
library,  her  manuscripts  of  Homer,  her  Arundelian  marbles,  and 
her  excellent  editions  of  the  classics.4  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh 
in  Scotland ;  Leipsic,  Jena,  Tubingen,  in  Germany ;  Leyden, 

learn  that  at  that  time  the  congregation  had  642  schools,  chiefly  in  Europe, 
with  171,500  scholars.  Since  that  period  these  numbers  have  increased.  They 
have  several  establishments  in  the  United  States.  There  is  a  similar  institute 
in  Ireland,  which  has  a  large  number  of  schools.  T. 

1  Fleury,  Hist.  Eccles.,  tome  x.  p.  34. 

2  Instituted  in  the  fourteenth  century.     T. 

3  Fleury,  Hint.  Eccles.,  livre  xlv. 

4  Our  author  would  have  been  more  correct  if,  when  speaking  of  Oxford,  he 
had  said  nothing  upon  the  subject  of  classics,  but  had  praised  that  university 
for  her  cojnoun  and  invaluable  treasures  of  Oriental  and  other  manuscripts.     S. 


EDUCATION.  035 


Utrecht,  aid  Louvain,  in  the  Netherlands;  Gandia,  Alcala,  and 
•Salamanca,  in  Spain  ; — all  these  nurseries  of  science  attest  the  im 
mense  achievements  of  Christianity.  But  two  orders,  the  Bene 
dictines  and  the  Jesuits,  have  been  more  particularly  engaged  in 
the  cultivation  of  letters. 

In  the  year  540  of  the  Christian  era,  St.  Benedict  laid  the 
foundation,  at  Monte  Cassino,  in  Italy,  of  that  celebrated  order 
destined  to  enjoy  the  threefold  glory  to  which  no  other  society 
ever  attained, — of  converting  Europe  to  Christianity,  of  bringing 
her  deserts  under  cultivation,  and  of  rekindling  the  torch  of 
science  among  her  barbarous  sons.1 

The  Benedictines  (and  particularly  those  of  the  congregation 
of  St.  Maur,  established  in  France  about  the  year  543)  produced 
all  those  men  whose  learning  has  become  proverbial,  and  whose 
laborious  and  indefatigable  researches  brought  to  light  the  ancient 
manuscripts  buried  under  the  dust  of  the  convents.9  Of  their 
literary  enterprises  the  most  formidable  (for  we  may  justly  employ 
that  term)  was  the  complete  edition  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church. 
Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  difficulty  of  getting  a  little 
volume  correctly  printed  in  their  native  language, will  be  able  to 
judge  how  arduous  must  have  been  the  task  of  a  complete  revisal 
and  edition  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  Fathers,  forming  upward  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  folio  volumes !  The  imagination  can 
scarcely  embrace  these  gigantic  labors.  To  mention  the  names 
of  a  lluinart,  a  Lobineau,  a  Calmet,  a  Tassin,  a  Lami,  a  Ma- 
billon,  a  Montfaucon,  is  to  recount  prodigies  of  learning  and 
science. 

It  is  impossible  to  forbear  regretting  the  loss  of  those  great  in 
stitutions  solely  dedicated  to  literary  researches  and  the  educa 
tion  of  youth.  After  a  revolution  which  has  relaxed  the  ties  of 
morality  and  interrupted  the  course  of  studies,  a  society  at  once 
religious  and  literary  would  apply  an  infallible  remedy  to  the 
source  of  our  calamities.  In  establishments  differently  constituted 

1  England,  Frieseland,  and    Germany,  acknowledge   as    their   apostles    St. 
Augu^tin,  St.  Willibord,  and  St.  Boniface,  all  of  whom  were  members  of  the 
institute  of  St.  Benedict. 

2  English  history   i.-  particularly  indebted   to   ecclesiastical  writers.     What 
should  we  know  of  the  early  parts  of  it  without  their  chronicles  ?     Some  one 
baa  well  said: — Aliyue  invnnchit  notsant  in  Junior  id  pat  rice  eaaemus  pueri.     S. 


036  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

there  cannot  be  that  regular  mode  of  proceeding,  that  laborious 
application  to  the  same  subject,  which  prevail  among  recluses, 
and  which,  when  continued  for  many  centuries,  at  length  give 
birth  to  truly  wonderful  productions. 

The  Benedictines  were  profound  scholars,  and  the  Jesuits  men 
df  letters ;  and  both  were  of  as  much  importance  to  religion  as 
fcwo  illustrious  academies  are  to  society.1 

The  order  of  the  Jesuits  was  divided  into  three  classes, — 
approved  scholars,  finished  assistants,  and  the  professed.  The 
candidate  was  first  tried  by  a  noviciate  of  ten  years,  during  which 
his  memory  was  exercised,  but  he  was  not  permitted  to  apply  to 
any  particular  study.  This  was  done  to  ascertain  the  bent  of 
his  genius.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  he  attended  the  sick 
in  the  hospital  for  a  month,  and  performed  a  pilgrimage  on  foot, 
at  the  same  time  soliciting  alms.  This  was  designed  to  accustom 
him  to  the  sight  of  human  afflictions,  and  to  prepare  him  for  the 
fatigues  of  the  missions. 

He  then  proceeded  to  studies  of  an  extensive  or  brilliant  cha 
racter.  If  he  had  only  those  qualities  which  are  calculated  to 
shine  in  society  and  that  polish  which  pleases  the  world,  he  was 
placed  in  some  conspicuous  situation  in  the  capital.  He  was  in 
troduced  at  court  and  among  the  great.  Was  his  genius  adapted 
to  solitude  ?  he  was  employed  in  the  library,  or  filled  some  other 
post  in  the  interior  of  the  society.  If  he  manifested  talents  for 
oratory,  the  pulpit  afforded  a  field  for  his  eloquence.  If  he  pos 
sessed  a  luminous  understanding,  a  correct  judgment,  and  a  pa 
tient  disposition,  he  was  appointed  professor  in  the  colleges.  If 
he  was  ardent,  intrepid,  full  of  zeal  and  faith,  he  went  to  sacrifice 
his  life  by  the  scimetar  of  the  Mohammedan  or  the  tomahawk  of 
the  savage.  Lastly,  if  he  displayed  talents  for  governing  men, 
Paraguay  summoned  him  to  its  forests,  or  the  order  to  the  super 
intendence  of  its  concerns. 

The  general  of  the  company  resided  at  Rome.  The  provincial 
fathers  in  Europe  were  obliged  to  correspond  with  him  once  a 
month.  The  heads  of  the  foreign  missions  wrote  to  him  when 
ever  ships  or  caravans  visited  the  remote  places  in  which  they 


1  Gibbon,  said  that  a  single  monastery  had  produced  more  works  than  the 
<  English  universities.     T. 


EDUCATION.  637 

were  stationed.  There  were  besides,  for  urgent  cases,  missionaries 
who  journeyed  from  Pekin  to  Rome,  from  Rome  to  Persia,  Tur 
key,  Ethiopia,  Paraguay,  or  any  other  region  of  the  globe. 

In  Europe,  learning  sustained  an  irreparable  loss  in  the  Jesuits. 
Education  has  never  perfectly  recovered  since  their  fall.  They 
were  particularly  agreeable  to  youth ;  their  polished  manners  ren 
dered  their  instructions  free  from  that  pedantic  tone  which  is  re 
pulsive  to  youth.  As  most  of  their  professors  were  men  of  let 
ters  esteemed  in  the  world,  their  disciples  considered  themselves 
as  being  only  in  an  illustrious  academy.  They  had  contrived  to 
establish  among  their  scholars  of  different  fortunes  a  kind  of 
patronage  which  proved  beneficial  to  science.  These  connections, 
formed  at  an  age  when  the  heart  is  readily  susceptible  of  gene 
rous  sentiments,  were  never  afterward  dissolved,  and  pro 
duced  between  the  prince  and  the  man  of  letters  a  friendship 
noble  as  that  which  subsisted  of  old  between  a  Scipio  and  a 
Laelius. 

They  likewise  cultivated  those  venerable  relations  of  master 
and  disciple  so  dear  to  the  schools  of  Plato  and  Pythagoras. 
They  prided  themselves  in  the  great  man  whose  genius  they  had 
formed,  and  claimed  a  portion  of  his  renown.  A  Voltaire  dedi 
cating  his  Merope  to  Father  Pore"e,  and  calling  him  his  dear 
master,  is  one  of  those  amiable  traits  that  are  not  to  be  found  in 
more  modern  education.  Naturalists,  chemists,  botanists,  mathe 
maticians,  mechanicians,  astronomers,  poets,  historians,  trans 
lators,  antiquaries,  journalists, — there  is  not  a  branch  of  science 
but  what  the  Jesuits  have  cultivated  with  distinguished  success. 
Bourdaloue  revived  the  Roman  eloquence,  Brumoy  familiarized 
France  with  the  Grecian  stage,  Gresset  trod  in  the  steps  of  Mo- 
liere ;  Lecompte,  Parennin,  Charlevoix,  Ducerceau,  Sanadon, 
Duhalde,  Noel,  Bouhours,  Daniel,  Tournemine,  Maiuibourg,  Larue, 
Jouvency,  Rapin,  Vaniere,  Conmiire,  Sirmond,  Bougeant, 
Petau,  have  left  names  that  are  not  without  honor.  And  what 
can  the  Jesuits  be  accused  of?  A  little  ambition, — so  natural  to 
geuius.  "  It  will  always  be  glorious,"  says  Montesquieu,  speak 
ing  of  these  fathers,  "  to  govern  mankind  by  rendering  them 
happy."  Consider  what  the  Jesuits  have  done ;  recollect  all  the 
celebrated  writers  whom  they  have  given  to  France  or  who  were 
educated  in  their  schools,  the  entire  kingdoms  gained  for  our 
54 


038  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


commerce  by  their  skill,  their  toils,  and  their  blood,  the  miracles 
of  their  missions  in  China,  Canada,  and  Paraguay,  and  you  will 
find  that  the  charges  brought  against  them  are  far  from  balancing 
the  services  which  they  have  rendered  to  society.1 


CHAPTER  VI. 

POPES   AND   COURT   OF  ROME. 

Modern  Discoveries. 

BEFORE  we  undertake  to  describe  the  services  which  the 
Church  has  rendered  to  agriculture,  let  us  take  a  survey  of  what 
the  popes  have  done  for  the  sciences  and  the  fine  arts.  While 
the  religious  orders  were  engaged  throughout  all  Europe  in  the 
education  of  youth,  in  the  discovery  of  manuscripts,  and  in  the 
explanation  of  antiquities,  the  Roman  pontiffs,  by  conferring 
liberal  rewards  and  even  ecclesiastical  honors  on  scholars  and  men 
of  science,  took  the  lead  in  the  general  solicitude  for  the  promo 
tion  of  knowledge.  It  is,  indeed,  highly  glorious  to  the  Church 
that  a  pope  should  have  given  his  name  to  the  age  which  com 
mences  the  era  of  civilized  Europe,  and  which,  rising  from  among 
the  ruins  of  Athens  and  Rome,  borrowed  its  light  from  the  age 
of  an  Alexander  to  reflect  it  upon  that  of  a  Louis. 

Those  who  represent  Christianity  as  checking  the  advancement 
of  learning  manifestly  contradict  all  historical  evidences.  In 

1  The  author  speaks  of  the  Jesuits  in  this  chapter  in  the  past  tense,  because, 
at  the  time  he  wrote,  they  did  not  exist  as  a  regular  body  of  clergy,  if  we  ex 
cept  the  few  in  Russia.  Clement  XIV.,  overpowered  by  the  clamors  of  infidel 
and  licentious  princes,  suppressed  the  order  in  1773 ;  but,  to  the  joy  of  the 
Catholic  world  and  the  friends  of  education,  it  was  re-established  in  1814  by 
Pius  VII.  Since  that  period  it  has  produced  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
names  of  which  modern  science  can  boast.  When  our  author  alludes  to  the 
"  little  ambition"  of  which  the  Jesuits  have  been  accused,  he  no  doubt  refers 
to  the  errors  of  a  few  individuals,  without  wishing  to  inculpate  the  order  in 
general.  To  make  the  society  at  large  responsible  for  the  faults  of  some  who 
belonged  to  it,  as  certain  superficial  or  dishonest  writers  have  done,  would  have 
been  equally  opposed  to  M.  Chateaubriand's  historical  learning  and  sense  of 
justice.  As  a  body,  the  Jesuits  have  always  presented,  and  still  present,  & 
magnificent  illustration  of  the  spirit  and  power  of  Catholic.fcii..  T. 


MODERN    DISCOVERIES.  639 

every  country,  civilization  has  invariably  followed  the  introduction 
of  the  gospel.  The  reverse  is  the  case  with  the  religions  of  Mo 
hammed,  Braina,  and  Confucius,  which  have  limited  the  progress 
of  society  and  forced  man  to  grow  old  while  yet  in  his  infancy. 

Christian  Rome  might  be  considered  as  a  capacious  harbor  in 
which  all  the  wrecks  of  the  arts  were  collected  and  preserved. 
Constantinople  falls  under  the  Turkish  yoke,  and  the  Church 
immediately  opens  a  thousand  honorable  retreats  to  the  illustrious 
fugitives  of  Athens  and  Byzantium.  Printing,  proscribed  in 
France,  finds  an  asylum  in  Italy.  Cardinals  expend  their  fortunes 
in  researches  among  the  ruins  of  Graece  and  in  the  purchase  of 
manuscripts.  So  glorious  did  the  age  of  Leo  X.  appear  to  the 
learned  Barthelemi,  that  at  first  he  preferred  it  to  that  of  Pericles 
for  the  subject  of  his  great  work.  It  was  into  Christian  Italy  that 
he  intended  to  conduct  a  modern  Anacharsis. 

"  At  Rome,"  says  he,  "my  traveller  beholds  Michael  Angelo 
raising  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter's ;  Raphael  painting  the  galleries 
of  the  Vatican ;  Sadolet  and  Bembo,  who  were  afterward  cardi 
nals,  then  holding  the  situation  of  secretaries  to  Leo  X.;  Trissino 
giving  the  first  representation  of  Sophonisba, — the  first  tragedy 
composed  by  a  modern ;  Beroaldus,  librarian  of  the  Vatican,  en 
gaged  in  the  publication  of  the  AnnaL*  of  Tacitus,  then  recently 
discovered  in  Westphalia  and  purchased  by  Leo  X.  for  five  hun 
dred  gold  ducats, — the  same  pontiff  offering  places  to  the  learned 
of  all  nations  who  would  settle  in  his  dominions,  and  distinguished 
rewards  to  such  as  would  bring  manuscripts  before  unknown. 
....  In  all  quarters  were  founded  universities,  colleges,  printing- 
houses  for  all  kinds  of  languages  and  sciences,  libraries  which 
were  continually  receiving  accessions  of  works  from  those  sources, 
or  manuscripts  lately  brought  from  regions  where  ignorance 
yet  maintained  her  empire.  The  number  of  the  academies  in 
creased  to  such  a  degree  that  there  were  ten  or  twelve  at  Fer- 
rara,  about  fourteen  at  Bologna,  and  sixteen  at  Sienna.  They 
bad  for  their  object  the  cultivation  of  the  sciences,  the  belles-let 
tres,  languages,  history,  and  the  arts.  In  two  of  these  academies — 
one  of  which  was  exclusively  devoted  to  Plato,  and  the  other  to 
Aristotle,  his  disciple — the  opinions  of  the  ancient  philosophy  were 
discussed  and  those  of  modern  philosophy  partly  foreseen.  At 
Bologna,  and  likewise  at  Venice,  one  of  these  societies  superin- 


640  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

tended  the  printing  establishment,  the  casting  of  types,  the  cor 
rection  of  proofs,  the  quality  of  paper,  and,  in  general,  whatever 
could  contribute  to  the  perfection  of  new  editions.  ...  In  every 
state,  the  capital,  and  even  the  towns  of  inferior  importance,  were 
extremely  covetous  of  knowledge  and  fame.  Almost  all  of  them 
offered  to  astronomers  observatories ;  to  anatomists  amphitheatres; 
to  naturalists  botanic  gardens ;  to  the  studious  in  general  collec 
tions  of  books,  medals,  and  antique  monuments ;  and  to  talents 
of  every  kind  distinguished  marks  of  consideration,  gratitude,  and 
respect.  .  .  .  The  progress  of  the  arts  encouraged  a  fondness  for 
public  spectacles  and  magnificence.  The  study  of  history  and  of 
the  monuments  of  Greece  and  Rome  inspired  ideas  of  propriety, 
unity,  and  perfection,  which  had  not  before  prevailed.  Julio  de 
Medicis,  brother  of  Leo  X.,  having  been  proclaimed  a  Roman 
citizen,  this  proclamation  was  accompanied  with  public  exhibi 
tions  ;  and  in  a  vast  theatre  erected  for  the  purpose  in  the  square 
of  the  Capitol  was  performed  for  two  days  a  comedy  of  Plautus, 
the  music  and  extraordinary  splendor  of  which  excited  universal 
admiration." 

The  successors  of  Leo  X.  did  not  permit  this  noble  ardor  for 
the  productions  of  genius  to  die  away.  The  peaceful  bishops  of 
Rome  collected  in  their  villa  the  precious  relics  of  ages.  In  the 
Borghese  and  Farnese  palaces  the  traveller  admired  the  master 
pieces  of  Praxiteles  and  Phidias.  It  was  the  popes  that  purchased 
at  an  enormous  price  the  statues  of  Hercules  and  Apollo,  that 
preserved  the  too-much-slighted  ruins  of  antiquity,  and  covered 
them  with  the  sacred  mantle  of  religion.  Who  can  help  admi 
ring  the  pious  labor  of  that  pontiff  who  placed  Christian  images 
on  the  beautiful  remains  of  the  palace  of  Adrian  ?  The  Pantheon 
would  not  now  exist,  had  it  not  been  hallowed  by  the  veneration 
of  the  twelve  apostles;  neither  would  Trajan's  pillar  be  still  stand 
ing,  had  it  not  been  crowned  with  the  statue  of  St.  Peter. 

This  conservative  spirit  was  manifested  in  all  the  orders  of  the 
Church.  While  the  ruins  collected  to  adorn  the  Vatican  sur 
passed  the  wealth  of  the  ancient  temples,  a  few  poor  monks  pro 
tected  within  the  precincts  of  their  convents  the  ruins  of  the 
houses  of  Tibur  and  Tusculum,1  and  conducted  the  stranger 
through  the  gardens  of  Cicero  and  Horace.  A  Carthusian 

1  Now  Tivoli  and  Frascati. 


MODERN    DISCOVERIES.  611 


pointed  out  the  laurel  which  grew  on  Virgil's  grave,  and  a  pope 
was  seen  crowning  Tasso  in  the  Capitol. 

Thus  for  fifteen  hundred  years  the  Church  has  protected  the 
arts  and  sciences;  and  at  no  period  has  she  abated  her  zeal.  If 
in  the  eighth  century  Alcuin  the  monk  taught  Charlemagne 
grammar,  in  the  eighteenth  another  ingenious  and  patient  friar* 
discovered  a  method  of  unrolling  the  manuscripts  of  Hercula- 
neum ;  if  in  740  Gregory  of  Tours  described  the  antiquities  of 
Gaul,  in  1754  the  canon  Mazzochi  explained  the  legislative  tables 
of  Heraclea.  Most  of  the  discoveries  which  have  changed  the 
system  of  the  civilized  world  were  made  by  members  of  the 
Church.  For  the  invention  of  gunpowder,  and  perhaps  also  of 
the  telescope,  we  are  indebted  to  Friar  Bacon  ;  others  attribute 
it  to  the  German  monk  Berthold  Schwartz ;  bomb-shells  were 
invented  by  Galen,  Bishop  of  Minister;  the  mariner's  compass 
was  invented  by  a  deacon,  Flavio  de  Gioia,  a  Neapolitan ;  spec 
tacles  by  Despina,  a  monk;  and  clockwork  either  by  Pacifico, 
Archdeacon  of  Verona,  or  Pope  Sylvester  II.  How  many  scholars, 
a  great  number  of  whom  we  have  already  named  in  the  course  of 
this  work,  have  shed  lustre  on  the  cloister  or  added  dignity  to 
eminent  stations  in  the  Church  !  how  many  celebrated  writers ! 
how  many  distinguished  literary  characters  !  how  many  illustrious 
travellers  !  how  many  mathematicians,  naturalists,  chemists,  astro 
nomers,  antiquaries  !  how  many  famous  preachers !  how  many 
renowned  statesmen  !  In  mentioning  the  names  of  Suger,  Xi- 
menes,  Alberoni,  Richelieu,  Mazarin,  Fleury,  do  we  not  comme 
morate  at  once  the  greatest  ministers  and  the  most  important 
events  of  modern  Europe? 

At  the  very  moment  (1800)  that  we  are  drawing  this  hasty 
sketch  of  the  benefits  conferred  by  the  Church,  Italy,  in  mourn 
ing,  is  exhibiting  an  affecting  testimonial  of  love  and  gratitude  to 
Pius  VI.  The  capital  of  the  Christian  world  is  expecting  the 
remains  of  the  unfortunate  pontiff  who,  by  works  worthy  of  an 
Augustus  or  a  Marcus  Aurelius,  drained  pestilential  morasses, 
discovered  the  road  of  the  consuls,  and  repaired  the  aqueducts  of 
the  first  monarchs  of  Rome.2  As  a  last  instance  of  that  love  of 


1  Barthelemi,   Voyage  en  Italic. 

2  This  aged  and  venerable  pontiff  was  unfortunate  indeed;  insulted  by  the 

64*  2  Q 


642  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

the  arts  so  natural  to  the  heads  of  the  Church,  be  it  observed 
that  Pius  VII.,  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  restoring  peace  to  the 
faithful,  still  finds  means,  amid  his  noble  indigence,  to  replace 
with  new  statues  those  master-pieces  which  Rome,  the  patroness 
of  the  fine  arts,  has  yielded  to  the  heir  of  Athens. 

After  all,  the  progress  of  letters  was  inseparable  from  the  pro 
gress  of  religion,  since  it  was  in  the  language  of  Homer  and 
Virgil  that  the  fathers  explained  the  principles  of  the  faith.  The 
blood  of  martyrs,  which  was  the  seed  of  Christians,  likewise 
caused  the  laurel  of  the  orator  and  the  poet  to  flourish. 

Christian  Rome  has  been  to  the  modern  what  pagan  Rome 
was  to  the  ancient  world, — the  common  centre  of  union.  This 
capital  of  nations  fulfils  all  the  conditions  of  its  destiny,  and 
seems  in  reality  to  be  the  eternal  city.  There  may,  perhaps, 
come  a  time  when  it  will  be  universally  admitted  that  the  ponti 
fical  power  is  a  magnificent  institution.  The  spiritual  father, 
placed  amid  the  nations,  binds  together  all  the  different  parts  of 
Christendom.  What  a  venerable  character  is  a  pope  truly  ani 
mated  with  the  apostolic  spirit !  The  general  shepherd  of  the 
flock,  he  either  keeps  it  within  the  bounds  of  duty  or  defends  it 
against  oppression.  His  dominions,  sufficiently  extensive  to 
make  him  independent,  too  small  to  give  room  for  any  apprehen 
sion  from  his  political  rank,  leave  him  the  power  of  opinion  alone; 
— an  admirable  power,  when  it  embraces  in  its  empire  no  other 
works  than  those  of  peace,  charity  and  beneficence. 

The  transient  mischief  which  some  bad  popes  occasioned  disap 
peared  with  them  j  but  we  still  daily  feel  the  influence  of  the 
immense  and  inestimable  benefits  for  which  the  whole  world  is 
indebted  to  the  court  of  Rome.  That  court  has  almost  always 
proved  itself  superior  to  the  age.  It  had  ideas  of  legislation 
and  civil  administration,  was  acquainted  with  the  fine  arts  and 
the  sciences,  and  possessed  refinement,  when  all  around  was  in 
volved  in  the  darkness  of  the  Gothic  institutions.  Nor  did  it 
keep  the  light  exclusively  to  itself,  but  shed  it  abroad  upon  all. 
It  broke  down  the  barriers  which  prejudice  erects  between  nations; 

infidel  French  General  Duphot,  who  placed  a  national  cockade  upon  his  head 
while  performing  the  most  solemn  acts  of  devotion  in  his  own  chapel.  Driven 
from  Home,  and  deserted  by  the  Italian  princes  who  ought  to  have  protected 
him,  he  died  a  martyr  to  persecution.  S. 


MODERN   DISCOVERIES.  648 

it  studied  to  soften  our  manners,  to  withdraw  us  from  our  igno 
rance,  to  wean  us  from  our  rude  or  ferocious  customs.  In  the 
time  of  our  ancestors  the  popes  were  missionaries  of  the  arts  sent 
among  barbarians,  legislators  among  savages.  "  Only  the  reign 
of  Charlemagne,"  says  Voltaire,  "had  a  tincture  of  politeness, 
which  was  probably  the  consequence  of  his  visit  to  Rome." 

It  is,  therefore,  generally  admitted  that  to  the  Holy  See 
Europe  owes  her  civilization,  part  of  her  best  laws,  and  almost 
all  her  arts  and  sciences.  The  sovereign  pontiffs  are  now  about 
to  seek  other  means  of  being  useful  to  mankind;  a  new  career 
awaits  them,  and  we  have  a  presentiment  that  they  will  pursue 
it  with  glory.  Home  has  returned  to  that  evangelical  poverty 
which  constituted  all  her  wealth  in  days  of  yore.  By  a  remark 
able  similarity,  there  are  now  Gentiles  to  be  converted,  nations 
to  be  restored  to  harmony,  animosities  to  be  extinguished,  tears 
to  be  wiped  away,  and  wounds  which  require  all  the  balm  of 
religion  to  be  healed.  If  Rome  is  thoroughly  sensible  of  her 
situation,  never  had  she  before  her  greater  hopes  and  more  brilliant 
destinies.  We  say  hfjpes,  for  we  reckon  tribulations  among  the 
objects  desired  by  the  Church  of  Christ.  The  degenerate  world 
requires  a  second  preaching  of  the  gospel ;  Christianity,  in  renewed 
vigor,  is  rising  victorious  over  the  most  tremendous  assault  that 
the  infernal  powers  ever  made  upon  her.  Who  knows  if  what 
we  have  taken  for  the  fall  of  the  Church  be  not  her  re-esta 
blishment?  She  was  declining  in  the  enjoyment  of  luxury  and 
repose ;  she  forgot  the  cross :  the  cross  has  again  appeared,  and 
she  will  be  saved.1 

1  Long-continued  prosperity  haa  often  led  to  a  relaxation  of  morals  and  ot 
ecclesiastical  discipline ;  but  the  faith  of  the  Church  ever  remains  in  its  purity 
and  integrity,  guarded  against  all  the  contingencies  of  the  world  by  the  pro 
mises  of  Christ.  This  faith  is  revived  in  times  of  suffering  and  persecution, 
which  direct  the  Christian's  attention  more  forcibly  to  his  eternal  welfare  and 
to  that  divine  truth  on  which  it  depends.  But  the  enemies  of  the  Church, 
disregarding  these  facts,  imagine  that  the  efforts  of  human  power  against  her 
must  necessarily  effect  her  ruin,  while  these  efforts,  on  the  contrary,  are  the 
very  means  employed  by  the  providence  of  God  to  exalt  her  before  the  world, 
and  to  exhibit  her  supernatural  character  and  divine  commission  by  signal  and 
perpetual  triumphs  over  the  passions  of  men.  This  has  always  been  the  case ; 
but  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  truth  was  recently  witnessed  when  Pius  IX. 
was  driven  from  Rome  and  an  impious  rabble  held  dominion  in  the  holy  city. 
The  enemies  of  Catholicity  predicted  with  the  utmost  confidence  that  poperj 


644  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AGRICULTURE. 

T;  the  clergy,  secular  and  regular,  we  are  indebted  for  agri 
culture,  as  well  as  for  our  colleges  and  hospitals.  The  tillage  of 
uncultivated  lands,  the  construction  of  roads,  the  enlargement 
of  towns  and  villages,  the  institution  of  post-houses  and  inns, 
arts,  trades,  and  manufactures,  commerce  internal  and  external, 
laws,  civil  and  political, — in  a  word,  every  thing,  we  originally 
received  from  the  Church.  Our  ancestors  were  barbarians, 
whom  Christianity  was  obliged  to  teach  even  the  art  of  raising 
the  necessaries  of  life. 

Almost  all  the  grants  made  to  the  monasteries  in  the  early 
ages  of  the  Church,  consisted  of  wastes  which  the  monks  brought 
into  cultivation  with  their  own  hands.  Trackless  forests,  im 
passable  morasses,  extensive  heaths,  were  the  sources  of  that 
wealth  with  which  we  have  so  vehemently  reproached  the  clergy. 

While  the  monks  of  Premontre"  were  tilling  the  deserts  of 
Poland  and  part  of  the  forest  of  Coucy  in  France,  the  Benedic 
tines  were  giving  fertility  to  our  moors.  Molesrne,  Colan,  and 
Citeaux,  now  covered  with  vineyards  and  corn-fields,  were  then 
wastes  overrun  with  briers  and  thorns;  where  the  first  monks 
dwelt  in  cabins  made  of  boughs,  like  the  American  settlers,  in  the 
midst  of  their  improvements. 

St.  Bernard  and  his  disciples  cultivated  the  sterile  valleys 
granted  them  by  Thibaud,  Count  of  Champagne.  Fontevrault 
was  a  real  colony,  established  by  Robert  d'Arbissel  in  a  wilder 
ness  on  the  confines  of  Anjou  and  Brittany.  Whole  families 
sought  an  asylum  under  the  direction  of  these  Benedictines,  in 

was  at  an  end.  The  milk-white  hind,  however,  is  more  vigorous  than  ever. 
When  the  adversaries  of  the  Catholic  Church  venture  to  form  an  opinion  as  to 
the  effect  of  persecution  upon  her  vitality,  they  should  remember  the  words 
of  our  author :— "  Who  knows  if  what  we  have  taken  for  the  fall  of  the  Church 
be  not  her  re-establishment?"  T. 


AGRICULTURE.  645 

whose  vicinity  were  formed  communities  of  widows,  unmarried 
women,  laymen,  infirm  persons,  and  aged  soldiers.  All  became 
husbandmen,  after  the  example  of  the  fathers,  who  themselves 
felled  trees,  guided  the  plough,  sowed  the  grain,  and  crowned 
that  portion  of  France  with  flourishing  crops  which  it  had  never 
borne  before. 

The  colony  was  soon  obliged  to  send  away  a  portion  of  its 
members,  and  to  give  up  to  other  deserts  the  surplus  of  its  la 
borious  hands.  Raoul  de  la  Futaye,  a  companion  of  Robert, 
settled  in  the  forest  of  Nid  du  Merle,  and  Vital,  another  Bene- 
iictine,  in  the  woods  of  Savigny.  The  forest  of  L'Orges,  in  the 
diocese  of  Angers;  Chaufournois,  now  Chantenois,  in  Touraine; 
Bellay,  in  the  same  province;  La  Puie,  in  Poitou;  L'Encloitre, 
in  the  forest  of  Gironde;  Gaisne,  a  few  miles  from  Loudon; 
Lu£on,  in  the  wood  of  the  same  name ;  La  Lande,  on  the  heaths 
of  Garnache;  La  Magdeleine,  on  the  Loire;  Boubon,  in  Limou 
sin;  Cadouin,  in  Perigord;  lastly,  Haute  Bruyere,  near  Paris, 
were  so  many  colonies  from  Fontevrault,  and  from  uncultivated 
tracts  were  transformed  into  productive  fields. 

We  should  tire  the  reader  were  we  to  attempt  to  enumerate 
all  the  furrows  made  by  the  ploughs  of  the  Benedictines  in  the 
wilds  of  Gaul.  Maurecourt,  Longpre*,  Fontaine,  Le  Charme, 
Colinance,  Foici,  Bellomer,  Cousanie,  Sauvement,  Les  Epines, 
Eube,  Vanassel,  Pons,  Charles,  Vairville,  and  a  hundred  other 
places  in  Brittany,  Anjou,  Berry,  Auvergne,  Gascony,  Langue- 
doc,  and  Guyenne,  attest  their  immense  labors.  St.  Columban 
converted  the  desert  of  Vauge  into  a  garden;  and  even  Benedic 
tine  nuns,  after  the  example  of  the  fathers  of  their  order,  devoted 
themselves  to  the  cultivation  of  the  soil.  Those  of  Montreuil- 
les-Dames  " employed  themselves,"  says  Hermant,  "in  sewing, 
spinning,  and  clearing  the  forest,  in  imitation  of  Laon  and  all 
the  monks  of  Clairvaux."1 

In  Spain,  the  Benedictines  displayed  the  same  activity.  They 
purchased  waste  lands  on  the  bank  of  the  Tagus,  near  Toledo 
and  there  founded  the  convent  of  Venghalia,  after  they  had 
planted  the  whole  surrounding  country  with  vines  and  orange- 
trees. 


1  De  3/trac.,  lib.  iii.  chap.  17. 


646  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Monte  Cassino,  in  Italy,  was  an  absolute  wilderness  When 
St.  Benedict  retired  thither,  the  face  of  the  country  was  soon 
changed,  and  in  a  short  time  the  new  abbey  became  so  opulent, 
by  its  attention  to  agriculture,  that  it  was  enabled  to  defend 
itself,  in  1037,  against  the  Normans,  who  made  war  upon  it. 

St.  Boniface  and  the  monks  of  his  order  were  the  first  far 
mers  in  the  four  bishoprics  of  Bavaria.  The  Benedictines  of 
Fulda  brought  into  cultivation  a  tract  of  land  between  Hesse, 
Franconia,  and  Thuringia,  eight  thousand  geometrical  paces  in 
diameter, — that  is,  twenty-four  thousand  paces,  or  near  fifty  miles, 
in  circumference  j  and  they  soon  reckoned  eighteen  thousand 
farms  in  Bavaria  and  Suabia.  The  monks  of  St.  Benedict  of 
Polironna,  near  Mantua,  employed  more  than  three  thousand  pair 
of  oxen  in  husbandry. 

It  should  be  remarked  that  the  almost  general  rule  which  for 
bade  the  use  of  meat  to  the  monastic  orders  doubtless  proceeded, 
in  the  first  place,  from  a  principle  of  rural  economy.1  The  reli 
gious  societies  being  then  very  numerous,  the  voluntary  absti 
nence  of  so  many  persons  from  animal  food  could  not  but  be  ex 
tremely  favorable  to  the  propagation  of  cattle.  Thus  our  fields, 
now  so  flourishing,  are  partly  indebted  for  their  harvest  and  their 
flocks  to  the  industry  and  frugality  of  the  monks. 

Moreover,  example,  which  is  frequently  of  so  little  avail  in 
morality,  because  the  passions  destroy  the  good  effects  of  it,  has 
a  powerful  influence  over  the  material  part  of  life.  The  sight  of 
several  thousands  of  monks  cultivating  the  earth  gradually 
undermined  those  barbarous  prejudices  which  looked  with  con 
tempt  upon  the  art  of  agriculture.  The  peasant  learned  in  the 
convent  to  turn  up  the  glebe  and  to  fertilize  the  soil.  The  baron 
began  to  seek  in  his  fields  treasures  less  precarious  than  what  he 
procured  by  arms.  The  monks,  therefore,  were  in  reality  the 

1  The  author  has  not  displayed  in  this  sentence  his  usual  accuracy.  The 
object  of  the  monastic  institute  was  the  observance  of  the  evangelical  counsels, 
among  which  is  bodily  mortification.  It  is  therefore  but  natural  to  suppose, 
even  if  the  rules  of  the  monastic  orders  did  not  establish  the  fact,  that  the 
members  of  those  bodies  abstained  from  flesh-meat  with  a  view  chiefly,  if  not 
altogether,  to  deny  the  sensual  appetite.  The  mortification  of  the  passions 
was  the  principal  end  at  which  they  aimed,  and  hence  we  must  infer  that  their 
self-denial  did  not  proceed  from  a  principle  of  rural  economy,  but  that  rural 
economy  was  a  consequence  of  their  self-denial.  T. 


TOWNS,  VILLAGES,  ETC.  647 

founders  of  agriculture,  both  as  husbandmen  themselves,  and  aa 
the  first  instructors  of  our  husbandmen. 

Even  in  our  own  days  this  useful  spirit  had  not  forsaken  them. 
The  best-cultivated  fields,  the  richest  peasants,  and  those  the  best 
fed  and  the  least  annoyed,  the  finest  teams,  the  fattest  flocks,  and 
the  best-regulated  farms,  were  found  on  the  possessions  of  the 
abbeys.  This,  in  our  opinion,  could  not  be  a  just  subject  of 
reproach  to  the  clergy. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

TOWNS   AND   VILLAGES,  BRIDGES,  HIGH-ROADS,  ETC. 

BUT,  if  the  clergy  brought  the  wilds  of  Europe  under  culti 
vation,  it  was  they,  too,  that  multiplied  our  hamlets  and  enlarged 
and  embellished  our  towns.  Different  quarters  of  Paris — for  in 
stance,  those  of  St.  Genevieve  and  St.  Germain  1' Auxerrois — were 
partly  built  at  the  expense  of  the  abbeys  after  which  they  were 
named.1  In  general,  wherever  a  monastery  was  founded  there 
also  arose  a  village.  Chaise-Dieur  Abbeville,  and  many  other 
places,  still  indicate  their  origin  by  their  name.9  The  town  of 
St.  Saviour,  at  the  foot  of  Monte  Cassino  in  Italy,  and  the  sur 
rounding  villages,  are  the  work  of  the  monks  of  St.  Benedict. 
Fulda  and  Mentz  also  originated  with  monastic  establishments ; 
and  in  all  the  ecclesiastical  districts  of  Germany,  as  in  Prussia, 
Poland,  Switzerland,  Spain,  and  England,  a  great  number  of 
towns  and  cities  were  founded  by  the  monastic  or  military  orders. 
The  places  which  first  emerged  from  barbarism  were  those  that 
were  subject  to  ecclesias^al  princes.  Europe  owes  half  of  its 
monuments  and  useful  foundations  to  the  munificence  of  cardi 
nals,  abbots,  and  bishops. 

But  it  will  perhaps  be  said  that  these  works  attest  only  the 

1  Hitt.  de  la  ville  de  Parit. 

*  With  respect  to  Great  Britain,  it  may  be  observed  that  the  words  God,  Christ, 
Croat,  Bishop,  Abbot,  Monk,  Church,  Kirk,  Ac.  enter  into  the  composition  of 
the  names  of  many  places,  and  confirm  the  justness  of  our  author's  remark.  8 


648  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

immense  wealth  of  the  Church.  We  all  know  how  universal  is 
the  inclination  to  depreciate  services;  man  is  averse  to  gratitude. 
The  clergy  found  the  soil  uncultivated;  they  covered  it  with 
luxuriant  harvests.  Having  acquired  opulence  by  their  industry, 
they  expended  their  revenues  in  the  erection  of  public  buildings. 
If  you  reproach  them  with  wealth  so  honorable  both  in  its  appli 
cation  and  its  source,  you  accuse  them  of  no  other  crime  than 
that  of  having  conferred  a  twofold  benefit.1 

All  Europe  was  without  either  roads  or  inns ;  her  woods  were 
infested  by  robbers  and  assassins;  her  laws  were  impotent,  or 
rather,  there  were  no  laws ;  religion  alone,  like  a  massive  column 
rising  from  the  midst  of  Gothic  ruins,  afforded  shelter  and  a 
point  of  communication  to  mankind. 

France,  under  the  second  race  of  her  kings,  having  fallen  into 
the  most  deplorable  anarchy,  travellers  were  detained,  plundered, 
and  murdered,  chiefly  at  the  passages  of  rivers.  A  number  of 
bold  and  skilful  monks  undertook  to  put  a  stop  to  these  enormi 
ties.  They  formed  themselves  into  a  company  by  the  appellation 
of  Hospitallers  Pontifes,  or  bridge-builders.2  They  bound  them 
selves  by  their  institute  to  assist  travellers,  to  repair  the  public 
roads,  to  construct  bridges,  and  to  entertain  strangers  in  the 
houses  which  they  erected  on  the  banks  of  the  rivers.  They 
first  settled  on  the  Durance,  at  a  dangerous  place  called  Maupas 
or  Mauvais-pas,  (bad  passage,')  but,  thanks  to  these  generous 
monks,  it  soon  acquired  the  name  of  Bon-pas,  (good  passage,) 
which  it  still  retains.  It  was  this  order  that  built  the  bridge 
over  the  Rhone  at  Avignon.  Everybody  knows  that  the  post- 
houses  and  the  system  of  posts  in  general,  improved  by  Louis 
XI.,  were  originally  established  by  the  University  of  Paris. 

On  a  rugged  and  lofty  mountain  of  Rouergue,  covered  with 
snow  and  fogs  during  eight  months  of  the  year,  is  seen  a  monas 
tery  erected  about  the  year  1120  by*Alard,  Viscount  of  Flan- 

1  Maitland,  in  his  work  on  the  Dark  Ages,  p.  394,  thus  speaks  of  the  monks  : — 
.  .  .   .  "  The  extraordinary  benefit  which  they  conferred  on  mankind  by  this 
clearing  and  cultivating,  was  small  in  comparison  with  the  advantages  derived 
from  them  by  society  after  they  had  become  large  proprietors — landlords  with 
more  benevolence,  and  farmers  with  more  intelligence,  and  capital,  than  any  others." 
Such  is  the  testimony  of  a  Protestant  clergyman  in  regard  to  the  influence  of 
the  monastic  wealth.     T. 

2  In  the  twelfth  century.     T. 


TOWNS,  VILLAGES,  ETC.  649 

ders.  That  nobleman,  returning  from  a  pilgrimage,  was  attacked 
on  this  spot  by  rubbers;  he  made  a  vow,  if  he  escaped  from  their 
hands,  to  found  a  hotel  for  travellers  in  this  desert  and  to 
drive  the  banditti  from  the  mountain.  He  fulfilled  his  engage 
ments;  and  the  house  of  Albrac  or  Aubrac  rose  in  loco  horroris 
et  vastae  sotitudinis,1  as  it  is  expressed  in  the  charter  of  founda 
tion.  Here  Alard  stationed  priests  for  the  service  of  the  Church, 
knights  Hospitallers  to  escort  travellers,  and  ladies  of  quality  to 
wash  the  feet  of  pilgrims,  to  make  their  beds,  and  to  take  care 
of  their  garments. 

In  the  ages  of  barbarism,  pilgrimages  were  of  great  utility; 
that  religious  principle  which  drew  all  ranks  of  people  from  their 
homes  powerfully  contributed  to  the  progress  of  civilization  and 
letters.  In  1600,  the  year  of  the  great  jubilee,  not  less  than 
four  hundred  and  forty  thousand  five  hundred  strangers  were 
received  into  the  Hospital  of  St.  Philip  Neri  at  Home;  each  of 
them  was  boarded,  lodged,  and  wholly  maintained,  for  three  days. 

There  was  not  a  pilgrim  that  returned  to  his  native  village 
but  left  behind  him  some  prejudice  and  brought  back  some  new 
idea.  One  age  has  always  something  to  balance  against  another; 
at  present,  perhaps,  persons  belonging  to  the  higher  classes  of 
society  travel  more  than  they  formerly  did;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  peasant  is  more  stationary.  War  summoned  him  to 
the  banner  of  his  lord,  and  religion  into  distant  countries.  If 
we  could  recall  to  life  one  of  those  ancient  vassals  whom  we  are 
accustomed  to  represent  to  ourselves  as  stupid  slaves,  we  should, 
perhaps,  be  surprised  to  find  him  possessed  of  more  intelligence 
and  information  than  the  free  rustic  of  the  present  day. 

Previously  to  his  departure  for  foreign  countries,  the  traveller 
applied  to  his  bishop,  who  gave  him  an  apostolic  letter,  with 
which  he  passed  in  safety  throughout  all  Christendom.  The 
form  of  these  letters  varied  according  to  the  rank  and  profession 
of  the  bearer;  whence  they  were  called  formatae.  Thus  it  was 
the  whole  study  of  religion  to  knit  again  those  social  ties  which 
barbarism  was  incessantly  breaking. 

The  monasteries,  in  general,  were  inns  at  which  stranger* 
found  lodging  and  entertainment  by  the  way.  That  hospihilih 

"Tn  n  place  of  horror  and  a  vast  wilderness." — Deut.  xxxii.  10. 


(5&0  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

which  we  admire  in  the  ancients,  and  traces  of  which  we  still 
meet  with  in  the  East,  flourished  among  the  religious,  many  of 
whom,  by  the  name  of  Hospitallers,  were  especially  devoted  to 
the  exercise  of  that  engaging  virtue.  In  the  washing  of  feet, 
the  blazing  fire,  the  refreshing  repast,  and  the  comfortable  couch, 
hospitality  appeared,  as  in  the  days  of  Abraham,  in  all  its  beauty. 
If  the  traveller  was  poor,  he  was  supplied  with  food,  raiment, 
and  money  sufficient  till  he  should  reach  another  monastery, 
where  he  received  the  same  treatment.  Ladies  mounted  on  their 
palfreys,  knights  in  quest  of  adventure,  kings  bewildered  in  the 
chase,  knocked  at  midnight  at  the  gates  of  ancient  abbeys,  and 
shared  the  hospitality  that  was  given  to  the  obscure  pilgrim. 
Sometimes  two  hostile  knights  met  in  one  of  these  convents  and 
made  merry  together  till  sunrise,  when,  sword  in  hand,  they 
vindicated  the  superiority  of  their  ladies  and  of  their  respective 
countries.  Boucicault,  on  his  return  from  the  Prussian  crusade, 
lodged  in  a  monastery  with  several  English  knights,  and  singly 
maintained,  in  defiance  of  them  all,  that  a  Scotch  knight,  whom 
they  had  attacked  in  the  woods,  had  been  treacherously  put  to 
death. 

In  these  inns  of  religion  it  was  considered  as  doing  great  honor 
to  a  prince,  to  propose  that  he  should  pay  some  attentions  to  the 
poor  who  happened  to  be  there  at  the  same  time.  Cardinal  de 
Bourbon,  having  attended  the  unfortunate  Elizabeth  into  Spain, 
stopped  on  his  return  at  the  hotel  of  Roncevaux,  in  the  Pyre 
nees,  where  he  waited  at  table  upon  three  hundred  pilgrims  and 
gave  each  of  them  three  reals  to  help  them  on  their  journey. 
Poussin  was  one  of  the  last  travellers  that  availed  himself  of  this 
Christian  custom.  He  went  from  monastery  to  monastery  ^  at 
Rome,  painting  altar-pieces  in  return  for  the  hospitality  which 
he  received,  and  thus  renewed  in  his  own  profession  the  adven 
tures  of  Homer.1 

1  There  is  a  place— prob*  My  the  only  one  remaining  in  this  island— that  re 
tains  some  traces  of  this  ar/cient  monastic  bounty;  that  is,  St.  Croix,  com- 
monlj  called  St.  Cross,  near  Winchester.  To  the  traveller  who  knocks  at  toe 
gate  of  this  hospital  and  asks  for  refreshment  the  porter  gives  bread  and  beer 
—a  faint  image  of  what  was  the  hospitality  of  the  convents  abroad.  S. 


ARTS,  MANUFACTURES,  COMMERCE.  651 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ARTS,  MANUFACTURES,  COMMERCE. 

NOTHING  is  more  at  variance  with  historical  truth  than  to 
represent  the  first  monks  as  indolent  people  who  lived  in  afflu 
ence  at  the-  expense  of  human  superstition.  In  the  fir&t  place, 
this  affluence  was  very  far  from  being  real.  The  order,  by  its 
industry,  might  have  acquired  wealth,  but  it  is  certain  that  the 
life  of  the  monks  individually  was  one  of  great  self-denial.  All 
those  delicacies  of  the  convent,  so  exceedingly  exaggerated,  were 
confined,  even  in  our  time,  to  a  narrow  cell,  austere  practices, 
and  the  simplest  diet,  to  say  nothing  more.  In  the  next  place, 
it  is  a  gross  falsehood  that  the  monks  were  but  pious  sluggards ; 
if  their  numerous  hospitals,  their  colleges,  their  libraries,  their 
religious  duties,  and  all  the  other  services  of  which  we  have 
spoken,  had  not  been  sufficient  to  employ  all  their  time,  they 
would  have  found  out  other  ways  of  being  useful.  They  applied 
themselves  to  the  mechanical  arts,  and  extended  the  commerce 
of  Europe,  both  internal  and  external. 

The  congregation  of  the  third  order  of  St.  Francis,  called 
Boris  fieux,  manufactured  cloth  and  lace  at  the  same  time  that 
they  taught  the  children  of  the  poor  to  read  and  took  care  of  the 
sick.  The  company  of  Poor  Brethren,  Shoemakers,  and  Tailors, 
was  instituted  in  the  same  spirit.  In  the  Convent  of  Hierony- 
mites  in  Spain,  several  manufactures  were  carried  on.  Most  of 
the  first  monks  were  masons  as  well  as  husbandmen.  The  Bene 
dictines  built  their  houses  with  their  own  hands,  as  appears  from 
the  history  of  Monte  Cassino,  Fontevrault,  and  several  others. 

With  respect  to  internal  trade,  many  fairs  and  markets  bo- 
longed  to  the  abbeys  and  were  established  by  them.  The  cele 
brated  fair  of  Landyt  h  St.  Denis  owed  its  origin  to  the  University 
of  Paris.  The  nuns  supplied  great  part  of  the  linens  of  Europe; 
the  beor  of  Flanders,  and  most  of  the  finer  wines  of  the  Archi 
pelago,  Hungary,  Italy,  and  Spain,  were  made  by  religious  COD- 


652  GENIUS   OF    CHRISTIANITY. 

gregations.  The  exportation  and  importation  of  corn,  either  for 
foreign  countries  or  for  the  armies,  also  depended  in  part  on  the 
great  ecclesiastical  proprietors.  The  churches  promoted  the  trade 
in  parchment,  wax,  linen,  silks,  jewelry,  marbles,  and  the  manu 
factures  of  wool,  tapestry,  and  gold  and  silver  plate.  They  alone 
in  the  barbarous  ages  afforded  some  employment  to  artists,  whom 
they  brought  for  the  purpose  from  Italy  and  the  remotest  corners 
of  Greece.  The  monks  themselves  cultivated  the  fine  arts,  arid 
were  the  painters,  sculptors,  and  architects  of  the  Gothic  age. 
If  their  works  now  appear  rude  to  us,  let  us  not  forget  that  they 
form  the  connecting  link  between  ancient  and  modern  times,  that 
but  for  them  the  chain  of  letters  and  the  arts  would  have  been 
irreparably  broken ;  and  let  not  the  refinement  of  our  taste  in 
volve  us  in  the  guilt  of  ingratitude. 

"With  the  exception  of  that  small  portion  of  the  North  compre 
hended  in  the  line  of  the  Hanseatic  towns,  all  foreign  commerce 
was  formerly  carried  on  by  the  Mediterranean.  The  Greeks 
and  Arabs  brought  us  the  commodities  of  the  East,  which  they 
shipped  at  Alexandria ;  but  the  Crusades  transferred  this  source 
of  wealth  into  the  hands  of  the  Franks.  "  The  conquests  of  the 
Crusaders,"  says  Fleury,  "  secured  to  them  freedom  of  trade  in 
the  merchandise  of  Greece,  Syria,  and  Egypt,  and  consequently 
in  the  productions  of  the  East,  which  had  not  yet  found  their 
way  to  Europe  by  other  channels."1 

Robertson,  in  his  excellent  work  on  the  commerce  of  the  an 
cients  and  moderns  with  the  East  Indies,  confirms,  by  the  most 
curious  details,  what  Fleury  has  here  advanced.  Genoa,  Venice, 
Pisa,  Florence,  and  Marseilles,  owed  their  opulence  and  their 
power  to  these  enterprises  of  an  extravagant  zeal  which  the 
genuine  spirit  of  Christianity  has  long  condemned.8  It  cannot, 

1  Hist.  Eccles.,  tome  xviii.  p.  20. 

2  Fleury,  loc.  cit.     Our  author  is  here  misled  by  Fleury,  whose  Ecclesiastical 
History,  with  its  discourses,  abounds  with  inaccuracies  of  statement  and  opi 
nion,  which  have  been  exposed  by  Marchetti  and  several  other  critics.     The 
chief  motives  that  prompted  the  Crusades  were  those  of  religion  and  humanity,—  - 
to  check  and  diminish  the  Mohammedan   power  in  the  East  and  afford  the 
Christians  of  that  region  a  sufficient  protection.     It  is  not,  then,  true  that  they 
were  "  enterprises  of  an  extravagant  zeal."     It  is  equally  incorrect  to  assert 
that  they  have  been  condemned  by  "the  genuine  spirit  of  Christianity;"  for 
the  results  of  the  Crl  sadcs  were  to  arrest  the  ambition  and  rapacity  of  th  e 


CIVIL  AND   CRIMINAL   LAWS.  653 


however,  be  denied  that  modern  navigation  and  commerce  sprang 
from  those  celebrated  expeditions.  Whatever  was  good  in  them 
belongs  to  religion,  and  all  the  rest  to  human  passions.  If  the 
Crusaders  were  wrong  in  attempting  to  wrest  Egypt  and  Syria 
from  the  Saracens,  let  us  not  sigh  in  beholding  those  fine  coun 
tries  a  prey  to  the  Turks,  who  seem  to  have  naturalized  pesti 
lence  and  barbarism  in  the  native  land  of  Phidias  and  Euripides. 
What  harm  would  there  be  if  Egypt  had  been  a  colony  of  France 
since  the  days  of  St.  Louis,  and  if  the  descendants  of  French 
knights  were  reigning  at  Constantinople,  Athens,  Damascus,  Tri 
poli,  Carthage,  Tyre,  and  Jerusalem  '! 

Whenever  Christianity  has  proceeded  alone  upon  distant  expe 
ditions,  she  has  afforded  abundant  evidence  that  the  mischiefs 
of  the  Crusades  did  not  proceed  from  her,  but  from  the  inordinate 
passions  of  men.  Our  missionaries  have  opened  to  us  sources  of 
trade,  for  which  they  spilled  no  blood  but  their  own,  and  of  that 
indeed  they  have  been  very  lavish.  We  refer  the  reader  to  what 
we  have  already  said  on  this  subject  in  the  book  which  treats  of 
the  missions. 


CHAPTER   X. 

CIVIL   AND   CRIMINAL    LAWS. 

AN  inquiry  into  the  influence  of  Christianity  upon  laws  and 
governments,  like  that  which  we  have  instituted  in  regard  to 
morals  and  poetry,  would  form  the  subject  of  a  very  interesting 
work.  We  shall  merely  point  out  the  way  and  present  a  few 
results,  in  order  to  complete  the  suni  of  the  benefits  conferred  by 
religion. 

We  have  only  to  open  at  random  the  councils,  the  canon  law, 
the  bulls  and  rescripts  of  the  court  of  Home,  to  be  convinced 
that  our  ancient  laws  (collected  in  the  capitularies  of  Charle- 

Turks,  to  save  European  civilization,  and  secure  the  independence  of  Christian 
states — effects  which  true  Christianity  cannot  but  approve.     See  Universal  His 
tory,  vol.  Iv. ;    Alzog,  Hitt.  de  I'Eylise,  vol.  ii.  pp.  283  and  338  j  Fredet,  Mod, 
Hi»t.,  vol.  i.  p.  80.     T. 
55* 


654  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

niagne,  the  formulas  of  Marculfe,  and  the  ordinances  of  the  kings 
of  France)  borrowed  numberless  regulations  from  the  Church, 
or,  rather,  were  partly  compiled  by  learned  priests  or  assemblies  of 
ecclesiastics. 

From  time  immemorial,  the  bishops  and  metropolitans  enjoyed 
considerable  privileges  in  civil  matters.  To  them  was  committed 
the  promulgation  of  imperial  decrees  relative  to  the  public  tran 
quillity  •  they  were  taken  for  umpires  in  disputes  :  they  were  a 
kind  of  natural  justices  of  the  peace,  that  religion  gave  to  man 
kind.  The  Christian  emperors,  finding  this  custom  established, 
thought  it  so  salutary1  that  they  confirmed  it  by  new  enactments. 
Each  graduate,  from  the  sub-deacon  to  the  sovereign  pontiff,  ex 
ercised  a  certain  jurisdiction,  so  that  the  religious  spirit  operated 
at  a  thousand  points  and  in  a  thousand  ways  upon  the  laws.  But 
was  this  influence  favorable  or  detrimental  to  the  public  welfare? 
In  our  opinion  it  was  favorable. 

In  the  first  place,  in  all  that  is  termed  administration  the  wis 
dom  of  the  clergy  has  been  invariably  acknowledged,  even  by 
writers  the  most  inimical  to  Christianity.2  When  at  country  is  in 
a  state  of  peace,  men  do  not  indulge  in  mischief  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  doing  it.  What  interest  could  a  council  have-in  en 
acting  an  unjust  law  respecting  the  order  of  succession  or  the 
conditions  of  marriage  ?  or  why  would  a  priest,  authorized  to  de 
cide  on  any  point  of  law,  have  prevaricated?  If  it  is  true  that 
education  and  the  principles  imbibed  in  our  youth  influence  our 
character,  ministers  of  the  gospel  must  in  general  have  been  actu 
ated  by  a  spirit  of  mildness  and  impartiality, — at  least  in  those 
things  which  did  not  regard  their  order  or  themselves  individu 
ally.  Moreover,  the  esprit  de  corps,  which  may  be  bad  in  the 
whole,  is  always  good  in  part.  It  is  fair  to  presume  that  a  mem 
ber  of  a  great  religious  society  will  distinguish  himself  in  a  civil 
post  rather  by  his  integrity  than  by  his  misdemeanor,  were  it 
only  for  the  credit  of  his  order  and  the  responsibility  which  that 
order  imposes  upon  him. 

The  councils,  moreover,  were  composed  of  prelates  of  all  coun- 


1  Bus.,  de  Vit.  Const.,  lib.  iv.  cap.  27 ;  Sozom.,  lib.  i.  cap.  9 ;   Cod.  Just.,  lib 
L  tit.  iv.  leg.  7. 

2  See  Voltaire's  Esaai  stir  lea  Mceura. 


CIVIL   AND   CRIMINAL   LAWS.  (555 

tries,  and  therefore  had  the  immense  advantage  of  being  in  a 
manner  strangers  to  the  people  for  whom  they  enacted  laws. 
Those  antipathies,  those  predilections,  those  feudatory  prejudices 
which  usually  accompany  the  legislator,  were  unknown  to  the 
fathers  assembled  in  council.  A  French  bishop  had  a  sufficient 
knowledge  of  his  own  country  to  oppose  a  canon  at  variance  with 
its  customs;  but  he  had  not  authority  enough  over  the  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  English  prelates,  to  make  them  adopt  an  unjust 
regulation  :  he  enjoyed  the  liberty  of  doing  good,  but  his  situa 
tion  restrained  him  from  mischief.  Machiavel,  if  we  recollect 
right,  proposes  that  tne  constitution  of  a  state  should  be  modelled 
by  a  foreigner;  but  this  foreigner  might  be  seduced  by  interest, 
or  be  ignorant  of  the  genius  of  the  nation  whose  government  he 
is  to  fix.  From  these  two  great  inconveniences  the  council  was 
exempt,  since  it  was  above  the  influence  of  bribery  by  its  wealth, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  acquainted  with  the  particular  character  of 
nations  by  the  different  members  of  whom  it  was  composed. 

As  the  Church  invariably  based  her  legislation  upon  moral 
principles  in  preference  to  political  considerations,  (as  we  see  in 
the  case  of  rape,  divorce,  or  adultery,)  her  ordinances  must  na 
turally  have  had  a  character  of  rectitude  and  universality.  Ac 
cordingly,  most  of  the  canons  are  not  relative  to  this  or  that 
country;  they  embrace  all  Christendom.  Charity,  the  forgive 
ness  of  injuries,  constituting  the  essence  of  Christianity,  and  being 
particularly  required  in  the  priesthood,  the  influence  of  this  sacred 
character  on  morals  must  partake  of  those  virtues.  History  is 
incessantly  exhibiting  to  us  the  priest  praying  for  the  unfortunate, 
imploring  mercy  for  the  guilty,  and  interceding  for  the  innocent. 
The  right  of  sanctuary  in  churches,  liable  as  it  was  to  abuse,  is 
nevertheless  a  strong  proof  of  the  forbearance  which  the  spirit  of 
religion  introduced  into  criminal  jurisprudence.  It  was  this 
evangelical  conipassfcm  that  animated  the  Dominicans  when  they 
denounced  with  so  much  energy  the  cruelties  of  the  Spaniards  in 
the  New  World.  In  short,  as  our  civil  code  was  framed  in  a 
barbarous  age,  and  the  priest  was  then  the  only  individual  who 
possessed  any  learning,  he  could  not  fail  to  exert  a  happy  influence 
uron  the  laws  and  impart  a  knowledge  which  was  wanting  in 
those  around  him. 

We  have  a  beautiful  illustration  of  that  spirit  of  justice  which 


656  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Christianity  tended  to  introduce  into  our  tribunals.  St.  Ambrose 
observes  that,  if  the  bishops  are  obliged  by  their  character  to  im 
plore  the  clemency  of  the  magistrate  in  criminal  matters,  they 
ought  never  to  interfere  in  civil  causes,  which  are  not  submitted 
to  their  own  cognizance.  "  For/'  says  he,  "  you  cannot  solicit 
for  one  of  the  parties  without  injuring  the  other,  and  perhaps 
incurring  the  guilt  of  a  great  injustice/'1  Admirable  spirit  of 
religion  ! 

The  moderation  of  St.  Chrysostorn  is  not  less  remarkable. 
"  God,"  says  this  great  saint,  "  has  permitted  a  man  to  put  away 
his  wife  for  adultery,  but  not  for  idolatry?'*  According  to  the 
Roman  law,  persons  noted  with  infamy  could  not  act  as  judges.3 
St.  Ambrose  and  St.  Gregory  improve  upon  this  excellent  law;  for 
they  would  not  have  those  who  have  committed  great  faults  to 
retain  the  situation  of  judges,  lest  they  should  condemn  them 
selves  in  condemning  others.4 

In  criminal  matters  the  prelate  kept  aloof,  because  religion 
abhors  blood.  St.  Augustin,  by  his  entreaties,  obtained  the  life 
of  the  Circumcelliones,  convicted  of  the  assassination  of  Catholic 
priests.5  The  Council  of  Sardis  even  made  a  law  enjoining 
bishops  to  interpose  their  mediation  in  sentences  of  exile  and 
banishment.6  Thus  the  unfortunate  culprit  owed  not  only  his 
life  to  this  Christian  charity,  but,  what  is  of  still  greater  value, 
the  privilege  of  breathing  his  native  air. 

The  following  regulations  of  our  criminal  jurisprudence  are 
extracted  from  the  canon  law : — 1.  You  must  not  condemn  an 
absent  person  who  may  possess  lawful  means  of  vindicating  him 
self.  2.  The  accuser  and  the  judge  cannot  be  admitted  as  wit- 


1  Ambros.,  de  Offic.,  lib.  iii.  cap.  3.  2  In  Cap.  Isai.  Hi. 

3  Infamy,  in  the  civil  law,  is  that  total  loss  of  character  or  public  disgrace 
which  a  convict  incurs,  and  by  which  a  person  is  revered  incapable  of  being 
a  witness  or  juror.     T. 

4  Hericourt,  Lois  EccL,  p.  760,  Quest.  8. 

5  The  Circumcelliones  were  a  band  of  fanatics,  in  the  fourth  century,  belong 
ing  to  the  heretical  sect   of  Donatists,  and  were  so  called  from  their  roving 
about  in  towns  and  villages  under  pretence  of  redressing  injuries,  but  in  real 
ity  perpetrating  innumerable  outrages,  among  which  was  that  of  setting  slaves 
free  without  the  permission  of  their  masters.     In  this  last  respect  they  have 
many  imitators  in  our  times.     T. 

6  Cone.  Sard.,  can.  17. 


CIVIL  AND   CRIMINAL   LAWS.  657 


nesses.  3.  Great  criminals  cannot  be  accusers.1  4.  Let  the 
dignity  of  a  person  be  ever  so  exalted,  his  single  deposition  can 
not  suffice  for  the  condemnation  of  the  accused."8 

The  reader  is  referred  to  Hericourt  for  the  remainder  of  these 
laws,  which  confirm  our  assertion  that  we  are  indebted  to  the 
canon  hiw  for  the  best  regulations  of  our  civil  and  criminal  code. 
The  canon  law  is  in  general  much  milder  than  the  civil  law,  and 
we  have  in  several  points  rejected  its  Christian  spirit :  for  in 
stance,  the  seventh  council  of  Carthage  decides  that  when  there 
are  several  counts  in  an  indictment,  if  the  accuser  fail  to  prove 
the  first  count,  he  shall  not  be  allowed  to  produce  evidence  in 
regard  to  the  others ;  but  among  us  a  different  custom  prevails. 

This  great  indebtedness  of  our  civil  system  to  the  regulations 
of  Christianity  is  a  point  of  considerable  importance,  which, 
however,  has  attracted  very  little  notice,  although  it  is  well 
worthy  of  observation.3 

Finally,  the  manorial  jurisdictions  in  the  feudal  times  were 
necessarily  less  oppressive  to  the  dependents  of  abbeys  and  pre 
lacies  than  to  the  vassals  of  a  count  or  baron.  The  ecclesiastical 
lord  was  bound  to  have  certain  virtues  which  the  warrior  did  not 
think  himself  obliged  to  practise.  The  abbots  soon  discontinued 
following  the  army,  and  their  dependants  became  peaceful  hus 
bandmen.  St.  Benedict  of  Aniane,  the  reformer  of  the  Bene 
dictines  in  France,  accepted  the  lands  that  were  offered  to  him, 
but  not  the  ser/s,  whom  he  immediately  set  at  liberty.4  This  ex 
ample  of  generosity  in  the  middle  of  the  tenth  century  is  very 
striking,  and  it  was  a  monk  that  displayed  it. 

1  This  admirable  canon  was  not  adhered  to  in  our  laws. 

9  Hericourt,  loc.  cit.  et  teq. 

*  Montesquieu  and  Robertson  have  bestowed  a  few  words  upon  it 

«  Helyot 

2R 


658  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


CHAPTER  XL 

POLITICS   AND    GOVERNMENT. 

THE  custom  which  assigned  to  the  clergy  the  first  place  in  the 
assemblies  of  modern  nations,  was  the  offspring  of  that  great  reli 
gious  principle  which  all  antiquity  considered  as  the  foundation 
of  political  existence.  "I  know  not,"  says  Cicero,  " whether  the 
destruction  of  piety  toward  the  gods  would  not  be  the  destruction, 
also,  of  good  faith,  of  human  society,  and  of  the  most  excellent 
of  virtues,  justice."  Hand  scio  an  pietate  adversus  deos  snblata, 
fides,  etiam,  et  societas  Jiumani  generis,  et  una  excellentissima 
virtus,  justitia,  tollatur.1 

Since  religion  was  considered,  down  to  our  own  days,  as  the 
basis  of  civil  society,  let  us  not  deem  it  a  crime  in  our  ancestors 
to  have  thought  like  Plato,  Aristotle,  Cicero,  and  Plutarch,  and 
to  have  placed  the  altar  and  its  ministers  in  the  highest  position 
of  social  life. 

But,  though  no  one  may  dispute  the  influence  of  the  Church 
on  the  body  politic,  yet  it  may  perhaps  be  alleged  that  this  influ 
ence  has  been  injurious  to  liberty  and  the  public  weal.  We  shall 
make  but  one  reflection  on  this  vast  and  profound  subject.  Let 
us  go  back  for  a  moment  to  general  principles,  which  must  always 
be  the  starting-point  in  endeavoring  to  reach  any  particular  truth. 

Nature  seems  to  have  but  one  mode  of  creating,  both  in  the 
moral  and  in  the  physical  order.  To  be  productive,  she  blends 
strength  with  mildness.  Her  energy  appears  to  reside  in  the  gene 
ral  law  of  contrasts.  If  she  were  to  join  violence  to  violence,  or 
weakness  to  weakness,  instead  of  producing  any  positive  result 
she  would  only  destroy  by  excess  or  by  defect.  All  the  legisla 
tions  of  antiquity  exhibit  this  system  of  opposition  which  gives 
birth  to  the  body  politic. 

This  truth  once  admitted,  we  must  look  for  the  points  of  oppo 
sition.  The  two  principal,  in  our  opinion,  consist,  the  one  in  the 

1  DC  Nat.  Deor.,  i.  2. 


POLITICS   AND   GOVERNMENT.  659 

manners  of  the  people,  the  other  in  the  institutions  that  are  tc 
be  given  to  this  people.  If  they  are  of  a  weak  and  timid  character, 
.et  their  constitution  be  energetic  and  vigorous ;  if  bold,  impetu 
ous,  and  inconstant,  let  their  government  be  mild,  moderate,  ir 
variable.  Thus,  theocracy  was  not  adapted  to  the  Egyptians.  It 
enslaved  them  without  imparting  the  virtues  which  they  needed. 
They  were  a  pacific  nation,  and  consequently  required  military 
institutions. 

The  sacerdotal  influence,  on  the  contrary,  produced  admirable 
effects  at  Rome.  That  queen  of  the  world  owed  her  greatness  to 
Numa,  who  understood  the  necessity  of  giving  religion  the  first 
rank  among  a  nation  of  soldiers.  He  who  has  no  fear  of  men 
ought  to  fear  the  gods. 

The  observation  which  we  have  just  made  respecting  the  Ro 
mans  is  equally  applicable  to  the  French.  They  need  no  excite 
ment,  but  restraint.  People  talk  of  the  danger  of  theocracy;  but 
in  what  warlike  nation  did  a  priest  ever  lead  men  into  slavery? 

We  must  therefore  bear  in  mind  this  grand  general  principle, 
and  not  confine  ourselves  to  certain  particular  local  and  accidental 
circumstances,  if  we  wish  rightly  to  estimate  the  influence  of  the 
clergy  upon  our  old  constitution.  All  the  outcries  against  the 
wealth  of  the  Church  and  against  its  ambition  result  from  nar 
row  views  of  an  immense  subject.  Those  who  raise  them  scarcely 
take  a  superficial  view  of  objects,  and  never  attempt  to  fathom 
their  profound  nature.  In  our  body  politic  Christianity  was  like 
those  religious  instruments  which  the  Spartans  used  in  time  of 
battle,  and  which  were  intended  not  so  much  to  animate  the 
soldier  as  to  moderate  his  ardor. 

If  we  consult  the  history  of  our  states-general,  we  shall  find 
that  the  clergy  always  acted  the  admirable  part  of  moderators. 
They  pacified,  they  soothed  the  minds  of  men,  and  prevented 
their  rushing  to  extremities.  The  Church  alone  possessed  infor 
mation  and  experience  when  haughty  barons  and  ignorant  com 
moners  knew  nothing  but  factions  and  absolute  obedience.  She 
alone,  from  the  habit  of  holding  synods  and  councils,  understood 
the  art  of  public  speaking  and  debate.  She  alone  had  dignity 
when  it  was  wanting  in  all  around  her  We  behold  her  alternately 
opposing  the  excesses  of  the  people,  remonstrating  freely  with  the 
sovereign,  and  defying  the  anger  of  the  nobles  Her  superior 


G6(/  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


knowledge,  her  conciliatory  spirit,  her  mission  of  peace,  the  very 
nature  of  her  interests,  could  not  fail  to  inspire  her  with  generous 
ideas  in  politics,  which  were  not  to  be  found  in  the  two  other 
orders.  Placed  between  these,  she  had  every  thing  to  fear  from 
the  nobility  and  nothing  from  the  commons,  of  whom,  for  this  very 
reason,  she  became  the  natural  protector.  Accordingly,  we  see  her 
in  times  of  disturbance  voting  in  preference  with  the  latter.  The 
most  dignified  spectacle  which  our  old  states-general  exhibited 
was  that  bench  of  aged  prelates  who,  with  the  mitre  on  their 
heads  and  the  crosier  in  their  hands,  alternately  pleaded  the  cause 
of  the  people  against  the  great,  and  of  the  sovereign  against  his 
factious  nobility. 

These  prelates  frequently  fell  victims  to  their  devotedness.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  such  was  the  hatred  of 
the  nobles  against  the  clergy,  that  St.  Dominic  was  necessitated 
to  preach  a  kind  of  crusade  to  wrest  the  possessions  of  the  Church 
from  the  barons,  by  whom  they  had  been  seized.  Several  bishops 
were  murdered  by  the  nobles  or  imprisoned  by  the  court.  They 
experienced  by  turns  the  vengeance  of  the  monarch,  of  the 
aristocracy,  and  of  the  people. 

If  you  take  a  more  extensive  view  of  the  influence  of  Chris 
tianity  on  the  political  existence  of  the  nations  of  Europe,  you 
will  see  that  it  prevented  famines,  and  saved  our  ancestors  from 
their  own  fury,  by  proclaiming  those  intervals  of  peace  denomi 
nated  the  peace  of  God,  during  which  they  secured  the  harvest 
and  the  vintage.  In  popular  commotions  the  popes  often  appeared 
in  public  like  the  greatest  princes.  By  rousing  sovereigns,  sound 
ing  the  alarm,  and  forming  leagues,  they  prevented  the  West  from 
falling  a  prey  to  the  Turks.  This  service  alone  rendered  to  the 
world  by  the  Church  would  entitle  her  to  a  religious  veneration. 

Men  unworthy  of  the  name  of  Christians  slaughtered  the  peo 
ple  of  the  New  World,  and  the  Court  of  Rome  fulminated  its 
bulls  to  prevent  these  atrocities.1  Slavery  was  authorized  by  law, 
and  the  Church  acknowledged  no  slaves  among  her  children.2 

1  The  celebrated  bull  of  Paul  III. 

2  The  decree  of  Constantino  declares  that  every  slave  who  embraces  Chris 
tianity  shall  be  free:  that  is,  the  Christian  slave  was  civilly  free;  but,  as  we 
have  before  observed,  the  Church  respected  the  rights  of  masters,  while  she 
used  every  prudent  means  to  abolish  slavery.     T. 


POLITICS  AND   GOVERNMENT.  661 


The  very  excesses  of  the  Court  of  Rome  have  served  to  diffuse 
the  general  principles  of  the  law  of  nations.  When  the  popes  laid 
kingdoms  under  an  interdict, — when  they  made  emperors  account 
for  their  conduct  to  the  Holy  See, — they  arrogated  a  power  of 
which  they  were  not  possessed;*  but  in  humbling  the  majesty  of 
the  throne  they  perhaps  conferred  a  benefit  on  mankind.  Kings 
became  more  circumspect.  They  felt  that  they  had  a  curb,  and 
the  people  a  protector.  The  papal  rescripts  never  failed  to  min 
gle  the  voice  of  nations  and  the  general  interests  of  humanity 
with  particular  complaints.  We  have  been  informed  that  Philip, 
Fersltnand,  or  Henry,  oppresses  his  people,  &c.  Such  was  the  ex 
ordium  of  almost  all  those  decrees  of  the  Court  of  Rome. 

If  there  existed  in  Europe  a  tribunal  to  judge  nations  and 
monarchs  in  the  name  of  God,  and  to  prevent  wars  and  revolu 
tions,  this  tribunal  would  doubtless  be  the  master-piece  of  policy 
and  the  highest  degree  of  social  perfection.  The  popes,  by  the 
influence  which  they  exercised  over  the  Christian  world,  were  on 
the  point  of  effecting  this  object. 

Montesquieu  has  ably  proved  that  Christianity  is  hostile,  both 
in  spirit  and  counsel,  to  arbitrary  power ;  and  that  its  principles 
are  more  efficacious  than  honor  in  monarchies,  virtue  in  republics, 
and  fear  in  despotic  states.  Are  there  not,  moreover,  Christian 
republics  which  appear  to  be  more  strongly  attached  to  their  reli 
gion  than  the  monarchies  ?  Was  it  not,  also,  under  the  gospel 
dispensation  that  that  constitution  was  formed  which  Tacitus 
considered  as  a  dream,  so  excellent  did  it  seem  to  him?  "In  all 
nations,"  says  that  profound  historian,  "  either  the  people,  or 
the  nobility,  or  a  single  individual,  governs;  for  a  form  of 
government  composed  at  once  of  all  three  is  but  a  brilliant 
chimera."9 


1  Here,  again,  our  author  is  not  exact  in  his  statements.  To  place  a  Catholic 
kingdom  under  interdict  was  merely  an  act  of  spiritual  authority  by  which  tho 
pope,  as  supreme  pastor,  exercised  his  jurisdiction  over  a  portion  of  his  flock. 
For  the  same  reason,  be  could  admonish  emperors  or  kings  who  belonged  to  his 
flock  of  the  crimes  which  they  hud  committed.  If  the  sovereign  pontiff  some 
times  deposed  the  civil  ruler,  he  acted  on  such  occasions  only  in  accordance  with 
the  jurisprudence  of  the  age,  in  deference  to  the  national  will,  and  in  deli-in-u 
of  civil  and  religious  freedom,  as  the  author  intimates  in  the  same  paragraph. 
Bee  Miivellunea  of  Bishop  Spalding,  art.  Aye.  of  Greyory  VIL,  p.  151,  Ac.  T 

a  Pucitus,  Annul.,  lib.  iv. 
5fi 


662  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


Tacitus  could  not  foresee  that  this  brilliant  chimera  would  one 
day  be  realized  among  the  barbarians  whose  history  he  has  left 
us.1  The  passions  under  polytheism  would  soon  have  overturned 
a  government  which  is  preserved  only  by  the  accuracy  of  its  coun 
terpoises.  The  phenomenon  of  its  existence  was  reserved  for  a 
religion  which,  by  maintaining  the  most  perfect  moral  equilibrium, 
admits  of  the  establishment  of  the  most  perfect  political  balance. 

Montesquieu  discovered  the  principle  of  the  English  constitu 
tion  in  the  forests  of  Germany.  It  would  perhaps  have  been  more 
simple  to  trace  it  in  the  division  of  the  three  orders — a  division 
known  to  all  the  great  monarchies  of  modern  Europe.  England 
began,  like  France  and  Spain,  with  its  states-general.  Spain  be 
came  an  absolute  monarchy,  France  a  temperate  monarchy,  and 
England  a  mixed  monarchy.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  Cortes  of 
the  first  enjoyed  several  privileges  not  possessed  either  by  the 
states-general  of  the  second,  or  by  the  parliaments  of  the  third; 
and  that  the  nation  which  was  once  the  most  free  sank  under  the 
most  absolute  government.  On  the  other  hand,  the  English,  who 
were  nearly  reduced  to  slavery,  gradually  raised  themselves  to  in 
dependence;  while  the  French,  who  were  neither  very  free  nor 
very  much  enslaved,  continued  nearly  in  the  same  state  as  they 
were  at  first. 

Lastly,  the  division  of  the  three  orders  was  a  grand  and 
fertile  political  idea.  Wholly  unknown  to  the  ancients,  it  has 
produced  among  the  moderns  the  system  of  representation,  which 
may  be  classed  among  the  three  or  four  discoveries  that  have  cre 
ated  another  universe.  To  the  glory  of  our  religion  be  it  also 
said  that  the  system  of  representation  partly  originated  in  the 
ecclesiastical  institutions;  for  the  Church  exhibited  the  first  model 
of  it  in  her  councils,  composed  of  the  sovereign  pontiff,  the  pre 
lates,  and  the  deputies  of  the  inferior  clergy ;  and  then  the 
Christian  priests,  not  having  separated  themselves  from  the 
state,  gave  rise  to  that  new  order  of  citizens  which,  by  its  union 
with  the  two  others,  completed  the  representation  of  the  poli 
tical  body. 

We  must  not  omit  a  remark  which  tends  to  support  the  pre 
ceding  facts,  and  proves  that  the  spirit  of  the  gospel  is  eminently 

1  In  Vitce  Ayric. 


POLITICS   AND  GOVERNMENT.  663 


favorable  to  liberty.  The  Christian  religion  adopts  as  a  tenet 
the  doctrine  of  moral  equality, — the  only  kind  of  equality  that 
it  is  possible  to  preach  without  convulsing  the  world.  Did  poly 
theism  at  Rome  endeavor  to  persuade  the  patrician  that  he  was 
not  of  nobler  dust  than  the  plebeian  ?  What  pontiff  would  have 
been  bold  enough  to  hold  such  uncourtly  language  in  the  hearing 
of  a  Nero  and  a  Tiberius  ?  Soon  would  the  body  of  the  unfor 
tunate  priest  have  been  thrown  into  the  gemonia.1  Such 
lessons,  however,  Christian  potentates  daily  receive  from  that 
pulpit  which  has  been  so  justly  termed  the  chair  of  truth. 

Upon  the  whole,  Christianity  is  peculiarly  admirable  for 
having  transformed  the  physical  man  into  the  moral  man. 
All  the  great  principles  of  Greece  and  Rome,  such  as 
equality  and  liberty,  are  to  be  found  in  our  religion,  but 
applied  to  the  mind  and  considered  with  reference  to  the  most 
sublime  objects. 

The  counsels  of  the  gospel  form  the  genuine  philosopher  and 
its  precepts  the  genuine  citizen.  There  is  not  a  petty  Christian 
state  under  which  a  person  may  not  live  more  agreeably,  than  he 
could  have  done  among  the  most  renowned  people  of  antiquity, 
excepting  Athens,  which  was  attractive,  but  horridly  unjust. 
Among  modern  nations  there  is  an  internal  tranquillity,  a  con 
tinual  exercise  of  the  most  peaceful  virtues,  which  never  prevailed 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ilissus  and  the  Tiber.  If  the  republic  of 
Brutus  or  the  monarchy  of  Augustus  were  all  at  once  to  rise 
from  the  dust  of  ages,  we  should  be  shocked  at  the  life  of  the 
Romans.  Picture  to  yourself  the  games  of  the  goddess  Flora 
and  the  continual  slaughter  of  gladiators,  and  you  will  be  con 
vinced  of  the  prodigious  difference  which  the  gospel  has  made 
between  us  and  the  Pagans.  The  meanest  of  Christians,  if  a 
virtuous  man,  is  more  moral  than  was  the  most  eminent  of  the 
philosophers  of  antiquity. 

"  Finally/'  says  Montesquieu,  "we  are  indebted  to  Christianity 
for  a  certain  political  law  in  government,  and  a  certain  law  of 
nations  in  war,  for  which  mankind  cannot  be  sufficiently 
grateful.  It  is  owing  to  this  law  that  among  us  victory  leaves 

>  A  place  at  Rome  where  the  carcasses  of  criminals  were  thrown.     T. 


664  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

the  conquered  in  possession  of  those  great  blessings, — life,  liberty, 
laws,  property,  and  always  religion, — when  the  conqueror  is  not 
blind  to  his  own  interests.1 

Let  us  add  to  all  these  benefits  one  which  ought  to  be  inscribed 
in  letters  of  gold  in  the  annals  of  philosophy  : — 
THE   ABOLITION  OF   SLAVERY. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GENERAL   RECAPITULATION. 

IT  is  not  without  a  certain  degree  of  fear  that  we  approach 
the  conclusion  of  our  work.  The  serious  reflections  which 
induced  us  to  undertake  it,  the  hazardous  ambition  which  has  led 
us  to  decide,  as  far  as  lay  in  our  power,  the  question  respecting 
Christianity, — all  these  considerations  alarm  us.  It  is  difficult  to 
discover  how  far  it  is  pleasing  to  the  Almighty  that  men  should 
presume  to  take  into  their  feeble  hands  the  vindication  of  his 
eternity,  should  make  themselves  advocates  of  the  Creator  at  the 
tribunal  of  the  creature,  and  attempt  to  defend  by  human  argu 
ments  those  counsels  which  gave  birth  to  the  universe.  Not 
without  extreme  diffidence,  therefore,  convinced  as  we  are  of  the 
incompetency  of  our  talents,  do  we  here  present  the  general 
recapitulation  of  this  work. 

Every  religion  has  its  mysteries.     All  nature  is  a  secret. 

The  Christian  mysteries  are  the  most  sublime  that  can  be  j 
they  are  the  archetypes  of  the  system  of  man  and  of  the 
world. 

The  sacraments  are  moral  laws,  and  present  pictures  of  a 
highly  poetical  character. 

Faith  is  a  force,  charity  a  love,  hope  complete  happiness,  or, 
as  religion  expresses  it,  a  complete  virtue. 

The  laws  of  God  constitute  the  most  perfect  code  of  naturjd 
justice. 

1  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  xxiv.  chap.  3. 


GENERAL   RECAPITULATION.  665 

The  fall  of  our  first  parents  is  a  universal  tradition. 

A  new  proof  of  it  may  be  found  in  the  constitution  of  the 
moral  man,  which  is  contrary  to  the  general  constitution  of 
beings. 

The  prohibition  to  touch  the  fruit^of  knowledge  was  a  sublime 
command,  and  the  only  one  worthy  of  the  Almighty. 

All  the  arguments  which  pretend  to  demonstrate  the  antiquity 
of  the  earth  may  be  contested. 

The  doctrine  of  the  existence  of  a  God  is  demonstrated  by  the 
wonders  of  the  universe.  A  design  of  Providence  is  evident  in 
the  instincts  of  animals  and  in  the  beauty  of  nature. 

Morality  of  itself  proves  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Man 
feels  a  desire  of  happiness,  and  is  the  only  creature  who  cannot 
attain  it;  there  is  consequently  a  felicity  beyond  the  present 
life;  for  we  cannot  wish  for  what  does  not  exist. 

The  system  of  atheism  is  founded  solely  on  exceptions.  It  is 
not  the  body  that  acts  upon  the  soul,  but  the  soul  that  acts  upon 
the  body.  Man  is  not  subject  to  the  general  laws  of  matter;  he 
diminishes  where  the  animal  increases. 

Atheism  can  benefit  no  class  of  people  : — neither  the  unfortu 
nate,  whom  it  bereaves  of  hope,  nor  the  prosperous,  whose  joys  it 
renders  insipid,  nor  the  soldier,  of  whom  it  makes  a  coward,  nor 
the  woman,  whose  beauty  and  sensibility  it  mars,  nor  the  mother 
who  has  a  son  to  lose,  nor  the  rulers  of  men,  who  have  no  surer 
pledge  of  the  fidelity  of  their  subjects  than  religion. 

The  punishments  and  rewards  which  Christianity  holds  out 
in  another  life  are  consistent  with  reason  and  the  nature  of 
the  soul. 

In  literature,  characters  appear  more  interesting  and  the 
passions  more  energetic  under  the  Christian  dispensation  than 
they  were  under  polytheism.  The  latter  exhibited  no  dramatic 
feature,  no  struggles  between  natural  desire  and  virtue. 

Mythology  contracted  nature,  and  for  this  reason  the  ancients 
had  no  descriptive  poetry.  Christianity  restores  to  the  wilder 
ness  both  its  pictures  and  its  solitudes. 

The  Christian  marvellous  may  sustain  a  comparison  with  the 
marvellous  of    fable.     The    ancients    founded    their    poetry   on 
Homer,  while  the  Christians  found  theirs  on  the  Bible  :  and  the 
beauties  of  the  Bible  surpass  the  beauties  of  Homer. 
56* 


666  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

To  Christianity  the  fine  arts  owe  their  revival  and  their 
perfection. 

In  philosophy  it  is  not  hostile  to  any  natural  truth.  If  it  has 
sometimes  opposed  the  sciences,  it  followed  the  spirit  of  the 
age  and  the  opinions  of  the^greatest  legislators  of  antiquity.1 

In  history  we  should  have  been  inferior  to  the  ancients  but  for 
the  new  character  of  images,  reflections,  and  thoughts,  to  which 
Christianity  has  given  birth.  Modern  eloquence  furnishes  the 
same  observation. 

The  relics  of  the  fine  arts,  the  solitude  of  monasteries,  the 
charms  of  ruins,  the  pleasing  superstitions  of  the  common 
people,  the  harmonies  of  the  heart,  religion,  and  the  desert,  lead 
to  the  examination  of  the  Christian  worship. 

This  worship  everywhere  exhibits  a  union  of  pomp  and 
majesty  with  a  moral  design  and  with  a  prayer  either  affecting 
or  sublime.  Religion  gives  life  and  animation  to  the  sepulchre. 
From  the  laborer  who  reposes  in  a  rural  cemetery  to  the  king 
who  is  interred  at  St.  Dennis,  the  grave  of  the  Christian  is  full 
of  poetry.  Job  and  David,  reclining  upon  the  Christian  tomb, 
sing  in  their  turn  the  sleep  of  death  by  which  man  awakes  to 
eternity. 

We  have  seen  how  much  the  world  is  indebted  to  the  clergy 
and  to  the  institutions  and  spirit  of  Christianity.  .  If  Schoon- 
beck,  Bonnani,  Giustiniani,  and  Helyot,  had  followed  a  better 
order  in  their  laborious  researches,  we  might  have  presented  here 
a  complete  catalogue  of  the  services  rendered  by  religion  to 
humanity.  We  would  have  commenced  with  a  list  of  all  the 
calamities  incident  to  the  soul  or  the  body  of  man,  and  men 
tioned  under  each  affliction  the  Christian  order  devoted  to  its 
relief.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  assert  that,  whatever  distress 
or  suffering  we  may  think  of,  religion  has,  in  all  probability, 
anticipated  us  and  provided  a  remedy  for  it.  From  as  accurate  a 
calculation  as  we  were  able  to  make,  we  have  obtained  the  follow 
ing  results  :  — 

There  are  computed  to  be  on  the  surface  of  Christian  Europe 
about  four  thousand  three  hundred  towns  and  villages.  Of 


1  We  are  at  a  loss  to   know  what  sciences  were  ever  opposed  by 
tianity.     T. 


GENERAL   RECAPITULATION.  (,O7 

these  four  thousand  three  hundred  towns  and  villages,  three 
thousand  two  hundred  and  ninety-four  are  of  the  first,  second, 
third,  and  fourth  rank.  Allowing  one  hospital  to  each  of  these 
three  thousand  two  hundred  and  ninety-four  places,  (which  i.« 
far  below  the  truth,)  you  will  have  three  thousand  two  hundred 
and  ninety-four  hospitals,  almost  all  founded  by  the  spirit  of 
Christianity,  endowed  by  the  Church,  and  attended  by  religious 
orders.  Supposing  that,  upon  an  average,  each  of  these  hospi 
tals  contains  one  hundred  beds,  or,  if  you  please,  fifty  beds  foi 
two  patients  each,  you  will  find  that  religion,  exclusively  of  tht 
immense  number  of  poor  which  she  supports,  has  afforded  dail; 
relief  and  subsistence  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  to  abou< 
three  hundred  and  twenty-nine  thousand  four  hundred  persons. 

On  summing  up  the  colleges  and  universities,  we  find  nearly 
the  same  results;  and  we  may  safely  assert  that  they  afforc 
instruction  to  at  le£st  three  hundred  thousand  youths  in  the 
different  states  of  Europe.1 

In  this  statement  we  "have  not  included  either  the  Christiau 
hospitals  and  colleges  in  the  other  three  quarters  of  the  globe,  or 
the  female  youth  educated  by  nuns. 

To  these  results  must  be  added  the  catalogue  of  the  celebrated 
men  produced  by  the  Church,  who  form  nearly  two-thirds  of  the 
distinguished  characters  of  modern  times.  We  must  repeat,  as 
we  have  shown,  that  to  the  Church  we  owe  the  revival  of  the 
arts  and  sciences  and  of  letters;  that  to  her  are  due  most  of  the 
great  modern  discoveries,  as  gunpowder,  clocks,  the  mariner's 
compass,  and,  in  government,  the  representative  system;  that 
agriculture  and  commerce,  the  laws  and  political  science,  are 
under  innumerable  obligations  to  her;  that  her  missions  intro 
duced  the  arts  and  sciences  among  civilized  nations  and  laws 
among  savage  tribes ;  that  her  institution  of  chivalry  powerfully 
contributed  to  save  Europe  from  an  invasion  of  new  barbarians  ^ 
that  to  her  mankind  is  indebted  for 

The  worship  of  one  only  God; 

The  more  firm  establishment  of  the  belief  in  the  existence  of 
that  Supreme  Being ; 


1  See  note  WW,  where  the  render  will  find  the  bafis  of  this  calculation, 
although  the  figures  are  expressly  set  down  much  lower  than  the  reality. 


668  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

A  clearer  idea  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  also  of  u 
future  state  tf  rewards  and  punishments  ; 

A  more  enlarged  and  active  humanity  ; 

A  perfect  virtue,  which  alone  is  equivalent  to  all  the  others — 
Charity. 

A  political  law  and  the  law  of  nations,  unknown  to  the 
ancients,  and,  above  all,  the  abolition  of  slavery. 

Who  is  there  but  must  be  convinced  of  the  beauty  and  the 
grandeur  of  Christianity  ?  Who  but  must  be  overwhelmed  with 
this  stupendous  mass  of  benefits  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHAT  WOULD  THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF  SOCIETY  BE  IP  CHRIS 
TIANITY  HAD  NOT  APPEARED  IN  THE  WORLD? CONJEC 
TURES — CONCLUSION. 

WE  shall  conclude  this  work  with  a  discussion  of  the  import 
ant  question  which  forms  the  title  of  this  last  chapter.  By  en 
deavoring  to  discover  what  we  should  probably  be  at  present  if 
Christianity  had  not  existed,  we  shall  learn  to  appreciate  more 
fully  the  advantages  which  we  owe  to  it. 

Augustus  attained  imperial  power  by  the  commission  of  crime, 
and  reigned  under  the  garb  of  virtue.  He  succeeded  a  con 
queror,  and  to  distinguish  himself  he  cultivated  peace.  Incapa 
ble  of  being  a  great  man,  he  determined  to  acquire  the  character 
of  a  fortunate  prince.  He  gave  a  long  repose  to  his  subjects. 
An  immense  focus  of  corruption  became  stagnant,  and  the  pre- 
"vailing  calm  was  called  prosperity.  Augustus  possessed  the 
genius  of  circumstances,  which  knew  how  to  gather  the  fruits 
which  true  genius  had  produced.  It  follows  true  genius,  but 
does  not  always  accompany  it. 

Tiberius  had  too  great  a  contempt  for  mankind,  and  but  too 
plainly  manifested  this  contempt.  The  only  sentiment  which  he 
frankly  displayed  was  the  only  one  that  he  ought  to  have  dis- 


SOCIETY   WITHOUT   CHRISTIANITY.  669 


sembled;  but  he  could  not  repress  a  burst  of  joy  on  find.ng  the 
Roman  people  and  senate  sunk  even  below  the  baseness  of  bis 
own  heart. 

"When  we  behold  this  sovereign  people  falling  prostrate  before 
Claudius  and  adoring  the  son  of  ^Enobarbus,  we  may  naturally 
suppose  that  it  had  been  honored  with  some  marks  of  indul 
gence.  Rome  loved  Nero.  Long  after  the  death  of  that  tyrant, 
his  phantoms  thrilled  the  empire  with  joy  and  hope.  Here  we 
must  pause  to  contemplate  the  manners  of  the  Romans.  Neither 
Titus,  nor  Antoninus,  nor  Marcus  Aurelius,  could  change  the 
groundwork  of  them;  by  nothing  less  than  a  God  could  this  be 
accomplished. 

The  Roman  people  was  always  an  odious  people;  it  is  impossi 
ble  to  fall  into  the  vices  which  it  displayed  under  its  imperial 
rulers,  without  a  certain  natural  perverseness  and  some  innate 
defect  in  the  heart.  Corrupted  Athens  never  was  an  object  of 
execration;  when  in  chains,  she  thought  only  of  enjoying  her 
self.  She  found  that  her  conquerors  had  not  deprived  her  of 
every  thing,  since  they  had  left  her  the  temple  of  the  Muses. 

When  Rome  had  virtues,  they  were  of  an  unnatural  kind. 
The  first  Brutus  butehered  his  sons,  and  the  second  assassinated 
his  father.  There  are  virtues  of  situation,  which  are  too  easily 
mistaken  for  general  virtues,  and  which  are  but  mere  local  results. 
Rome,  while  free,  was  at  first  frugal,  because  she  was  poor;  cou 
rageous,  because  her  institutions  put  the  sword  into  her  hand, 
and  because  she  sprang  from  a  cavern  of  banditti.  She  was, 
besides,  ferocious,  unjust,  avaricious,  luxurious;  she  had  nothing 
admirable  but  her  genius;  her  character  was  detestable. 

The  decemvirs  trampled  her  under  foot.  Marius  spilt  at 
pleasure  the  b^ood  of  the  nobles,  and  Sylla  that  of  the  people; 
as  the  height  of  insult,  he  publicly  abdicated  the  dictatorship. 
Catiline's  accomplices  engaged  to  murder  their  own  fathers,1  and 
made  a  sport  of  overthrowing  that  majesty  of  Rome  which 
Jugurtha  proposed  to  purchase.3  Next  come  the  triumvirs  and 
their  proscriptions.  Augustus  commands  a  father  and  son  to 


1  Sed  filii  familiarum,  quorum  ex  nobilitate  maxima  pars  erat  parentes  inter, 
ficerent.     Sallust,  in  Cntil.  xliii. 
«  ftallust,  in  Bell.  Jiiyttrth. 


670  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


kill  each  other,1  and  the  father  and  son  obey.  The  senate  proves 
itself  too  debased  even  for  Tiberius.3  The  god  Nero  has  his 
temples.  Without  mentioning  those  informers  belonging  to  the 
most  distinguished  patrician  families;  without  showing  the 
leaders  of  one  and  the  same  conspiracy  denouncing  and  butcher 
ing  one  another  f  without  pointing  to  philosophers  discoursing 
on  virtue  amid  the  debaucheries  of  Nero,  Seneca  excusing  a 
parricide,  Burrhus4  at  once  praising  and  deploring  it;  without 
seeking  under  Galba,  Vitellius,  Domitian,  and  Commodus,  for 
those  acts  of  meanness  which,  though  you  have  read  them  a 
hundred  times,  will  never  cease  to  astonish, — one  single  fact  will 
fully  portray  Roman  infamy.  Plautian,  the  minister  of  Severus, 
on  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  with  the  eldest  son  of  the  em 
peror,  caused  one  hundred  freemen  of  Rome,  some  of  whom  were 
husbands  and  fathers  of  families,  to  be  mutilated,  "in  order/' 
says  the  historian,  "that  his  daughter  might  have  a  retinue  of 
eunuchs  worthy  of  an  Eastern  queen.5 

To  this  baseness  of  character  must  be  added  a  frightful  cor 
ruption  of  manners.  The  grave  Cato  made  no  scruple  to  assist 
at  the  prostitutions  of  the  Floral  games.  He  resigns  his  wife 
Marcia,  pregnant  as  she  was,  to  Hortensius;  some  time  after 
ward  Hortensius  dies,  and,  having  left  Marcia  heir  to  all  his  for 
tune,  Cato  takes  her  back  again,  to  the  prejudice  of  the  son  of 
Hortensius.  Cicero  repudiates  Terentia  for  the  purpose  of 
marrying  Publia,  his  ward.  Seneca  informs  us  that  there  were 
women  who  no  longer  counted  their  years  by  consuls,  but  by  the 
number  of  their  husbands;6  Tiberius  invents  the  scellarii  and 
the  spintride;  Nero  publicly  weds  his  freedman  Pythagoras,7  and 
Heliogabalus  celebrates  his  marriage  with  Hierocles.8 

It  was  this  same  Nero,  already  so  often  mentioned,  that  insti 
tuted  the  Juvenalian  feasts.  Knights,  senators,  and  ladies  of 
the  highest  rank,  were  obliged  to  appear  on  the  stage,  after  the 
example  of  the  emperor,  and  to  sing  obscene  songs,  at  the  same 

1  Suet.,  in  Aug.,  and  Amm.  Alex.  2  Tacit.,  An.  3  Id.  ibid.,  lib.  xv. 

4  Tacit,  An.,  lib.  xvi.     Papinianus,  a  lawyer  and  prefect  of  the  prcetorium,  who 
made  no  pretensions  to  the  character  of  a  philosopher,  being  commanded  by 
Caracalla  to  justify  tbe  murder  of  his  brother  Geta,  replied,  "  It  is  easier  to 
commit  fratricide  than  to  justify  it."     Hist.  Aug. 

5  Dion.,  lib.  Ixxvi.  6  De  Benefic.  iii.  16.  7  Tacit.,  An.,  15. 
8  Dion.,  lib.  Ixxix  ;  Hist.  Aug. 


SOCIETY  WITHOUT   RELIGION.  671 


time  imitating  the  gestures  of  the  clowns.1  For  the  banquet  of 
Tigellinus,  on  the  lake  of  Agrippa,  houses  were  erected  on  the 
shore,  where  the  most  illustrious  females  of  Home  were  placed 
opposite  to  courtesans  perfectly  naked !  At  the  approach  of 
night  all  was  illuminated,8  that,  the  veil  of  darkness  being  re 
moved,  the  debauchees  might  gratify  an  additional  sense. 

Death  formed  an  essential  part  of  these  festivities  of  the  an 
cients.  It  was  introduced  as  a  contrast,  and  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  a  zest  to  the  pleasures  of  life.  Gladiators,  courtesans, 
and  musicians,  were  all  introduced  to  enliven  the  entertainment. 
A  Roman,  on  quitting  the  arms  of  a  strumpet,  went  to  enjoy  the 
spectacle  of  a  wild  beast  quaffing  human  blood;  after  witnessing 
a  prostitution,  he  amused  himself  with  the  convulsions  of  an 
expiring  fellow-creature.  What  sort  of  a  people  must  that  have 
been  who  stationed  disgrace  both  at  the  entrance  and  at  the  exit 
of  life,  and  exhibited  upon  a  stage  the  two  great  mysteries  of 
nature,  to  dishonor  at  once  the  whole  work  of  God  ? 

The  slaves  who  cultivated  the  earth  were  constantly  chained 
by  the  foot,  and  the  only  nourishment  allowed  them  consisted  of 
a  little  bread,  with  salt  and  water.  At  night  they  were  confined 
in  subterraneous  dungeons,  which  had  no  air  but  what  they  re 
ceived  through  an  aperture  in  the  roof.  There  was  a  law  that 
prohibited  the  killing  of  African  lions,  which  were  reserved  for 
the  Roman  shows.  A  peasant  who  would  have  defended  his  life 
against  one  of  those  animals  would  have  been  severely  punished.3 
When  an  unfortunate  wretch  perished  in  the  arena,  torn  by  a 
panther  or  gored  by  the  horns  of  a  stag,  persons  afflicted  with 
certain  diseases  ran  to  bathe  themselves  in  his  blood  and  to  lick 
it  with  their  eager  lips.4  Caligula  wished  that  the  whole  Roman 
people  had  but  one  head,  that  he  might  strike  it  off  with  a  single 
blow.5  The  same  emperor  fed  the  lions  intended  for  the  games 
of  the  circus  with  human  flesh;  and  Nero  was  on  the  point  of 
compelling  an  Egyptian  remarkable  for  his  voracity  to  devour 
living  people.8  Titus,  by  way  of  celebrating  his  father's  birth 
day,  delivered  up  three  thousand  Jews  to  be  devoured  by  wild 
beasts.7  Tiberius  was  advised  to  put  to  death  one  of  his  old 

1  Tacit,  An.,  14.  2  Tacit,  loc.  cit.  3  Cod.  Theod.,  tome  vi.  p.  92. 

4  Tert.,  Apoloyet.  5  Suet,  in  Vit.  Cal. 

6  Suef.,  in  Cttliynla  et  Nero.  7  Joseph.,  (h  llvll,  Jnd.,  lib.  viL 


672  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


friends  who  was  languishing  in  prison.  "  I  am  not  yet  reconciled 
to  him,"  replied  the  tyrant, — an  expression  which  breathes  the 
true  spirit  of  Rome.  It  was  a  common  thing  to  slaughter  five, 
six,  ten,  twenty  thousand  persons  of  all  ranks,  of  both  sexes,  of 
every  age,  on  the  mere  suspicion  of  the  emperor;1  and  the  rela 
tives  of  the  victims  adorned  their  houses  with  garlands,  kissed 
the  hands  of  the  god,  and  assisted  at  his  entertainments.  The 
daughter  of  Sejanus,  only  nine  years  old,  who  said  that  she 
would  do  so  no  more,  and  who  requested  to  be  scourged,  when 
on  her  way  to  prison  was  violated  by  the  executioner  before  he 
strangled  her — so  great  was  the  respect  paid  by  these  virtuous 
Romans  to  the  laws.  During  the  reign  of  Claudius  was  exhibited 
the  spectacle  (and  Tacitus  mentions  it  as  a  fine  sight2)  of  nine 
teen  thousand  men  slaughtering  one  another  on  the  lake  Fucinus 
for  the  amusement  of  the  Roman  populace.  The  combatants, 
before  engaging  in  the  bloody  work,  saluted  the  emperor  with 
these  words,  Ave  imperator,morituri  te  salutant!  "Hail,  Caesar! 
those  who  are  about  to  die  salute  thee !" — an  expression  not  less 
base  than  impressive. 

It  was  the  total  extinction  of  all  moral  feeling  which  inspired 
the  Romans  with  that  indifference  in  regard  to  death  which  has 
been  so  foolishly  admired.  Suicide  is  always  common  among 
a  people  of  corrupt  morals.  Man,  reduced  to  the  instinct  of  the 
brute,  dies  with  the  same  unconcern.  We  shall  say  nothing  of 
the  other  vices  of  the  Romans :  of  infanticide,  authorized  by  a 
law  of  Romulus  and  confirmed  by  the  Twelve  Tables,  or  of  the 
sordid  avarice  of  .that  renowned  people.  Scaptius  lent  a  sum  of 
money  to  the  senate  of  Salamis,  which  being  unable  to  repay  it 
at  the  stipulated  time,  he  kept  the  assembly  besieged  by  armed 
men  till  several  of  the  members  died  with  hunger.  Brutus,  the 
Stoic,  being  connected  in  some  way  with  this  extortioner,  in 
terested  himself  in  his  behalf  with  Cicero,  who  could  not  restrain 
his  indignation  at  the  circumstance.3 

If  therefore  the  Romans  sank  into  slavery,  their  morals  were 
the  cause  of  it.  It  is  baseness  that  first  produces  tyranny,  and 
by  a  natural  reaction  tyranny  afterward  prolongs  that  baseness. 

1  Tacit,  lib.  xv. ;  Dion.,  lib.  Ixxvii. ;  Herodian.,  lib.  iv.  *  An.,  lib.  xii. 

3  The  interest  of  the  sum  was  four  per  cent,  a  month.  See  Cic.,  Epivt.  ad 
Attic.,  lib.  vi.  epist.  2. 


SOCIETY   WITHOUT   CHRISTIANITY.  073 

Let  us  no  more  complain  of  the  present  state  of  society;  the 
most  corrupt  people  of  modern  times  is  a  people  of  sages  in  com 
parison  with  the  pagan  nations. 

If  we  could  for  a  moment  suppose  that  the  political  order  of 
the  ancients  was  more  excellent  than  ours,  still  their  moral  order 
could  not  be  compared  to  that  which  Christianity  has  produced 
among  us;  and,  as  morality  is  after  all  the  basis  of  every  social 
institution,  never  while  we  are  Christians  shall  we  sink  into  such 
depths  of  depravity  as  the  ancients. 

When  at  Rome  and  in  Greece  the  political  ties  were  broken, 
what  restraint  was  left  for  men  ?  Could  the  worship  of  so  many 
infamous  divinities  preserve  those  morals  which  were  no  longer 
supported  by  the  laws  ?  So  far  from  checking  the  corruption, 
this. worship  became  one  of  its  most  powerful  agents.  By  an 
excess  of  evil  which  makes  us  shudder,  the  idea  of  the  exist 
ence  of  the  Deity,  which  tends  to  the  maintenance  of  virtue 
among  men,  encouraged  vice  among  the  pagans,  and  seemed 
to  eternize  guilt  by  imparting  to  it  a  principle  of  everlasting 
duration. 

We  have  traditions  of  the  wickedness  of  men  and  of  the 
dreadful  catastrophes  which  have  never  failed  to  follow  the  cor 
ruption  of  manners.  May  we  not  suppose  that  God  has  so 
combined  the  physical  and  moral  order  of  the  universe  that 
a  subversion  of  the  latter  necessarily  occasions  a  change  in  the 
former,  and  that  great  crimes  naturally  produce  great  revolu 
tions  ?  The  mind  acts  upon  the  body  in  an  inexplicable  manner, 
and  man  is  perhaps  the  mind  of  the  great  body  of  the  universe. 
How  much  this  would  simplify  nature,  and  how  prodigiously  it 
would  enlarge  the  sphere  of  man  !  It  would  also  be  a  key  to 
the  explanation  of  miracles,  which  would  then  fall  into  the 
ordinary  course  of  things.1  Let  deluges,  conflagrations,  the 
overthrow  of  states,  have  their  secret  causes  in  the  vices  and 
virtues  of  man ;  let  guilt  and  its  punishment  be  the  weights 

1  If  the  author  hero  means  that  in  the  given  hypothesis  all  event*  or  facts 
would  be  of  the  natural  order,  and  that  there  would  no  longer  he  any  thing 
of  the  miraculous  or  preternatural  order,  his  remark  is  manifestly  incorrect 
because,  although  crime  were  always,  as  it  now  frequently  is,  followed  by  a 
visible  temporal  punishment,  all  the  occasions  or  reasons  for  the  intervention 
of  miraculous  power  would  not  on  that  account  necessarily  cease.  T. 
67  -  8 


C74  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


placed  in  the  two  scales  of  the  moral  and  physical  balance  of  the 
world  the  correspondence  would  be  admirable,  and  would  make 
but  on  3  whole  of  a  creation  which  at  the  first  view  appears  to  be 
double.1 

It  may  be,  then,  that  the  corruption  of  the  Roman  empire 
drew  forth  from  the  recesses  of  their  deserts  the  barbarians,  who, 
unconscious  of  the  secret  commission  that  was  given  them  to 
destroy,  instinctively  denominated  themselves  the  scourge  of 
God.  What  would  have  become  of  the  world  if  the  great  ark 
of  Christianity  had  not  saved  the  remnant  of  the  human  race 
from  this  new  deluge  ?  What  chance  would  have  been  left  for 
posterity?  Where  would  the  light  of  knowledge  have  been 
preserved  ? 

The  priests  of  polytheism  did  not  form  a  body  of  learned  men, 
except  in  Persia  and  Egypt;  but  the  magi  and  the  Egyptian 
priests,  who,  be  it  remarked,  never  communicated  their  know 
ledge  to  the  vulgar,  no  longer  existed  as  bodies  at  the  time  of 
the  invasion  of  the  barbarians.  As  for  the  philosophic  sects 
of  Athens  and  Alexandria,  they  were  confined  almost  entirely  to 
those  two  cities,  and  consisted  at  the  utmost  of  a  few  hundred 
rhetoricians  who  might  have  been  massacred  with  the  rest  of  the 
inhabitants. 

Among  the  ancients  we  find  no  zeal  for  making  converts,  no 
ardor  for  diffusing  instruction,  no  retirement  to  the  desert,  there 
to  live  with  God  and  to  cultivate  and  preserve  the  sciences. 
What  priest  of  Jupiter  would  have  gone  forth  to  arrest  Attila  in 
his  way  ?  What  pagan  pontiff  would  have  persuaded  an  Alaric 
to  withdraw  his  troops  from  Rome  ?  The  barbarians  who  over 
ran  the  empire  were  already  half-christianized ;  but,  marching  as 
they  were  under  the  bloody  banner  of  the  Scandinavian  or  Tartar 
go^ — meeting  in  their  way  no  force  of  religious  sentiment  which 
would  compel  them  to  respect  existing  institutions,  nor  any 
solidly-established  morals,  which  had  only  begun  to  be  formed 


'  This  view  of  the  correspondence  between  sin  and  its  punishment  in  this 
world  is  not  inconsistent  with  faith,  to  a  certain  extent.  Sin,  so  far  as  it 
demands  only  a  temporal  punishment,  may  be  expiated  by  the  sufferings  of 
this  life;  but  mortal  sin,  unrepented  of,  calls  for  an  eternal  punishment,  which, 
consequently,  mu*t  be  reserved  for  a  future  state.  T. 


SOCIETY  WITHOUT   CHRISTIANITY.  675 


among  the  Romans  under  the  influence  of  Christianity, — it 
cannot  be  doubted  that  they  would  have  destroyed  all  before 
them.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  design  of  Alaric.  "  I  feel  within 
me,"  says  that  barbarous  monarch,  "something  that  impels  me 
to  burn  the  city  of  Rome."  We  behold  here  a  man  elevated 
upon  ruins  and  exhibiting  the  proportions  of  a  giant. 

Of  the  different  nations  that  invaded  the  empire,  the  Goths 
seem  to  have  been  the  least  tinctured  with  the  spirit  of  devasta 
tion.  Theodoric,  the  conqueror  of  Odoacer,  was  a  great  prince, 
but  then  he  was  a  Christian.  Boetius,  his  prime  minister,  was 
also  a  Christian  and  a  scholar.  This  baffles  all  conjectures. 
What  would  the  Goths  have  done  had  they  been  idolaters? 
They  would  doubtless  have  overthrown  every  thing,  like  the 
other  barbarians.  They  indeed  sank  very  rapidly  into  a  state  of 
corruption ;  and  if,  instead  of  adoring  Christ,  they  had  wor 
shipped  Flora,  Venus,  and  Bacchus,  what  a  horrid  medley  would 
have  resulted  from  the  sanguinary  religion  of  Odin  and  the 
obscure  fables  of  Greece  ! 

Polytheism  was  so  little  calculated  for  the  work  of  conserva 
tion  that  it  could  not  sustain  itself,  and,  on  falling  into  ruins  on 
every  side,  Maximinus  wished  to  invest  it  with  the  Christian 
forms  by  way  of  propping  up  the  tottering  fabric.  He  placed 
in  each  province  a  priest  who  corresponded  to  the  bishop,  a 
high-pontiff  who  represented  the  metropolitan.1  Julian  founded 
pagan  convents,  and  made  the  ministers  of  Baal  preach  in  their 
temples.  This  arrangement,  copied  from  Christianity,  soon  dis 
appeared,  because  it  was  not  upheld  by  the  spirit  of  virtue  nor 
founded  on  morality. 

The  only  class  amid  the  conquered  nations  whom  the  bar 
barians  respected  was  that  of  the  priests  and  monks.  The  mo 
nasteries  became  so  many  asylums  where  the  sacred  flame  of 
science  was  preserved  together  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  lan 
guages.  The  most  illustrious  citizens  of  Rome  and  Athens, 
having  sought  a  refuge  in  the  Christian  priesthood,  thus  escaped 
death  or  slavery,  to  which  they  would  have  been  doomed  with 
the  rest  of  the  people. 

We  may  form  some  conception  of  the  abyss  into  which  we 

i  Bus.,  lib.  viii.  cap.  14 ;  lib.  ix.  cap.  2-8. 


676  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

should  at  this  day  be  plunged,  if  the  barbarians  had  overrun 
the  world  during  the  prevalence  of  polytheism,  by  the  present 
state  of  those  nations  in  which  Christianity  is  extinguished. 
We  should  all  be  Turkish  slaves,  or  something  still  worse ;  for 
Mohammedanism  has  at  least  a  tincture  of  morality  borrowed 
from  the  Christian  religion,  of  which  it  is,  after  all,  but  a  very 
wretched  excrescence.1  But,  as  the  first  Ismael  was  an  enemy 
of  Jacob  of  old,  so  the  second  is  the  persecutor  of  the  modern 
Israel. 

It  is,  therefore,  highly  probable  that,  but  for  Christianity, 
the  wreck  of  society  and  of  learning  would  have  been  com 
plete.  It  is  impossible  to  calculate  how  many  ages  would  have 
been  necessary  for  mankind  to  emerge  from  the  ignorance  and 
gross  barbarism  in  which  they  would  have  been  ingulfed. 
Nothing  less  than  an  immense  body  of  recluses  scattered  over 
three  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  laboring  in  concert  for  the  pro 
motion  of  the  same  object,  was  requisite  to  preserve  those  sparks 
which  have  rekindled  the  torch  of  science  among  the  moderns. 
Once  more,  we  repeat  it,  no  order  of  paganism,  either  political, 
philosophical,  or  religious,  could  have  rendered  this  inestimable 
service  in  the  absence  of  Christianity.  The  writings  of  the 
ancients,  by  being  dispersed  in  the  monasteries,  partly  escaped 
the  ravages  of  the  Groths.  Finally,  polytheism  was  not,  like 
Christianity,  a  kind  of  lettered  religion,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression ;  because  it  did  not,  like  the  latter,  combine 
metaphysics  and  ethics  with  religious  dogmas.  The  necessity 
which  the  Christian  clergy  were  under  of  publishing  books 
themselves,  either  to  propagate  the  faith  or  to  confute  heresy, 
powerfully  contributed  to  the  preservation  and  the  revival  of 
learning. 

Under  every  imaginable  hypothesis  we  shall  invariably  find 
that  the  gospel  has  been  a  barrier  to  the  destruction  of  society ; 
for,  supposing  that  it  had  never  appeared  upon  earth,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  barbarians  had  continued  in  their 
forests,  the  Roman  world,  sinking  more  and  more  in  its  cor- 
ruption,  would  have  been  menaced  with  a  frightful  dissolution 

In  the  original,  une  secte  trts-tloignte  —  MO.  expression  entirely  too  mild 
the  designati  >n  of  Mohammedanism  in  its  relation  to  Christianity.     T. 


for 


SOCIETY  WITHOUT  CHRISTIANITY.  677 

Would  the  slaves  have  revolted?  The  slaves  were  as  de 
praved  as  their  masters;  they  shared  the  same  pleasures  and 
the  same  disgrace;  they  had  the  same  religion, — a  religion  of 
the  passions, — which  destroyed  every  hope  of  a  change  in  the 
principles  of  morality.  Science  made  no  further  progress ;  its 
movement  was  retrograde;  the  arts  declined.  Philosophy  served 
but  to  propagate  a  species  of  impiety,  which,  without  leading 
to  a  destruction  of  the  idols,  produced  the  crimes  and  cala 
mities  of  atheism-  among  the  great,  while  it  left  to  the  vulgar 
those  of  superstition.  Did  mankind  improve  because  Nero 
ceased  to  believe  in  the  deities  of  the  Capitol  and  contemptu 
ously  defiled  the  statues  of  the  gods  ?* 

Tacitus  asserts  that  a  regard  for  morality  still  existed  in  the 
remote  provinces;9  but  these  provinces  were  beginning  to  be 
indoctrinated  in  the  Christian  faith,8  and  we  are  reasoning  in 
the  supposition  that  Christianity  wffs  not  known,  and  that  the 
barbarians  had  not  quitted  their  deserts.  As  for  the  Roman 
armies,  which  would  probably  have  dismembered  the  empire, 
the  soldiers  were  as  corrupt  as  the  rest  of  the  citizens,  and 
would  have  been  much  more  depraved  had  they  not  been 
recruited  by  Goths  and, Germans.  All  that  we  can  possibly 
conjecture  is  that,  after  protracted  civil  wars  and  a  general 
commotion  which  might  have  lasted  several  centuries,  the  human 
race  would  have  been  reduced  to  a  few  individuals  wandering 
among  ruins.  But  what  a  length  of  time  would  have  been 
requisite  for  this  new  stock  to  put  forth  its  branches !  What 
a  series  of  ages  must  have  revolved  before  the  sciences,  lost  or 
forgotten,  could  have  revived,  and  in  what  an  infant  state  would 
society  be  at  the  present  day  ! 

As  Christianity  preserved  society  from  total  destruction  by 
converting  the  barbarians  and  by  collecting  the  wrecks  of  civil 
ization  and  the  arts,  so  it  would  have  saved  the  Roman  world 


1  Tacit.,  An.,  lib.  xiv. ;    Suet.,  tn  Neron. 

2  Id.,  ibid.,  lib.  xvi.  5. 

3  Dionys.  et  Ignat.,  Epitt.  ap.  Bus.,  iv.  23 ;  Chrya.,  Op.,  tome  vii.  pp.  658 
and    810,    edit.    Savil;     Plin.,  Epist.    x. ;     Lucian,   in    Alex.,    c.  25.       Pliny, 
in    his    celebrated    letter    here    quoted,    complains     that     the    temples    are 
forsaken,   and    that  purchasers   are   no   longer  to  be    found    for   the   sacred 
tictims. 

57» 


678  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

from  its  own  corruption,  had  not  the  latter  fallen  beneath  foreign 
arms.  Religion  alone  can  renew  the  original  energy  of  a  nation. 
That  of  the  Saviour  had  already  laid  the  moral  foundation. 
The  ancients  permitted  infanticide,  and  the  dissolution  of  the 
marriage  tie,  which  is,  in  fact,  the  first  bond  of  society;  their 
probity  and  justice  were  relative  things;  they  extended  not 
beyond  the  limits  of  their  native  land;  the  people  collectively 
had  different  principles  from  the  individual  citizen;  modesty 
and  humanity  were  not  ranked  among  the  virtues;  the  most 
numerous  class  of  the  community  was  composed  of  slaves;  and 
the  state  was  incessantly  fluctuating  between  popular  anarchy 
and  despotism.  Such  were  the  mischiefs  to  which  Christianity 
applied  an  infallible  remedy,  as  she  has  proved,  by  delivering 
modern  societies  from  the  same  evils.  The  very  excess  of  Chris 
tian  austerity  in  the  first  ages  was  necessary.  It  was  requisite 
that  there  should  be  martyrs  of  chastity  when  there  were  public 
prostitutions, — penitents  covered  with  sackcloth  and  ashes  when 
the  law  authorized  the  grossest  violations  of  morality, — heroes  of 
charity  when  there  were  monsters  of  barbarity;  finally,  to  wean 
a  whole  degenerate  people  from  the  disgraceful  combats  of  the 
circus  and  the  arena,  it  was  requisite -that  religion  should  have 
her  champions  and  her  exhibitions,  if  we  may  so  express  it,  in 
the  deserts  of  Thebais. 

JESUS  CHRIST  may  therefore,  with  strict  truth,  be  deno 
minated,  in  a  material  sense,  that  SAVIOUR  OF  THE  WORLD 
which  he  is  in  a  spiritual  sense.  His  career  on  earth  was,  even 
humanly  speaking,  the  most  important  event  that  ever  occurred 
among  men,  since  the  regeneration  of  society  commenced  only 
with  the  proclamation  of  the  gospel.  The  precise  time  of  his 
advent  is  truly  remarkable.  A  little  earlier,  his  morality  would 
not  have  been  absolutely  necessary,  for  the  nations  were  stil) 
upheld  -by  their  ancient  laws ;  a  little  later,  that  divine  Messiah 
would  have  appeared  after  the  general  wreck  of  society.1  We 
boast  of  our  philosophy  at  the  present  day ;  but,  most  assuredly, 
the  levity  with  which  we  treat  the  institutions  of  Christianity 

1  These    remarks  very  happily  illustrate    the    declaration  of  an    inspired 

apostle.      St.  Paul  says,    When  the  fulness  of  time  (the  TrA/jpw^a  TU  Kaipu — the 

accomplishment  of  the  destined  period)  was  come,  God  sent  his  Son  into  tht 
world.  S. 


SOCIETY  WITHOUT  CHRISTIANITY.  679 

is  any  thing  but  philosophical.  The  gospel  has  changed  man 
kind  in  every  respect  and  enabled  it  to  take  an  immense  step 
toward  perfection.  If  you  consider  it  as  a  grand  religious  insti 
tution,  which  has  regenerated  the  human  race,  then  all  the  petty 
objections,  all  the  cavils  of  impiety,  fall  to  the  ground.  It  is 
certain  that  the  pagan  nations  were  in  a  kind  of  moral  infancy 
In  comparison  to  what  we  are  at  the  present  day.  A  few 
striking  acts  of  justice,  exhibited  by  a  few  of  the  ancients,  are 
not  sufficient  to  shake  this  truth  or  to  change  the  general  aspect 
of  the  case. 

Christianity  has  unquestionably  shed  a  new  light  upon  man 
kind.  It  is  the  religion  that  is  adapted  to  a  nation  matured  by 
time.  It  is,  if  we  may  venture  to  use  the  expression,  the  reli 
gion  congenial  to  the  present  age  of  the  world,  as  the  reign  of 
types  and  emblems  was  suited  to  the  cradle  of  Israel.  In 
heaven  it  has  placed  one  only  God  j  on  earth  it  has  abolished 
slavery.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  consider  its  mysteries  (as  we 
have  done)  as  the  archetype  of  the  laws  of  nature,  you  will  find 
nothing  in  them  revolting  to  a  great  mind.  The  truths  of 
Christianity,  so  far  from  requiring  the  submission  of  reason,1 
command,  on  the  contrary,  the  most  sublime  exercise  of  that 
faculty. 

This  remark  is  so  just,  and  Christianity,  which  has  been  cha 
racterized  as  the  religion  of  barbarians,  is  so  truly  the  religion 
of  philosophers,  that  Plato  may  be  said  to  have  almost  antici 
pated  it.  Not  only  the  morality,  but  also  the  doctrine,  of  the 
disciple  of  Socrates  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  that  of  the 
gospel.  Dacier,  his  translator,  sums  them  up  in  the  following 
manner  : — 

"Plato  proves  that  the  Word  arranged  this  universe  and  ren 
dered  it  visible ;  that  the  knowledge  of  this  Word  leads  to  a  happy 
life  here  below  and  procures  felicity  after  death ;  that  the  soul  is 
immortal ;  that  the  dead  will  rise  again  ;  that  there  will  be  a  last 
judgment  of  the  righteous  and  the  wicked,  where  each  will  appear 
only  with  his  virtues  or  his  vices,  which  will  be  the  cause  of  ever 
lasting  happiness  or  misery. 

"  Finally,"  says  the  learned  translator,  "  Plato  had  so  grand 


That  ie,  the  suppression  of  reason.     T. 


680  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

and  so  true  a  conception  of  supreme  justice,  and  was  so  tlio 
roughly  acquainted  with  the  depravity  of  men,  that,  according  to 
him,  if  a  man  supremely  just  were  to  appear  upon  earth,  he  would 
be  imprisoned,  calumniated,  scourged,  and  at  length  CRUCIFIED, 
by  those  who,  though  fraught  with  injustice,  would  nevertheless 
pass  for  righteous.1 

The  detractors  of  Christianity  place  themselves  in  a  false  posi 
tion,  which  it  is  scarcely  possible  for  them  not  to  perceive.  If 
they  assert  that  this  religion  originated  among  the  Goths  and 
Vandals,  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  prove  that  the  schools  of  Greece 
had  very  clear  notions  of  the  Christian  tenets.  If  they  maintain, 
on  the  contrary,  that  the  doctrine  of  the  gospel  is  but  the  philo 
sophical  teaching  of  the  ancients,  why  then  do  our  philosophers 
reject  it?  Even  they  who  discover  in  Christianity  nothing  more 
than  ancient  allegories  of  the  heavens,  the  planets,  and  the  signs 
of  the  zodiac,  by  no  means  divest  that  religion  of  all  its  grandeur. 
It  would  still  appear  profound  and  magnificent  in  its  mysteries, 
ancient  and  sacred  in  its  traditions,  which  in  this  way  would  be 
traceable  to  the  infancy  of  the  world.  How  extraordinary  that 
all  the  researches  of  infidels  cannot  discover  in  Christianity  any 
thing  stamped  with  the  character  of  littleness  or  mediocrity  ! 

With  respect  to  the  morality  of  the  gospel,  its  beauty  is  uni 
versally  admitted  :  the  more  it  is  known  and  practised,  the  more 
will  the  eyes  of  men  be  opened  to  their  real  happiness  and  their 
true  interest.  Political  science  is  extremely  circumscribed.  The 
highest  degree  of  perfection  which  it  can  attain  is  the  represen 
tative  system, — the  offspring,  as  we  have  shown,  of  Christianity. 
But  a  religion  whose  precepts  form  a  code  of  morality  and  virtue 
is  an  institution  capable  of  supplying  every  want,  and  of  becom 
ing,  in  the  hands  of  saints  and  sages,  a  universal  means  of  felicity. 
The  time  may  perhaps  come  when  the  mere  form  of  government, 
excepting  despotism,  will  be  a  matter  of  indifference  among  men, 
who  will  attach  themselves  more  particularly  to  those  simple, 
moral,  and  religious  laws  which  constitute  the  permanent  basis 
of  society  and  of  all  good  government. 

Those  who  reason  about  the  excellence  of  antiquity,  and  would 
fain  persuade  us  to  revive  its  institutions,  forget  that  social  order 

Dacier,  Discourt  aur  Platan,  p.  22. 


SOCIETY  WITHOUT  CHRISTIANITY.  681 

is  not,  neither  can  it  be,  what  it  formerly  was.  In  the  absence  of 
a  great  moral  power,  a  great  coercive  power  is  at  least  necessary 
among  men.  In  the  ancient  republics,  the  greater  part  of  the 
population,  as  is  well  known,  were  slaves ;  the  man  who  cultivated 
the  earth  belonged  to  another  man  :  there  were  people,  but  there 
were  no  nations. 

Polytheism,  which  is  defective  in  every  respect  as  a  religious 
system,  might  therefore  have  been  adapted  to  that  imperfect  state 
of  society,  because  each  master  was  a  kind  of  absolute  magistrate, 
whose  rigid  despotism  kept  the  slave  within  the  bounds  of  duty 
and  compensated  by  chains  for  the  deficiency  of  the  moral  religious 
force.  Paganism,  not  possessing  sufficient  excellence  to  render 
the  poor  man  virtuous,  was  obliged  to  let  him  be  treated  as  a 
malefactor. 

But,  in  the  present  order  of  things,  how  could  you  restrain  an 
immense  multitude  of  free  peasants,  far  removed  from  the  vigi 
lance  of  the  magistrate  ?  how  could  you  prevent  the  crimes  of  an 
independent  populace,  congregated  in  the  suburbs  of  an  extensive 
capital,  if  they  did  not  believe  in  a  religion  which  enjoins  the 
practice  of  duty  and  virtue  upon  all  the  conditions  of  life  ?  De 
stroy  the  influence  of  the  gospel,  and  you  must  give  to  every  vil 
lage  its  police,  its  prisons,  its  executioners.  If,  by  an  impossi 
bility,  the  impure  altars  of  paganism  were  ever  re-established 
amon"-  modern  nations, — if,  in  a  society  where  slavery  is  abolished, 
the  worship  of  Mercury  the  robber  and  Venus  the  prostitute  were 
to  be  introduced, — there  would  soon  be  a  total  extinction  of  the 
human  race.1 

Here  lies  the  error  of  those  who  commend  polytheism  for  hav 
ing  separated  the  moral  from  the  religious  force,  and  at  the  same 
time  censure  Christianity  for  having  adopted  a  contrary  system. 
They  perceive  not  that  paganism,  having  to  deal  with  an  immense 
nation  of  slaves,  was  consequently  afraid  of  enlightening  the 
human  race;  that  it  gave  every  encouragement  to  the  sensual 
part  of  man,  and  entirely  neglected  the  cultivation  of  the  soul. 
Christianity,  on  the  contrary,  meditating  the  destruction  of  sla 
very,  held  up  to  man  the  dignity  of  his  nature,  and  inculcated 

1  A  frightful  illustration  of  these  remarks  was  witnessed  during  the  French 
revolution.  T. 


682  GENIUS   OF  CHEISTIANITY. 

the  precepts  of  reason  and  virtue.  It  m'ay  be  affirmed  that  the 
doctrine  of  the  gospel  is  the  doctrine  of  a  free  people,  from  this 
single  circumstance : — that  it  combines  morality  with  religion. 

It  is  high  time  to  be  alarmed  at  the  state  in  which  we  have 
beet  living  for  some  years  past.  Think  of  the  generation  now 
springing  up  in  our  towns  and  provinces ;  of  all  those  children 
who,  born  during  the  revolution,  have  never  heard  any  thing  of 
God,  nor  of  the  immortality  of  their  souls,  nor  of  the  punish 
ments  or  rewards  that  await  them  in  a  future  life  :  think  what 
may  one  day  become  of  such  a  generation  if  a  remedy  be  not 
speedily  applied  to  the  evil.  The  most  alarming  symptoms  already 
manifest  themselves :  we  see  the  age  of  innocence  sullied  with 
many  crimes.1  Let  philosophy,  which,  after  all,  cannot  penetrate 
among  the  poor,  be  content  to  dwell  in  the  mansions  of  the  rich, 
and  leave  the  people  in  general  to  the  care  of  religion ;  or,  rather, 
let  philosophy,  with  a  more  enlightened  zeal  and  with  a  spirit 
more  worthy  of  her  name,  remove  those  barriers  which  she  pro 
posed  to  place  between  man  and  his  Creator. 

Let  us  support  our  last  conclusions  with  authorities  which  phi 
losophy  will  not  be  inclined  to  suspect. 

"  A  little  philosophy/'  says  Bacon,  "  withdraws  us  from  reli 
gion,  but  a  good  deal  of  philosophy  brings  us  back  to  it  again : 
nobody  denies  the  existence  of  God,  excepting  the  man  who  has 
reason  to  wish  that  there  were  none." 

"  To  say  that  religion  is  not  a  restraint,"  observes  Montes 
quieu,  "  because  it  does  not  always  restrain,  is  equally  absurd  as 
to  say  that  the  civil  laws  also  are  not  a  deterring  agent.  .  .  .  The 
question  is  not  to  ascertain  whether  it  would  be  better  for  a  cer 
tain  individual  or  a  certain  nation  to  have  no  religion  than  to 
abuse  that  which  they  have ;  but  to  know  which  is  the  least  evil, 
— that  religion  should  be  sometimes  abused,  or  that  there  should 
be  none  at  all  among  mankind.2 

"  The  history  of  Sabbaco,"  says  that  eminent  writer,  whom  we 
continue  to  quote,  "  is  admirable.  The  god  of  Thebes  appeared 
to  him  in  a  dream,  and  ordered  him  to  put  to  death  all  the  priests 

1  The  public  papers  teem  with  details  of  the  crimes  committed  by  little  male 
factors,  eleven  or  twelve  years  old.     The  danger  must  be  highly  alarming, 
Bince  the  peasants  themselves  complain  of  the  vices  of  their  children. 

2  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  xxiv.  chap.  2. 


SOCIETY  WITHOUT   CHRISTIANITY.  683 


of  Egypt.  He  conceived  that  it  was  not  pleasing  to  the  gods  that 
he  should  reign  any  longer,  since  they  enjoined  things  so  con 
trary  to  their  ordinary  pleasures,  and  accordingly  he  retired  into 
Ethiopia."1 

Finally,  Rousseau  exclaims,  "Avoid  those  who,  under  the  pre 
tence  of  explaining  nature,  sow  mischievous  doctrines  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  and  whose  apparent  skepticism  is  a  hundred  times 
more  positive  and  dogmatic  than  the  decided  tone  of  their  ad- 
versaries.  Under  the  arrogant  pretext  that  they  alone  are  en 
lightened,  true,  and  sincere,  they  imperiously  subject  us  to  their 
peremptory  decisions,  and  presume  to  give  us,  as  the  general 
principles  of  things,  the  unintelligible  systems  which  they  have 
erected  in  their  imaginations.  Overthrowing,  destroying,  tramp 
ling  under  foot  all  that  is  respected  by  men,  they  bereave  the 
afflicted  of  the  last  consolation  in  their  misery;  they  take  from 
the  rich  and  powerful  the  only  curb  of  their  passions;  they 
eradicate  from  the  heart  the  remorse  consequent  on  guilt,  the 
hopes  inspired  by  virtue;  and  still  they  boast  of  being  the  bene 
factors  of  the  human  race.  Never,  say  they,  can  truth  be  hurt 
ful  to  men.  I  think  so  too;  and  this,  in  my  opinion,  is  a  strong 
proof  that  what  they  teach  is  not  the  truth. 

"  One  of  the  most  common  sophisms  with  the  philosophic  party 
is  to  contrast  a  supposed  nation  of  good  philosophers  with  one 
of  bad  Christians;  as  if  it  were  easier  to  form  a  people  of  genuine 
philosophers  than  a  people  of  genuine  Christians.  I  know  not 
if,  among  individuals,  one  of  these  characters  is  more  easy  to  be 
found  than  the  other;  but  this  I  know,  that  when  we  come  to 
talk  of  nations,  we  must  suppose  such  as  will  make  a  bad  use  of 
philosophy  without  religion,  just  as  ours  abuses  religion  without 
philosophy ;  and  this  seems  to  me  to  make  a  material  alteration 
in  the  state  of  the  question. 

"It  is  an  easy  matter  to  make  a  parade  of  fine  maxims  in 
books;  but  the  question  is  whether  they  agree  with,  and  ne 
cessarily  flow  from,  the  principles  of  the  writer.  So  far,  this 
has  not  been  the  case.  It  also  remains  to  be  seen  whether  phi 
losophy,  at  its  ease  and  upon  the  throne,  would  be  capable  of 
controlling  the  love  of  glory,  the  selfishness,  the  ambition,  the 


1  Spirit  of  Lawt,  book  xxiv.  chap.  4. 


GS4  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

little  passions  of  men,  and  whether  it  would  practise  that  engaging 
humanity  which,  with  pen  in  hand,  it  so  highly  commends. 

"ACCORDING  TO  PRINCIPLES,  PHILOSOPHY  CAN  DO  NO  GOOD 
WHICH  RELIGION  WOULD  NOT  FAR  SURPASS;  AND  RELIGION 
DOES  MUCH  THAT  PHILOSOPHY  CANNOT  ACCOMPLISH. 

"Our  modern  governments  are  unquestionably  indebted  to 
Christianity  for  a  better-established  authority  and  for  less  frequent 
revolutions.  It  has  made  them  less  sanguinary,  as  is  proved  by 
comparing  them  with  the  governments  of  antiquity.  Religion, 
becoming  better  known  and  discarding  fanaticism,  imparted  a 
greater  mildness  to  Christian  manners.  This  change  was  not  the 
effect  of  letters;  for  the  spirit  of  humanity  has  not  been  the 
more  respected  in  those  countries  which  could  boast  of  their 
superior  knowledge.  The  cruelties  of  the  Athenians,  the  Egyp 
tians,  the  Roman  emperors,  the  Chinese,  attest  this  truth.  What 
numberless  works  of  mercy  have  been  produced  by  the  gospel!" 

As  for  us,  we  are  convinced  that  Christianity  will  rise  tri 
umphant  from  the  dreadful  trial  by  which  it  has  just  been  puri 
fied.  What  gives  us  this  assurance  is  that  it  stands  the  test  of 
reason  perfectly,  and  the  more  we  examine  it  the  more  we  dis 
cover  its  profound  truth.  Its  mysteries  explain  man  and  nature; 
its  works  corroborate  its  precepts;  its  charity  in  a  thousand  forms 
has  replaced  the  cruelty  of  the  ancients.  Without  losing  any 
thing  of  the  pomp  of  antiquity,  its  ceremonies  give  greater  satis 
faction  to  the  heart  and  the  imagination.  We  are  indebted  to 
it  for  every  thing, — letters,  sciences,  agriculture,  and  the  fine  arts; 
it  connects  morality  with  religion,  and  man  with  God;  Jesus 
Christ,  the  saviour  of  moral  man,  is  also  the  saviour  of  physical 
man.  His  coming  may  be  considered  as  an  advent  the  most  im 
portant  and  most  felicitous,  designed  to  counterbalance  the  deluge 
of  barbarism  and  the  total  corruption  of  manners.  Did  we  even 
reject  the  supernatural  evidences  of  Christianity,  there  would  still 
remain  in  its  sublime  morality,  in  the  immensity  of  its  benefits, 
and  in  the  beauty  of  its  worship,  sufficient  proof  of  its  being  the 
most  divine  and  the  purest  religion  ever  practised  by  men. 

"  With  those  who  have  an  aversion  for  religion,"  says  Pascal, 
"you  must  begin  with  demonstrating  that  it  is  not  contradictory 
to  reason ;  next  show  that  it  is  venerable,  and  inspire  them  with 
respect  for  it ;  afterward  exhibit  it  in  an  amiable  light,  and  excite 


CONCLUSION.  685 

a  wish  that  it  were  true;  then  let  it  appear  by  incontestable 
proofs  that  it  is  true;  and,  lastly,  prove  its  antiquity  and  holiness 
by  its  grandeur  and  sublimity." 

Such  is  the  plan  which  that  great  man  marked  out,  and  which 
we  have  endeavored  to  pursue.  Though  we  have  not  employed 
the  arguments  usually  advanced  by  the  apologists  of  Christianity, 
we  have  arrived  by  a  different  chain  of  reasoning  at  the  same 
conclusion,  which  we  present  as  the  result  of  this  work. 

Christianity  is  perfect;  men  are  imperfect. 

Now,  a  perfect  consequence  cannot  spring  from  an  imperfect 
principle. 

Christianity,  therefore,  is  not  the  work  of  men. 

If  Christianity  is  not  the  work  of  men,  it  can  have  come  from 
none  but  God. 

If  it  came  from  God,  men  cannot  have  acquired  a  knowledge 
of  it  but  by  revelation. 

Therefore,  Christianity  is  a  revealed  religion. 

58 


NOTES. 


NOTE  A,  (p.  47.) 

THE  Encyclopedic  is  a  wretched  work,  according  to  the  opinion  of  Voltaire 
himself.  "I  have  accidentally  eeen,"  says  he,  writing  to  D'Aleuibert,  "some 
articles  by  those  who,  with  me,  perform  the  tasks  of  journeymen  in  that  great 
shop.  Most  of  them  are  written  without  method.  The  article  Femme  (Woman) 
has  just  been  copied  into  one  of  the  literary  journals,  and  is  most  severely  ridi 
culed.  I  could  not  suppose  that  you  would  have  admitted  such  an  article  into 
to  grave  a  work.  Any  one  would  imagine  that  it  was  composed  for  a  lackey 
of  Gil  Bias." — Cbrretp.  between  Voltaire  and  D'Alembert,vol.i.p.  19,  letter  13, 
Nov.  1756. 

"You  encourage  me  to  tell  you  that  people  in  general  complain  of  the  tire 
some,  vague,  and  desultory  articles  which  various  persons  furnish  you  in  order 
to  show  off.  They  should  think  of  the  work,  and  not  of  themselves.  Why 
have  you  not  recommended  a  certain  plan  to  your  assistants,  such  as  deriva 
tions,  definitions,  examples,  reasons,  clearness,  brevity?  I  have  met  with  none 
of  these  in  the  dozen  articles — the  only  ones  I  have  seen."  (Letter  22d  Dec., 
1756;  see  also  29th  Dec.,  1757.) 

D'Alembert,  in  the  Ditcoune  prefixed  to  the  third  rolume  of  the  Encyclopedic, 
and  Diderot,  in  the  fifth,  (article  Encyclopedic,)  have  themselves  written  the 
keenest  of  satires  on  their  performances. — See  the  Correspondence  between  Vol 
taire  and  D'Alembert,  vol.  i.  p.  19. 

NOTE    B,  (p.  79.) 

In  conjunction  with  this  passage  from  the  Apology  of  St.  Justin,  the  reader 
will  be  interested  by  the  account  which  Pliny  the  younger  has  given  of  the 
manners  of  the  early  Christians.  His  letter  to  Trajan  on  this  subject,  as  well 
as  the  answer  of  the  emperor,  shows  that  the  innocence  of  the  Christians  was 
fully  admitted,  and  that  their  religious  faith  was  their  only  crime.  We  learn 
also  from  this  source  the  wonderful  diffusion  of  the  gospel ;  for  at  that  time,  in 
a  portion  of  the  empire,  the  temple*  were  almont  deserted.  This  letter  of  Pliny 
was  written  one  or  two  years  after  the  death  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  and 
about  forty  prior  to  the  appearance  of  St.  Justin's  Apology.  Though  well  known, 
it«  insertion  here  may  not  be  devoid  of  utility: — 

"Pliny,  Proconsul  in  liithynia  and  Pontus,  to  the  Emperor  Trajan. 

"I  make  it  a  solemn  duty,  sire,  to  acquaint  you  with  all  my  difficulties;  for 
who  can  enlighten  or  direct  me  in  my  doubts  better  than  yourself?  I  have 
never  assisted  at  the  indictment  and  trial  of  any  Christian;  so  that  I 
Vnow  not  on  what  grounds  they  are  accused,  nor  to  what  extent  they  ought  TO 
be  punished.  I  ain  much  influenced  by  the  difference  of  age.  Should  all  be 

687 


688  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

made  to  suffer  without  distinguishing  between  the  young  and  those  more  ad 
vanced  in  years  ?  Should  they  who  repent  be  pardoned,  or  is  it  useless  to  re 
nounce  Christianity  after  having  once  embraced  it?  Is  it  the  mere  profession 
that  we  punish,  or  the  crimes  imputed  to  that  profession  ?  In  the  cases  that 
have  come  under  my  notice,  I  have  observed  the  following  mode  of  proceeding: 
I  inquired  of  them  whether  they  were  Christians;  and,  if  they  acknowledged 
it,  I  subjected  them  to  a  second  and  a  third  interrogatory,  threatening  them 
with  punishment.  If  they  persisted,  I  put  them  to  the  torture ;  because,  what- 
ever  might  be  the  nature  of  the  principles  to  which  they  adhered,  I  judged 
that  they  deserved  to  suffer  on  account  of  their  disobedience  and  invincible 
jbstinacy.  Others,  given  to  the  same  folly,  I  propose  to  send  to  Rome,  as  they 
are  citizens  of  the  empire.  The  crime  of  these  people  having  spread,  as  it 
generally  happens,  a  variety  of  cases  presented  themselves.  A  memorial,  with 
out  any  signature,  was  placed  in  my  hands,  which  charged  different  persons 
with  being  Christians  who  deny  that  they  are,  or  ever  were,  members  of  that 
profession.  They  invoked  the  gods  in  my  presence,  and  in  such  language  as  I 
prescribed,  and  also  offered  incense  and  wine  to  your  image,  which  I  had 
brought  expressly  with  the  statues  of  our  divinities.  They  also  vented  their 
imprecations  against  Christ,  which,  it  is  said,  no  true  Christian  can  ever  be 
compelled  to  do.  I  concluded,  therefore,  to  discharge  them.  Others,  accused 
by  an  informer,  acknowledged  at  first  that  they  were  Christians,  and  immedi 
ately  after  denied  it;  saying  that,  although  formerly  attached  to  that  belief, 
they  had  renounced  it, — some  more  than  three  years  before,  others  a  longer 
time,  and  others  again  more  than  twenty  years.  All  these  people  adored  your 
image  and  the  statues  of  the  gods,  and  uttered  maledictions  against  Christ. 
They  declared  that  they  had  committed  no  other  fault  than  what  is  implied  in 
their  observances,  namely : — they  assembled  on  an  appointed  day  before  sunrise 
and  sang  alternately  the  praises  of  Christ  as  a  Divine  Being.  They  bound 
themselves  by  oath  not  to  commit  any  crime,  but  to  abstain  from  theft  and 
adultery,  to  fulfil  their  promises,  and  not  to  deny  the  trust  confided  to  them. 
Afterward  they  separated,  and  again  came  together  to  partake  of  an  innocent 
repast;  but  this  they  discontinued  after  the  publication  of  my  edict,  by  which, 
agreeably  to  your  commands,  I  prohibited  all  kinds  of  meetings.  I  have  deemed 
it  necessary  to  apply  the  torture  in  order  to  extort  the  truth  from  certain  un 
married  women  (slaves)  who  were  admitted  to  be  employed  in  the  Christian 
administrations.  It  led,  however,  to  no  disclosure  beyond  the  fact  that  they 
were  guilty  of  a  foolish  and  excessive  superstition ;  which  has  caused  me  to 
suspend  all  further  proceedings  until  after  the  reception  of  your  commands. 
Tbis  matter  appears  to  me  deserving  of  your  attention  from  the  great  number 
of  persons  involved;  for  an  immense  multitude  of  both  sexes,  and  of  every  age 
and  condition,  are  daily  implicated  in  these  charges,  and  will  continue  to  be 
so.  The  contagion  has  not  only  infected  the  cities,  but  it  has  spread  into  the 
towns  and  provinces.  It  seems  to  me,  however,  that  it  may  be  remedied  and 
nrrested.  I  can  say  with  certainty  that  the  temples,  which  had  been  almost 
deserted,  are  now  frequented ;  and  the  sacrifices,  for  a  long  time  disregarded, 
begin  to  attract  attention.  Victims  are  sold  in  every  direction,  while  some  time 
ago  they  found  few  purchasers.  We  may  judge  from  this  what  a  number  of 
persons  may  be  reclaimed  from  their  errors  if  pardon  be  promised  to  tb» 
repentant." 


NOTES.  G89 

"  Trajan  to  Pliny. 

"  My  dear  Pliny : — You  have  acted  right  in  regard  to  the  Christians  who 
were  cited  before  you;  for  it  is  impossible,  in  this  kind  of  affair,  to  have  any 
certain  and  general  form  of  proceeding.  The  Christians  should  not  be  pursued. 
If  they  are  accused  and  convicted,  let  them  be  punished.  If  the  party  deny 
that  he  is  a  Christian,  and  prove  it  by  his  actions, — that  is,  by  an  invocation 
of  the  gods, — he  should  be  pardoned,  no  matter  what  suspicion  may  have  previ 
ously  existed  against  him.  But  in  no  case  whatever  should  any  anonymous 
informations  be  admitted ;  for  that  would  be  a  dangerous  precedent,  and  quite 
foreign  to  our  principles." 

NOTE   C,  (p.  81.) 

An  illustration  of  the  frightful  consequences  of  an  excessive  population  is 
exhibited  among  the  Chinese,  who  annually  destroy  an  immense  number  of 
children.  The  more  we  examine  the  question  the  more  convinced  do  we  be 
come  that  Jesus  Christ  acted  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  universal  legislator, 
when  he  encouraged  a  number  of  men  to  follow  his  example  by  leading  a  life 
of  celibacy.  Libertinism  may  no  doubt  have  availed  itself  of  the  counsel  of 
St.  Paul  to  palliate  excesses  injurious  to  society;  and  superficial  minds  uiuy 
have  been  led  by  such  abuse  to  declaim  against  the  counsel  itself;  but  what  is 
there  that  human  corruption  will  not  abuse  ?  What  institution  is  not  liable  tc 
be  assailed  by  those  short-sighted  people  who  are  incapable  of  embracing  in 
one  view  its  various  parts?  Moreover,  without  those  Christian  recluses  who 
appeared  three  hundred  years  after  the  Messiah,  what  would  have  become  of 
letters,  of  the  arts  and  sciences?  Finally,  the  opinion  we  have  expressed  ia 
confirmed  by  modern  economists,  and  among  them  Arthur  Young,  who  contend 
that  large  domains  are  more  favorable  than  smaller  ones  to  every  kind  of  cul 
ture  except  that  of  the  vine.  Now,  in  any  country  that  has  little  commerce, 
and  is  essentially  given  to  agriculture,  if  the  population  is  too  great  there  must 
necessarily  be  a  very  extensive  division  of  property,  or  this  country  will  be  ex 
posed  to  everlasting  revolutions;  unless,  indeed,  the  peasant  be  a  slave,  as 
among  the  ancients,  or  a  serf,  as  in  Russia  and  in  a  part  of  Germany. 

NOTE   D,  (p.  97.) 

Mr.  Ramsay,  a  Scotchman,  passed  from  Anglicanism  to  Socinianisin,  thence 
to  pure  Deism,  and  finally  to  a  universal  Pyrrhonism.  Having  consulted  Fen6- 
lon,  he  was  reconverted  to  Christianity  and  became  a  Catholic.  Mr.  Ramsay 
has  himself  left  us  the  interesting  conversation  which  resulted  in  his  conversion. 
We  shall  quote  that  part  of  it  which  points  out  the  limits  of  reason  and  of 
faith.  He  had  proved  to  Mr.  Ramsay  the  authenticity  of  the  Sacred  Writings 
and  the  excellent  morality  which  they  contain.  "But,  raonseigneur,"  asked  Mr. 
R.,  "how  is  it  that  the  Bible  presents  so  strange  a  contrast  of  luminous  truths 
and  obscure  dogmas?  I  should  like  to  see  those  sublime  notions  of  which  you 
have  just  spoken,  apart  from  what  the  priests  denominate  myiteries."  Fe'ne'lon 
answered  : — "  Why  should  we  reject  that  light  which  consoles  the  heart  because 
it  is  mingled  with  obscurity  which  humbles  the  intellect?  Should  not  the  true 
religion  elevate  and  lower  man  by  showing  him  at  once  his  greatness  and  his 
weakness?  You  have  not,  as  yet,  a  sufficiently  enlarged  view  of  Christianity 
58*  2T 


690  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

It  is  not  only  a  holy  law  that  purifies  the  heart;  it  is  also  a  mysterious  wisdom 
that  subdues  the  understanding.  It  is  a  continual  sacrifice,  by  which  our  whole 
being  pays  homage  to  the  Supreme  Reason.  By  practising  its  morality,  we  re 
nounce  pleasures  through  love  for  Infinite  Beauty.  By  believing  its  mysteries, 
we  sacrifice  our  ideas  through  respect  for  Eternal  Truth.  Without  this  twofold 
sacrifice  of  our  thoughts  and  our  passions,  the  holocaust  would  be  imperfect — 
the  victim  would  be  defective.  It  is  thus  that  man  entirely  disappears  in 
presence  of  the  Being  of  beings.  We  are  not  to  examine  whether  it  is  necessary 
for  God  to  reveal  to  us  mysteries  in  order  to  humble  our  understanding.  The 
question  is  whether  or  not  he  has  revealed  them.  If  he  has  spoken,  obedience 
and  love  cannot  be  separated.  Christianity  is  a  fact.  As  you  admit  the  evi 
dences  of  this  fact,  you  can  no  longer  examine  what  you  are  to  believe  or  not 
to  believe.  All  the  difficulties  which  you  have  suggested  vanish  at  once  when 
the  mind  is  cured  of  its  presumption.  It  is  easy  then  to  believe  that  the  Divine 
Nature  and  the  order  of  Divine  Providence  are  wrapped  in  mystery  impene 
trable  to  our  weak  reason.  The  Infinite  Being  must  be  incomprehensible  to 
his  creatures.  On  the  one  hand,  we  behold  a  Legislator  whose  law  is  altogether 
divine,  who  proves  his  mission  by  miraculous  facts,  the  evidence  of  which  it  is 
impossible  to  reject  j  on  the  other  hand,  we  find  mysteries  that  baffle  our  under 
standing.  What  are  we  to  do  between  these  two  embarrassing  extremes  of  a 
clear  revelation  and  an  impenetrable  obscurity?  Our  only  resource  is  to 
make  the  sacrifice  of  our  intellect — a  sacrifice  which  forms  a  part  of  the  worship 
which  we  owe  to  the  Supreme  Being.  Does  not  God  possess  an  infinite  know 
ledge  which  we  have  not?  If  he  makes  known  some  part  of  it  by  supernatural 
means,  we  are  no  longer  to  examine  into  the  nature  of  what  is  revealed,  but  into 
the  certainty  of  the  revelation.  Mysteries  appear  to  us  to  be  inconsistent  with 
out  in  reality  being  so.  This  apparent  inconsistency  proceeds  from  the  narrow 
ness  of  our  mind,  which  does  not  embrace  a  sufficiently  extensive  knowledge 
to  see  the  accord  between  our  natural  ideas  and  supernatural  truths." 

NOTE  E,  (p.  103.) 

In  the  polyglott  of  Anthony  Vitre,  we  read : — 

Vulgate — Ego  sum  Dominus  Deus  tuus. 

Septuagint — "Eyw  ci/it  >cvpio$  b  6£d?  aov. 

Latin  of  Chaldaic  text — Ego  Dominus  tuus. 

Walton's  polyglott  has  the  same  reading  as  above  for  the  Vulgate  and  Septu 
agint. 

Latin  of  Syriac  version — Ego  sum  Dominus  Deus  tuus. 

Latin  interlinear  version  in  the  Hebrew — Et  e  terra  ^Egypti  eduxi  te,  qu) 
tuus  Dominus  Deus  ego. 

Latin  of  the  Samaritan  Hebrew — Ego  sum  Dominus  Deus  tuus. 

Latin  of  the  Arabic  version — Ego  sum  Deus  Dominus  tuus. 

NOTE  P,  (p.  107.) 

The  truths  of  the  Scripture  may  be  traced  even  among  the  savages  of  the 
New  World. 

"  You  may  have  perceived,"  says  Charlevoix,  "  in  the  fable  of  Atahensic 


691 

iriven  from  heaven,  some  vestiges  of  the  history  of  the  first  woman  banished  from 
the  terrestrial  paradise  in  punishment  of  her  disobedience,  and  the  tradition  of 
the  deluge  as  well  as  the  ark  in  which  Noah  was  saved  with  his  family.  This 
circumstance  leads  me  to  reject  the  opinion  of  Father  Acosta,  who  pretends  that 
this  tradition  relate*  to  some  particular  deluge  in  America.  In  fact,  the  Algon- 
quins,  and  almost  all  the  tribes  that  speak  their  language,  supposing  the  crea 
tion  of  the  first  man;  say  that  his  posterity  having  almost  entirely  p°erished  by 
a  general  inundation,  Meason,  or,  as  others  call  him,  Saket-chack,  who  saw  the 
whole  earth  buried  under  the  water,  despatched  a  crow  to  the  bottom  of  the 
abyss  in  order  to  bring  him  some  earth ;  but  the  crow  having  failed  in  its  mis 
sion,  he  sent  a  musk-rat,  which  was  more  successful ;  that  with  the  earth 
brought  him  by  this  animal  he  restored  the  world  to  its  former  state  ;  that  he 
pierced  the  trees  that  could  be  seen  with  arrows,  which  were  changed  into 
branches;  that  he  accomplished  many  other  wonders ;  that,  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  services  rendered  by  the  musk-rat,  he  married  a  female  of  that  species 
of  cnimal,  and  repeopled  the  earth  ;  that  he  communicated  his  immortality  to 
a  certain  savage,  in  a  small  package,  which  he  forbade  him  to  open  under  pain 
of  losing  the  precious  gift." 

Father  Bouchet,  in  his  letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Avranches,  gives  the  most 
curious  particulars  respecting  the  resemblance  between  the  Indian  fables  and 
the  principal  truths  of  our  religion  and  the  traditions  of  Scripture,-  and  the 
Asiatic  Researches  confirm  the  account  of  that  learned  French  missionary. 

"  Most  of  the  Indians,"  says  Bouchet,  "  assert  that  the  numerous  deities 
whom  they  now  adore  are  but  inferior  gods,  subordinate  to  the  Supreme  Being, 
who  is  alike  the  Lord  of  gods  and  men.  This  idea  which  they  have  of  a  being 
infinitely  superior  to  other  divinities,  shows  at  least  that  their  ancestors 
adored  only  one  God,  and  that  polytheism  was  introduced  among  them  in  the 
same  way  in  which  it  was  among  all  idolatrous  nations. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  that  this  primitive  knowledge  is  a  clear  proof  of  any  in 
tercourse  having  existed  between  the  Indians  and  the  Egyptians  or  Jews.  I 
know,  indeed,  that  the  Author  of  nature,  without  any  such  aid,  has  engraved 
this  fundamental  truth  upon  the  minds  of  all  men,  and  that  it  cannot  be  altered 
except  by  the  inordinacy  and  corruption  of  their  hearts.  For  the  same  reason, 
I  shall  say  nothing  of  their  belief  respecting  the  immortality  of  the  soul  and 
other  similar  truths. 

"They  maintain  that  Bruma,  one  of  the  three  inferior  gods,  has  received  the 
power  of  creating,  and  that  he  created  the  first  man  from  the  slime  of  the  earth, 
and  placed  him  in  Choream— a  delightful  garden,  abounding  in  every  kind  of  fruit, 
and  having  a  tree  the  product  of  which  would  impart  immortality  if  it  were 
permitted  to  eat  it.  It  would  be  strange  that  people  should  have  formed  so 
exact  an  idea  of  the  terrestrial  paradise  if  they  had  never  heard  of  it  from 
others.  In  their  desire  to  obtain  immortality,  they  had  recourse  to  the  tree  of 
life,  and  succeeded  in  their  design.  But  the  famous  serpent,  called  Cheiem, 
who  had  been  appointed  to  guard  the  tree,  was  enraged  upon  discovering  that 
it  had  been  usnd  by  the  inferior  gods;  and  he  poured  forth  a  great  quantity  of 
poison,  which  was  felt  over  the  whole  earth,  and  would  have  proved  fatal  to 
all  men,  had  not  the  god  Cfiiven  interposed,  and,  taking  compassion  upon 
mankind,  swallowed  the  poison  which  the  wicked  serpent  has  spread  abroad. 
"  Here  is  another  fable.  The  god  Routren,  who  had  the  power  of  destroy- 


692  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

ing  created  beings,  formed  one  day  the  resolution  to  drown  them;  but  VisJinou, 
the  preserver  of  creatures,  being  aware  of  his  design,  appeared  to  Sattiavarti, 
his  chief  confidant,  informed  him  of  what  Routren  contemplated,  and  told  him 
that  he  would  provide  a  large  vessel  as  the  means  of  saving  him,  and  of  pre 
serving  what  would  be  requisite  for  repeopling  the  world,  all  which  really 
happened. 

"  These  Indians  also  honor  the  memory  of  one  of  their  penitents,  who,  like 
the  patriarch  Abraham,  was  on  the  point  of  sacrificing  his  son  to  one  of  the 
gods,  as  he  had  been  required  to  do ;  but  whose  good  will  was  accepted  by  the 
divinity,  and  dispensed  him  from  the  execution  of  the  act. 

"  Thus,  as  we  find  the  history  of  the  creation,  of  the  tempter,  of  the  flood,  of 
Abraham,  you  will  likewise  discover  in  the  Indian  mythology  the  notion  of  a 
great  chief  who  was  exposed  in  a  river,  but,  having  been  withdrawn  from  this 
danger,  grew  up,  became  the  leader  of  his  companions,  defeated  their  enemies, 
and  conducted  them  safely  through  the  waters  of  the  sea.  You  will  also  find 
some  resemblances  to  the  Hebrew  customs  and  ceremonies,  especially  such  as 
relate  to  purifications  and  that  inviolable  law  which  forbids  persons  to  marry 
out  of  their  own  tribe  or  caste.  Here  we  trace  Moses  and  the  book  of  Leviti 
cus.  The  sacred  book  of  the  Indians  is  called  Vedam,  for  which  they  have  a 
profound  veneration,  and  which  I  believe  to  be  an  imitation  of  the  Pentateuch. 
What  is  still  more  extraordinary,  they  retain  a  confused  notion  of  the  adorable 
Trinity,  formerly  preached  to  them.  Their  three  principal  gods  are  Bruma, 
Vishnu,  and  Routren.  'You  must,'  said  one  of  the  Brahmins,  'represent  to 
yourself  God  and  his  three  different  names,  which  correspond  to  his  three  prin 
cipal  attributes,  very  much  as  those  triangular  pyramids  which  stand  before 
the  gate  of  some  temples.' " 

This  mythology  alludes  still  more  plainly  to  the  mystery  of  the  Incarnation. 
It  is  universally  admitted  among  the  Indians  that  the  Deity  has  several  times 
become  incarnate,  and  almost  all  believe  that  on  these  occasions  it  was  Vishnu, 
the  second  of  their  gods,  who  assumed  the  form  of  man  and  appeared  thus  in 
the  character  of  a  Saviour.  These  people  have  also  notions  and  practices 
which  recall  very  forcibly  the  sacraments  of  baptism  and  penance,  and  even 
the  holy  Eucharist. 

NOTE  G,  (p.  121.) 

"Chronology  is  nothing  more  than  a  heap  of  bladders  full  of  wind;  it  has 
gunk  under  all  those  who,  while  walking  upon  it,  imagined  that  they  were 
treading  upon  solid  ground.  We  have  at  the  present  day  eighty  systems,  not 
one  of  which  is  true. 

"We  reckon,  said  the  Babylonians,  473,600  years  of  celestial  observations. 
A  Parisian  comes  to  them :  Your  account,  says  he,  is  correct;  your  years  were 
days  of  the  solar  year ;  they  make  1297  of  our  years,  from  Atlas,  King  of  Africa. 
a  great  astronomer,  to  the  arrival  of  Alexander  at  Babylon. 

"  This  new-comer  from  Paris  needed  only  to  have  said  to,  the  Chaldeans, 
You  are  exaggerators,  and  our  ancestors  were  ignorant  fellows ;  nations  are 
subject  to  too  many  revolutions  to  preserve  astronomical  calculations  for  4736 
centuries ;  and  as  to  Atlas,  King  of  the  Moors,  nobody  knows  at  what  time  he 
lived.  Pythagoras  had  just  as  much  reason  to  pretend  that  he  had  been  a 


NOTES.  693 

cook,  as  you  to  boast  of  the  art  of  observation."— Voltaire,  Quest.  Entyclop. 
tome  3,  p.  59,  art.  ChronoL 

NOTE  H,  (p.  126.) 

It  is  plain,  for  many  reasons,  that  the  Indians  who  now  inhabit  North  Ame 
rica  could  not  have  constructed  the  works  which  are  seen  on  the  bapks  of  the 
Scioto.  Moreover,  they  all  agree  in  saying  that  when  their  ancestors  caine  to 
those  western  wilds  they  found  these  ruins  in  the  same  state  in  which  we  be 
hold  them.  Are  they  remains  of  the  Mexican  civilization?  Nothing  of  the 
kind,  however,  is  to  be  met  with  either  in  Mexico  or  Peru.  These  monument* 
also  indicate  a  knowledge  of  iron,  and  a  more  advanced  state  of  the  arts  than 
existed  in  the  New  World.  Add  to  this  that  the  empire  of  Montezuma  did 
not  extend  so  far  to  the  east,  since  the  Natches  and  Chickasaws,  when  they 
left  New  Mexico,  about  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  discovered  on 
the  banks  of  the  Meachacebt1  only  wandering  hordes. 

These  fortifications  have  been  attributed  to  Ferdinand  do  Soto;  but  how  can 
we  suppose  that  that  Spaniard,  who,  with  his  few  adventurers,  remained  only 
three  years  in  the  Floridas,  had  the  force  or  leisure  to  raise  those  enormous 
works  ?  Moreover,  the  form  of  the  tombs,  and  of  other  parts  of  the  ruins,  has 
no  correspondence  with  the  customs  and  arts  of  the  Europeans.  It  is  cer 
tain,  too,  that  the  conqueror  of  Florida  did  not  penetrate  beyond  Chattafallai,  a 
village  of  the  Chickasaws,  situated  on  a  branch  of  the  Mobile  River.  In  short, 
these  monuments  are  traceable  to  a  period  much  more  remote  than  the  dis 
covery  of  America.  We  noticed  among  these  ruins  an  old  decayed  oak,  which 
had  grown  over  the  ruins  of  another  oak  which  had  fallen  at  its  base,  and  no 
thing  of  which  remained  but  the  bark.  The  latter  had  also  risen  upon  its  pre- 
decessor,  and  this  one  again  bad  sprung  up  in  the  same  way.  The  locality  of 
the  two  last  was  discerned  by  the  intersection  of  two  circles  of  red  and  petrified 
sap,  which  could  be  seen  even  with  the  ground,  by  removing  a  thick  covering 
consisting  of  leaves  and  moss.  Now,  if  we  allow  only  three  centuries  to  each 
of  these  oaks,  we  shall  have  a  period  of  twelve  hundred  years  that  has  passed 
over  those  ruins. 

If  we  continue  this  historical  investigation,  (which,  however,  affords  no  argu 
ment  in  fuvor  of  the  antiquity  of  men,)  we  shall  find  that  there  is  no  rational 
theory  respecting  the  people  who  raised  these  ancient  works.  The  Welch 
chronicles  tell  us  of  a  certain  Madoc,  son  of  a  prince  of  Wales,  who,  being  dis 
contented  in  bis  own  country,  embarked  in  1170,  directed  his  course  to  the 
west,  discovered  a  fertile  land,  returned  to  England,  and  then,  with  twelve 
vessels,  went  back  to  the  new  region  which  he  had  found.  It  is  said  that  there 
are  still  to  be  found,  near  the  sources  of  the  Missouri,  white  Indians,  who  ure 
Christians  and  speak  the  Celtic  language.  Even  supposing  Madoc  and  his 
party  to  have  landed  in  America,  it  seems  to  us  plain  enough  that  they  could 
uot  have  constructed  the  immense  works  to  which  we  have  alluded. 

About  the  middle  of  the  ninth  century,  the  Danes,  who  were  then  very  skil 
ful  in  navigation,  discovered  Iceland,  whence  they  passed  to  a  region  farther 

1  This  is  the  true  name  of  the  Mississippi  or  Meschusippi,  and  signifies  the  bearded  father 
ofwatert.  See  Duprat,  Charlevoix,  and  other  travellers.  We  speak  here  from  our  own 
Investigations  tuno 


694  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


west,  called  Vinland,  on  account  of  the  numerous  vines  which  they  found 
there.1  There  can  scarcely  be  a  doubt  that  this  continent  was  America,  and 
that  the  Esquimaux  of  Labrador  are  the  descendants  of  the  Danes.  It  is  pre 
tended  also  that  the  Gauls  found  their  way  to  America  ;  but  neither  the  Scan 
dinavians,  nor  the  Celts  of  America  or  Neustria,  have  left  any  monuments 
similar  to  those  which  we  are  now  seeking  to  authenticate. 

It  may  perhaps  be  said  that  the  Phoenicians  or  Carthagenians,  in  their  com 
mercial  intercourse  with  Boetica,  (now  Andalusia,)  the  British  or  Scilly  Islands, 
(formerly  Cassiterides,)  or  the  western  coast  of  Africa,2  were  driven  upon  the 
American  shore.  Some  writers  pretend  that  the  Carthagenians  had  regular 
colonies  there,  which,  from  political  views,  were  afterward  abandoned.  If 
such  had  been  the  case,  why  was  not  some  vestige  of  Phoenician  manners 
found  among  the  Caribbeans,  among  the  savages  of  Guiana,  of  Paraguay,  or 
even  of  Florida  ?  Why  are  the  ruins  of  which  we  speak  in  the  interior  of 
North  America,  rather  than  in  some  part  of  South  America  opposite  to  the 
African  shore? 

There  are  other  writers  who  are  inclined  to  make  the  Jews  the  authors  of 
these  monuments,  and  contend  that  the  Ophir  of  the  Scriptures  is  located  in 
the  West  Indies.  It  was  asserted  by  Columbus  that  he  had  seen  the  remain? 
of  Solomon's  furnaces  in  the  mines  of  Cibao.  We  may  add  that  many  customs 
of  the  savages  appear  to  be  of  Jewish  origin,  such  as  breaking  the  bones  of 
the  victim  at  the  sacred  repast,  consuming  the  whole  offering,  having  places 
of  retirement  for  the  purification  of  women.  The  inferences,  however,  from 
these  facts,  amount  to  very  little;  for  why,  if  the  above-mentioned  hypothesis 
were  correct,  would  we  find  among  the  Hurons  a  language  and  a  deity  rather 
Greek  than  Jewish?  Is  it  not  remarkable  that  Ares-Koni  should  be  the 
god  of  war  in  the  Athenian  citadel  and  in  the  fort  of  the  Iroquois?  The 
most  judicious  critics  are  decidedly  opposed  to  the  transmigration  of  the 
Israelites  to  Louisiana,  proving  very  clearly  that  Ophir  was  on  the 
African  coast.3 

As  to  the  Egyptians,  they  opened,  closed,  and  resumed  again,  the  commerce 
of  Taprobane  (now  Ceylon)  by  the  Persian  Gulf;  but  were  they  acquainted 
with  the  fourth  continent?  We  answer  that  the  ruins  of  Ohio  exhibit  no 
traces  of  Egyptian  architecture.  The  bones  found  there  are  not  embalmed, 
and  the  skeletons  are  in  a  recumbent,  not  vertical,  position.  Moreover,  how  is 
it  that  none  of  these  ancient  works  are  met  with  from  the  sea-coast  to  the 
Allegbenies?  Why  are  they  all  concealed  beyond  this  chain  of  mountains? 
Whatever  people  may  be  supposed  to  have  established  a  colony  in  America, 
they  must  have  first  inhabited  the  plain  between  the  mountains  and  the 
Atlantic  coast,  before  they  penetrated  a  distance  of  four  hundred  leagues  to  the 
region  where  the  ruins  in  question  are  found ;  unless  it  be  said  (what  is  not 
devoid  of  probability)  that  the  former  shore  of  the  ocean  was  at  the  base  of 
the  Apalachian  and  Allegheny  ridges,  and  that  the  waters  subsequently 
receded  from  Pennsylvania,  Maryland,  Virginia,  Carolina,  Georgia,  and 
Florida.* 

t  Mall..  Intr.  d  Vhisf.  du  Dan. 

*  Vide  Strabo.  Ptol.,  Hann.,  Perip.  d'Anvill.,  &c.  *  Vide  Saur.  d'Anvill. 

4  We  say  nothing  of  the  Greeks,  and  particularly  the  people  of  Rhodes,  because  the) 
rarely  went  beyond  the  Mediterranean,  although  they  were  well  skilled  in  navigation. 


NOTES.  695 

NOTE  I,  (p.  132.) 

Preret  has  done  the  same  thing  for  the  Chinese,  and  Bailly  has  in  like 
eanner  reduced  their  chronology,  as  well  as  that  of  the  Egyptians  and  Chal 
deans,  to  the  computation  of  the  Septuagint.  These  authors  cannot  be  sus 
pected  of  partiality  to  our  opinion.  (See  Bailly,  tome  i.) 


NOTE  K,  (p.  136.) 

Buffon,  who  was  so  anxious  to  reconcile  his  system  with  the  book  of  Genesis 
made  the  origin  of  the  world  more  remote,  by  considering  each*  of  the  six  days 
mentioned  by  Moses  as  a  long  series  of  ages ;  but  it  must  be  admitted  that 
his  arguments  are  not  calculated  to  give  much  weight  to  his  conjectures.  It 
would  be  useless  to  say  more  concerning  this  system,  which  is  wholly  over 
thrown  by  the  first  principles  of  natural  philosophy  and  chemistry;  or  to  make 
any  remarks  on  the  formation  of  the  earth,  detached  from  the  mass  of  the  sun 
by  the  oblique  collision  of  a  comet,  and  suddenly  subjected  to  the  laws  of  gravita 
tion  which  govern  the  celestial  bodies :  or  the  gradual  cooling  of  the  earth,  which 
presupposes  the  same  homogeneousness  in  the  globe  as  in  the  cannon-ball 
which  was  used  for  an  experiment;  or  the  formation  of  mountains  of  the  first 
order,  which  implies  the  transmutation  of  argillaceous  into  siliceous  earth,  Ac. 

We  might  swell  this  list  of  systems,  which,  after  all,  are  nothing  but  sys 
tems.  They  have  destroyed  each  other,  and,  to  the  unbiassed  mind,  they  have 
never  proved  any  thing  against  the  truth  of  the  Holy  Scriptures.  (See  the 
admirable  Commentary  on  Genesis,  by  Monsr.  De  Luc,  and  the  Letters  of  th< 
learned  Euler.) 

NOTE  L,  (p.  138.) 

To  complete  what  we  have  said  on  the  existence  of  God  and  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  we  shall  here  present  the  metaphysical  proofs  of  these  truths 
They  are  all  derived  from  matter,  motion,  and  thought. 

1.  Matter. 

FIRST  PROPOSITION. — Something  has  existed  from  all  eternity;  and  it  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  something  exists. 

SECOND  PROPOSITION. — Something  has  existed  from  all  eternity,  and  must 
be  independent  and  immutable.  Otherwise,  there  would  be  an  infinite  suc 
cession  of  causes  and  effects  without  a  first  cause,  which  is  a  contradiction. 

THIRD  PROPOSITION. — Something  has  existed  from  all  eternity,  independent 
and  immutable,  and  is  not  matter. 

Proof. —  If  it  were  matter,  this  matter  would  exist  necessarily.  But  matter 
could  not  exist  necessarily  without  its  modes  being  also  necessary.  These, 
however,  are  subject  to  perpetual  change,  as  experience  teaches. 

FOURTH  PROPOSITION. — Something  has  existed  from  all  eternity  independent 
and  immutable,  which  is  not  matter,  and  which  is  necessarily  one. 

Proof. — If  two  independent  principles  could  exist  together,  we  conceive 
that  one  might  exist  alone,  since  he  has  no  need  of  the  other.  But,  in  this 
case,  neither  of  these  principles  would  exist  necessarily,  and,  therefore,  there 
can  only  be  one  independent  or  necessary  being. 


696  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

FIFTH  PROPOSITION. — Something  has  existed  from  all  eternity,  independent 
and  immutable,  which  is  not  matter,  which  is  necessarily  one,  and  a  free 
agent. 

Proof. — If  the  Supreme  Cause  were  not  a  free  agent,  that  which  exists 
actually  could  never  have  existed.  Therefore,  Ac. 

SIXTH  PROPOSITION. — Something  has  existed  from  all  eternity,  <fcc.,  which 
is  a  free  agent,  and  is  infinitely  powerful,  wise,  good,  and  supreme  in  all  per 
fection. 

Proof. — If  there  were  any  limit  to  the  perfections  of  the  Eternal  Being, 
such  limitation  would  proceed  either  from  himself  or  from  some  other  cause. 
But  neither  can  be  supposed ;  for  he  is  independent  of  other  causes,  and  there 
is  no  incompatibility  between  his  self-existence  and  the  highest  degree  of  per 
fection.  Therefore,  <fcc. 

Now,  the  Being  that  possesses  all  these  attributes  is  God. 

2.  Motion. 

Motion  is  either  essential  to  matter  or  communicated  to  it.  If  it  were 
essential,  the  component  parts  of  matter  would  be  always  in  motion. 
But  there  are  many  bodies  in  a  state  of  repose:  therefore,  motion  is 
not  essential  to  matter,  but  communicated  to  it  by  some  being  out  of  the 
material  order. 

"Is  it  not  surprising,"  says  Cicero,  "to  find  men  who  believe  that  certain 
solid  and  indivisible  bodies  move  by  their  own  natural  weight,  and  that  the 
beautiful  world  around  us  has  been  formed  by  the  casual  aggregation  of  these 
bodies  ?  If  any  one  can  believe  this  possible,  why  should  he  not  believe  that 
if  a  number  of  characters  of  gold  or  any  other  substance,  representing  the 
twenty-one  letters  of  the  alphabet,  were  thrown  upon  the  ground,  they  would 
fall  precisely  in  that  order  which  would  compose  the  Annals  of  Ennius  ?  I 
doubt  whether  a  single  verse  would  thus  be  formed  by  chance.  But  how  can 
men  assert  that  corpuscles,  which  have  neither  color,  quality,  or  feeling,  and 
which  are  always  floating  about  at  hap-hazard,  could  have  formed  the  world, 
or,  rather,  can  produce  every  moment  innumerable  worlds  to  take  the  place  of 
others  ?  If  the  concourse  of  atoms  can  make  a  world,  why  could  it  not  pro 
duce  something  much  easier  of  formation, — for  instance,  a  portico,  a  temple, 
a  house,  a  city  ?"» 

"  As  all  the  sects  agree,"  says  Bayle,  "  that  the  laws  of  motion  cannot  pro 
duce — I  win  not  say  a  mill,  a  clock,  but — the  most  simple  tool  in  the  shop  of 
a  locksmith,  how  could  they  produce  the  body  of  a  dog,  or  even  a  rose  or  a 
pomegranate?  To  think  of  explaining  these  results  by  the  stars  or  by  sub 
stantial  forms  is  pitiful.  There  must  be  a  cause  that  has  an  idea  of  its  work 
and  is  acquainted  with  the  means  of  producing  it.  All  this  is  necessary  in 
him  who  makes  a  watch  or  builds  a  ship :  how  much  more  is  it  requisite  for 
the  organization  of  living  beings  !"2 

"If  we  suppose,"  says  Crousaz,  "the  eternal  existence  and  motion  of  atoms, 
we  might  infer  that,  in  coming  together,  they  formed  certain  masses,  and  that 
these  masses  were  adapted  to  certain  effects.  But  there  is  an  infinite  difference 
between  this  and  supposing  that  these  masses,  formed  by  the  fortuitous  con- 

1  De  Natura  Deor.,  ii.  37.  *  Art.  Sentient,  note  C. 


NOTES.  697 

Bourse  of  atoms,  assumed  a  regular  arrangement,  and  the  properties  of  some 
were  precisely  such  as  were  required  by  the  others. 

"  If  you  had  ten  tickets,  numbered  1,  2,  3,  <tc.,  and  folded  up,  how  many 
trials  would  he  necessary  before  you  would  arrange  them  in  such  order  that 
number  1  would  come  first,  number  2  second,  and  so  on  as  far  as  number  10? 

The  difficulty  of  arranging  many  things,  without  the  exercise  of  any 

discernment,  increases  always  in  proportion  to  their  number  and  the  number 

of  permutations As  an  example  of   their  multiplicity,   a  and  6  may 

be  combined  in  two  ways — ab,  ba ;  ale  in  six  different  ways,  and  abed  in 
twenty- four. 

"Infinity,  arrange!  two-and-two,  would  reach  infinity What  sources 

of  confusion!    What  infinitude  of  disorder!     What  endless  forms  of  chaos! 

To  say  that  in  the  course  of  time   a  regular  combination  took  place 

would  be  supposing  an  infinite  regularity  in  the  midst  of  confusion;  for  it 
would  be  to  suppose  that  all  the  different  combinations  ad  infuiitum  had  suc 
ceeded  each  other  in  order,  and,  in  this  way,  the  regular  combination  had 
taken  its  place  in  this  succession,  as  if  some  intelligence  had  made  this 
arrangement."1 

This  kind  of  reasoning  has  great  weight,  and  is  well  suited  to  minds  that 
require  mathematical  evidence.  Some  infidels  have  supposed  that  they  alone 
can  produce  demonstrations  by  a  4.  6,  and  that  Christians  trust  altogether  to 

their  imagination But  has  not  Leibnitz,  in  his  Thfodicfe,  proved  the 

existence  of  God  by  a  geometrical  process '!  Have  not  Huyghens,  Keil,  Mar- 
calle,  and  a  hundred  others,  presented  similar  theorems?  Plato  called  the 
Deity  the  Eternal  Geometrician,  and  Archimedes  has  left  us  the  most 
beautiful  and  most  striking  symbol  of  the  Divinity — a  triangle  inscribed 
in  a  circle 

The  absurdity  of  those  who  look  upon  the  world  as  the  result  of  a  fortuitous 
combination  of  atoms  is  thus  strikingly  presented  by  Hancock  : — 

"  Suppose  all  men  to  be  blind,  and  commanded,  while  in  this  state,  to  report 
themselves  on  the  plains  of  Mesopotamia:  how  many  ages  would  be  required 
before  they  would  make  their  way  to  this  common  rendezvous?  Would  they 
ever  reach  it  ?  This,  however,  would  be  much  easier  of  execution  for  men 
than  for  the  atoms  of  Democritus  to  accomplish  what  he  ascribes  to  them. 
But,  admitting  that  so  fortunate  a  combination  is  not  impossible,  how  happens 
it  t.hat  nothing  new  is  produced,  and  that  the  same  chance  that  collected  the 
atoms  for  the  formation  of  the  universe  has  not  scattered  them  for  its  de 
struction  ?  Will  it  be  said  that  they  are  held  together  by  the  principles  of 
attraction  and  gravitation?  But  this  principle  of  attraction  and  gravitation 
either  preceded  or  followed  the  formation  of  the  universe.  If  it  preceded  it, 
why  was  its  action  suspended  ?  If  it  followed  it,  whence  did  it  proceed?  Did 
it  not  spring  from  some  other  source  than  matter,  which,  by  its  very  nature,  is 
susceptible  of  motion  in  any  direction  ?  If  it  be  said  that  nature  maintains  her 
self  in  this  permanent  state,  this  nature,  according  to  the  system  of  Democritus, 
is  nothing  else  than  the  fortuitous  concourse  which,  as  is  readily  conceived, 
cannot  explain  the  conservation  of  the  world  any  more  than  its  formation.2 

To  escape  the  difliculties  arising  from  the  supposition  that  the  world  was 

•  Exumrn  iu  ryrronixms.,  sect.  viii.  p.  426.  *  On  the  Kxisti-nct  of  God  sect  T 

69 


(J98  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

formed  by  the  motion  of  matter,  Spinosa,  after  Strabo,  maintained  that  there 
is  only  one  substance  in  the  world,  and  that  substance  is  God,  combining  matter 
and  spirit  and  the  attributes  of  thought  and  extension.  Thus,  my  foot,  my 
hand,  a  stone,  all  the  physical  and  moral  accidents  of  life,  are  parts  of  the 
Deity.  The  pagans  made  gods  out  of  the  vilest  objects  on  earth;  but  it  was 
reserved  for  an  atheist  to  deify,  in  one  eternal  substance,  all  the  crimes  and 
infirmities  of  the  world.  When  God  has  retired  from  a  man,  his  mind  becomes 
the  theatre  of  strange  thoughts,  which  it  would  be  difficult  for  the  most  skilful 
person  to  explain.  The  doctrine  of  Spinosa,  which  is  the  most  impious  and 
untenable  of  all  systems,  has  been  completely  refuted  by  Bayle,  Clarke,  Leib 
nitz,  Crouzas,  and  others. 

It  would  be  useless  to  invoke  the  contempt  of  our  readers  upon  the  forms  and 
qualities  of  matter  of  Anaximander,  or  the  plastic  forms  of  the  Stoics,  which, 
according  to  them,  effected  the  order  of  the  universe.  Infidels  themselves  have 
refuted  these  reveries.  Nothing  remains  then  but  the  law  of  necessity  for  ex 
plaining  the  existence  of  the  universe.  But  this  necessity  was  either  created 
or  uncreated.  If  the  former,  who  created  it?  If  the  latter,  that  necessity 
which  arranges  all  things,  which  produces  so  admirable  an  order,  which  is  one, 
indivisible,  and  without  extension,  is  no  other  than  God. 

3.  Thought. 

Whence  proceeds  human  thought,  and  what  is  its  nature  ?  It  is  either 
matter,  motion,  or  repose ; — matter,  or  its  two  accidents,  as  nothing  else  exists 
in  the  universe.  That  thought  is  not  material  is  plain  enough.  That  it  is 
not  the  repose  of  matter  is  also  manifest,  since  thought  implies  movement. 
But  is  it  a  material  motion,  or  an  effect  of  material  motion  ? 

If  thought  is  an  effect  of  motion,  or  motion  itself,  it  must  resemble  it.  Now, 
the  effect  of  motion  is  to  break,  to  disunite,  to  displace,  while  thought  neither 
separates  bodies  nor  puts  them  in  motion.  Motion  itself  is  a  change  of  situa 
tion,  while  thought  never  leaves  its  seat,  and  moves  without  losing  its  repose. 

Motion  has  its  measure  and  its  degreps;  thought,  on  the  contrary,  is  indivisi 
ble.  There  is  no  fourth  or  half  of  a  thought;  it  is  one. 

The  motion  of  matter  has  its  bounds,  which  prevent  it  from  extending  beyond 
a  certain  space.  Thought  travels  in  infinite  space.  How  could  we  conceive  an 
atom  starting  from  the  human  brain  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  and  at  the 
same  instant  reaching  heaven  and  earth,  yet  without  leaving  the  brain  ?  If  it 
did  leave  it,  it  would  exist  out  of  man,  and  would  no  longer  be  man  himself. 

Motion  has  only  a  present  action,  while  thought  embraces  the  past  and  the 
future.  Hope,  for  instance,  is  a  future  movement;  but  how  could  a  material 
movement  in  the  future  exist  at  the  present  time  ? 

Thought,  therefore,  is  not  material  mo.tion.     Is  it  an  effect  of  this  motion? 

Thought  cannot  be  an  effect  of  motion,  because  an  effect  cannot  be  more 
noble  than  its  cause,  or  a  consequence  more  powerful  than  its  principle.  Now, 
thought  is  more  noble  and  powerful  than  motion,  since  it  has  an  apprehension 
of  the  latter,  which  docs  not  apprehend  it,  and  in  the  least  moment  of  time 
traverses  a  space  which  motion  could  not  travel  over  in  a  thousand  ages. 

If  you  say  that  thought  is  neither  motion  nor  the  effect  of  an  interior  motion 
of  the  brain,  but  an  agitation  produced  by  an  external  cause,  you  only  go  over 
the  same  ground;  for  this  agitation  is  motion,  and,  if  motion  is  thought,  it 
must  be  a  thinking  principle;  so  that  the  foot  that  walks,  or  the  stone  that  falls, 


NOTES.  699 


is  a  thinking  substance.     But,  combine  such  material  things  as  you  will,  you 
cannot  make  them  think. 

If  thought  is  something  different  from  matter  and  motion,  what  is  it,  or 
whence  does  it  proceed?  As  it  did  not  exist  in  me  before  I  was  created,  it 
must  have  been  produced.  If  produced,  it  must  have  originated  out  of  the 
material  order,  since  matter  contains  not  the  principle  of  thought.  The  source 
of  thought,  out  of  the  material  order,  must  be  more  excellent  than  that  thought 
itself;  and,  as  thought  is  indivisible,  and  therefore  immortal,  the  cause  that  pro 
duced  it  must  be  indivisible  and  immortal.  But,  as  that  cause  existed  prior  to 
my  thought,  it  was  either  produced  or  existed  from  eternity.  If  produced, 
where  is  its  principle?  and  if  you  indicate  this  principle,  what  is  the  source  ot 
this  principle  itself? 

NOTE  M,  (p.  176.) 

But  if  all  we  have  said  concerning  the  senses  be  not  sufficient  to  convince  the 
unbeliever,  let  us  proceed  a  little  farther,  and  show  that  the  very  limits  within 
which  the  power  of  our  external  senses  is  confined  tend  to  make  us  more 
happy  than  if  the  power  extended  much  farther,  as  it  has  been  enabled  to  do, 
in  these  later  ages,  by  the  aid  of  certain  instruments. 

Let  us  suppose  that  our  eyes  possessed  the  faculty  of  distinguishing  objei-ts 
which  they  cannot  discern  without  a  microscope;  they  would,  it  is  true,  show 
us  a  world  of  new  creatures ;  a  drop  of  water  in  which  pepper  has  been  steeped, 
or  a  drop  of  vinegar,  would  resemble  a  lake  or  a  river  full  of  fish ;  the  froth  of 
putrid  and  offensive  liquids  would  look  like  a  field  covered  with  flowers  and 
plants;  cheese  would  appear  to  be  composed  of  large  hairy  spiders;  and  so  on 
in  regard  to  an  infinite  multitude  of  other  objects;  but  it  is  likewise  easy  to 
conceive  the  disgust  which  the  sight  of  these  insects  would  produce  against 
many  things  which  otherwise  are  very  good  and  very  useful  in  themselves.  I 
have  seen  people  burst  into  a  laugh  at  the  sight  of  the  little  animals  which 
appear,  by  means  of  a  microscope,  in  a  piece  of  cheese,  and  quickly  draw  back 
their  hands  when  any  of  these  insects  happened  to  full,  lest  it  should  drop  upon 
them;  but  others  made  more  serious  reflections  on  the  wisdom  of  God,  who 
has  thought  fit  to  hide  these  things  from  the  ignorant  and  the  timid,  and  to 
manifest  them  to  others  by  means  of  microscopes,  that  those  who  endeavor  to 
penetrate  into  these  miracles  might  not  want  the  necessary  assistance. 

"Would  unbelieving  philosophers  ever  wish  that  their  eyes  possessed  the 
properties  of  the  best  microscopes,  supposing  them  to  be  acquainted  with  their 
iiiiture  and  principle?  And  would  they  think  themselves  fortunate  in  behold 
ing  objects  so  diminutive  magnified  to  such  a  degree,  while  at  the  same  time 
their  whole  field  of  vision  would  not  occupy  a  larger  space  than  a  grain  of 
•and  ?  They  would  not  be  able  to  see  any  object  distinctly,  unless  at  a  very 
small  distance  from  the  eye,  for  instance,  one  or  two  inches.  As  to  more  dis 
tant  objects,  as  men,  beasts,  trees,  and  plants,  to  say  nothing  of  the  sun,  the 
moon,  the  stars, — tbo.«e  orbs  in  which  the  majesty  of  the  Supreme  Being  shines 
resplendent, — these  would  be  entirely  invisible  to  them,  or  they  would  only  see 
them  in  a  very  confused  manner,  if  the  naked  eye  could  penetrate  as  far  as 
when  provided  with  good  microscopes.  All  who  have  made  experiments  on 
the  subject  admit  that  by  means  of  these  instruments  we  may  discern  bodies 
coa posed  of  a  thousand  small  parts;  whence  it  follows  that  to  see  every  thing 


700  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

distinctly,  even  to  its  primitive  particles,  vision  ought  to  extend  infinitely 
beyond  what  it  does  with  the  aid  of  the  best  microscopes. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  let  us  suppose  that  our  eyes  were  large  telescopes,  like 
those  which  we  employ  to  observe  so  many  new  stars  in  the  heavens,  and  to 
make  so  many  discoveries  in  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  other  celestial  bodies;  still 
they  would  be  liable  to  this  inconvenience,  that  they  would  be  of  scarcely  any 
use  for  seeing  the  objects  which  surround  us,  and  they  would  also  deprive  u$ 
of  the  view  of  the  other  objects  upon  the  earth,  because  we  should  see  the 
vapors  and  exhalations  which  are  continually  rising,  and  which,  like  thick 
clouds,  would  hide  from  us  all  other  visible  things.  This  is  but  too  well  known 
to  those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  using  those  instruments. 

"  In  like  manner,  if  the  smell  was  as  nice  and  delicate  in  men  as  it  seems 
to  be  in  certain  varieties  of  the  canine  species,  not  a  creature  could  come  near 
us;  and  it  would  be  impossible  for  us  to  pass  where  others  had  gone,  without 
perceiving  a  strong  impression  from  the  effluvia  emitted  by  them.  A  thousand 
things  would,  in  spite  of  us,  call  off  our  attention;  and  when  we  would  wish 
to  turn  our  minds  to  more  important  subjects,  we  would  be  involuntarily 
chained  down  to  the  vilest  trifles. 

"  If  our  tongue  were  of  so  delicate  a  texture  as  to  make  us  perceive  as  much 
taste  in  things  which  have  scarcely  any  as  in  those  whose  savor  is  as  strong  as 
that  of  ragouts  and  spices,  everybody  would  admit  that  this  alone  would  bQ 
sufficient  to  render  our  victuals  highly  disagreeable  after  we  had  eaten  of  them 
only  two  or  three  times. 

"  Could  the  ear  distinguish  all  the  sounds  with  the  same  accuracy  as  at 
present,  when  a  person  speaks  softly  at  the  widest  end  of  a  speaking-trumpet? 
or  would  we  be  able  to  pay  attention  to  a  great  number  of  things  ?  Certainly 
we  would  not,  any  more  than  when  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a  confused  noise, 
the  clamor  of  numberless  voices,  the  din  of  drums  and  cannon.  Those  who 
have  witnessed  the  inconveniences  suffered  by  the  sick,  whose  hearing  is  too 
acute,  will  have  no  difficulty  to  comprehend  this  truth. 

"If  our  feeling  were  as  delicate  in  all  the  parts  of  the  body  as  in  those 
which  possess  the  greatest  sensibility  and  in  the  membranes  of  the  eyes,  must 
we  not  admit  that  we  would  be  miserable  indeed,  and  would  be  liable  to  acuto 
pain  even  when  touched  by  the  lightest  feather? 

"Finally,  can  we  reflect  on  all  this  without  acknowledging  the  goodness  of 
Him  who  is  its  Author,  who  has  not  only  given  us  such  noble  organs  as  our 
external  senses,  without  which  our  body  would  not  be  superior  to  a  mere  log; 
but  who  has  also,  in  his  adorable  wisdom,  confined  our  senses  within  certain 
limits  without  which  they  would  only  have  been  a  trouble  to  us,  and  have  pre 
vented  us  from  examining  a  thousand  objects  of  the  highest  importance?" 
— Nieuwentyt,  on  the  Exist,  of  God,  book  i.  chap.  3. 

NOTE  N,  (p.  230.) 

"Genuine  philosophers  would  not  have  asserted,  like  the  author  of  the 
Systems  de  la  Nature,  that  Needham,  the  Jesuit,  created  eels,  and  that  God  wat 
incapable  of  creating  man.  To  them  Needham  would  not  have  appeared  H 
philosopher;  and  the  author  of  the  Systeme  would  have  been  deemed  but  a 
shallow  prater  by  the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius." — Quest.  Encyclop.,  tome  vi 
art.  PhilosopTi. 


NOTES.  701 

In  another  place,  opposing  the  atheists,  and  speaking  of  the  savages,  who 
were  looked  upon  »•  having  no  idea  of  a  God,  Voltaire  says,  "It  may  be 
urged  that  they  lire  in  society  and  have  no  notion  of  a  God ;  consequently, 
people  may  lire  in  society  without  religion.  In  that  case,  I  reply  that  wolves 
live  in  the  same  manner,  and  that  an  assemblage  of  barbarian  cannibals,  as  you 
suppose  them  to  be,  is  not  a  society;  and  I  would  likewise  ask  if,  when  you 
have  lent  your  money  to  some  one  of  your  society,  you  would  wish  that  neither 
your  debtor,  your  lawyer,  nor  your  judge,  should  believe  in  God?" — Ibid.,  tome 
ii.  art.  Atheism. 

The  whole  of  this  article  on  atheism  is  worthy  of  perusal.  In  politics,  Vol 
taire  shows  the  same  aversion  to  all  those  empty  theories  which  have  convulsed 
the  world.  "  I  do  not  like  the  government  of  the  mob,"  he  repeats  a  hundred 
times.  (See  his  Letters  to  the  King  of  Prussia.)  His  pleasantries  on  demo 
cratic  republics,  his  indignation  against  popular  excesses,  in  short,  the  whole 
tenor  of  his  works,  proves  that  he  sincerely  hated  all  quacks  in  philosophy. 

This  is  the  most  appropriate  place  for  submitting  to  the  reader  a  number  of 
passages  extracted  from  Voltaire's  works,  which  prove  that  I  have  not  gone  too 
far  in  asserting  that  he  entertained  a  secret  antipathy  to  sophists.  At  any  rate, 
if  wo  are  not  convinced,  we  cannot  do  otherwise  than  conclude  that,  as  Vol 
taire  was  eternally  supporting  both  sides  of  the  question,  and  incessantly 
changing  his  sentiments,  his  opinion  in  morals,  philosophy,  and  religion  must 
be  considered  as  of  very  little  weight. 

In  1766. 

"I  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  modern  philosophers,  except  their 
horror  of  intolerant  fanaticism." — Corretp.,  x.  337. 

In  1741. 

"  The  superiority  which  dry  and  abstract  physics  have  usurped  over  the  belles- 
lettres  begins  to  provoke  me.  Fifty  years  ago  we  bad  much  greater  men  in 
physics  and  geometry  than  at  present,  and  their  names  were  scarcely  ever  men 
tioned.  Things  are  wonderfully  altered.  I  was  a  friend  to  physics  while 
that  science  did  not  aspire  to  the  dominion  over  poetry;  now,  that  it  has 
crushed  all  the  arts,  I  shall  consider  it  only  as  a  tyrant  to  be  avoided.  I  will 
come  to  Paris  to  deposit  my  protest  in  your  hands.  I  shall  attend  in  future  to 
no  other  studies  than  those  which  render  society  more  agreeable  and  smooth 
the  decline  of  life.  It  is  impossible  to  converse  on  physics  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  and  understand  one  another;  but  we  may  talk  all  day  long  of  poetry, 
music,  history,  literature,  <tc." — Corresp.,  iii.  170. 

"  The  mathematics  are  a  very  fine  science ;  but  take  away  about  a  score  of 
theorems  useful  in  mechanics  and  astronomy,  and  all  the  rest  is  merely  a 
fatiguing  curiosity." — Corresp.,  ix.  484. 

To  M.  Damilaville. 

"  By  tho  people  I  mean  the  populace  who  depend  on  their  labor  alone  for  a 
subsistence.  I  doubt  whether  this  class  of  citizens  ever  have  the  time  or  the 
capacity  for  acquiring  knowledge;  they  would  starve  before  they  would  be 
come  philosophers.  To  me  it  appears  absolutely  necessary  that  some  should 
be  poor  and  ignorant  Had  you  a  farm  to  cultivate,  like  me,  and  ploughs  to 
keep  at  work,  you  wl  aid  n»t  fail  to  be  of  my  opinion." — Correxp.  x.  396. 
59* 


702  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

"  I  have  read  something  in  the  Antiquite  devoilee,  or  rather  trls-voiUe.  The 
author  begins  with  the  deluge  and  ends  always  with  chaos.  I  prefer  one  of 
/our  stories  to  all  that  balderdash." — Cor  reap.,  x.  409. 

In  1766. 

"  I  would  be  very  sorry  to  be  the  author  of  that  work,  (le  Christianisme 
devoile,)  not  only  as  an  academician,  but  likewise  as  a  philosopher,  and  parti- 
culnrly  as  a  citizen.  It  is  diametrically  opposed  to  my  principles.  This 
book  leads  to  atheism,  which  I  abhor.  I  have  always  considered  atheism  as 
the  grossest  aberration  of  reason,  because  it  is  quite  as  ridiculous  to  say  that 
the  arrangement  of  the  universe  is  no  demonstration  of  a  Supreme  Artisan 
as  it  would  be  impertinent  to  assert  that  a  watch  is  no  proof  of  the  existence 
of  a  watchmaker. 

"I  find  not  less  fault  with  that  book  as  a  citizen;  the  author  seems  too 
hostile  to  the  existing  powers.  Were  all  men  of  his  way  of  thinking,  we 
would  have  nothing  but  universal  anarchy. 

"  I  make  a  practice  of  writing  upon  the  margin  of  my  books  what  I  think 
of  them.  When  you  condescend  to  visit  Ferney,  you  will  see  the  margins  of 
the  Christianisme  devoile  covered  with  remarks,  which  prove  that  the  author  is 
mistaken  in  regard  to  the  most  important  facts." — Corresp.,  xi.  143. 

> 

In  1762.      To  M.  Damilamlle. 

"  Brethren  should  always  show  respect  for  morals  and  the  throne.  Morality 
is  too  deeply  wounded  in  the  work  of  Helvetius,  and  the  throne  is  too  little 
respected  in  the  book  which  is  dedicated  to  him."  (Le  Despotisms  Oriental.) 

In  another  place,  speaking  of  the  same  work,  he  observes,  "You  would 
imagine  that  the  author  wishes  us  to  be  governed  neither  by  God  nor  man." — 
Corresp.,  viii.  148. 

In  1768.      To  M.  de  Villevieille. 

"  My  dear  marquis,  there  is  nothing  good  in  atheism.  This  system  is  very 
bad,  both  in  physics  and  in  morals.  A  good  man  may  very  well  inveigh 
against  superstition  and  fanaticism,  and  may  detest  persecution.  He  renders 
a  service  to  mankind  if  he  diffuses  the  principles  of  toleration ;  but  what  good 
can  he  do  by  disseminating  those  of  atheism  ?  Will  men  be  more  virtuous  for 
not  acknowledging  a  God  who  enjoins  the' practice  of  virtue?  Assuredly  not. 
I  would  have  princes  and  their  ministers  to  acknowledge  a  God, — nay,  more, — 
a  God  who  punishes  and  who  pardons.  Without  this  restraint,  I  should 
consider  them  ferocious  animals,  who,  to-be-sure,  would  not  eat  me  just 
after  a  plentiful  meal,  but  certainly  would  devour  me  were  I  to  fall  into 
their  clutches  when  they  are  hungry,  and  who,  after  they  had  picked  my 
bones,  would  not  have  the  least  idea  that  they  had  done  any  thing  wrong." 
— Corresp.,  xii.  349. 

In  1749. 

"  I  am  of  a  very  different  way  of  thinking  from  Saunderson,  who  denies  the 
existence  of  a  God  because  he  was  born  blind.  I  may  perhaps  be  wrong ; 
but,  were  I  in  his  place,  I  would  acknowledge  an  intelligent  Being  who  has 
furnished  me  with  so  many  substitutes  for  sight;  and,  in  perceiving  by  the 
mind's  eye  infinite  relations  in  all  things,  I  would  divine  the  existence  of  a 


NOTES.  703 

woikman  infinitely  skilful.  It  is  very  impertinent  to  inquire  who  and  what 
he  is,  and  why  he  has  made  all  created  beings;  but  to  me  it  appears  extremely 
bold  to  deny  his  existence." — Corregp.,  iv.  14. 

In  1753. 

"  To  me  it  seems  absurd  to  make  the  existence  of  God  dependent  on 
a  -f  b  -r-  2. 

"  What  would  become  of  mankind  were  we  obliged  to  study  dynamics  and 
astronomy  in  order  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of  the  Supreme  Being?  He  who 
has  created  us  all  should  be  manifest  to  all,  and  the  most  common  proofs  are 
the  best,  for  the  very  reason  that  they  are  the  most  common.  We  want  but 
eyes,  and  no  algebra,  to  see  the  daylight." — Currenp.,  iv.  463. 

"  A  thousand  principles  escape  our  researches,  because  all  the  secrets  of  the 
Creator  were  not  framed  for  us.  It  ha"fc  been  imagined  that  Nature  always 
acts  by  the  shortest  way, — that  she  employs  the  least  possible  force  and  the 
greatest  economy  ;  but  what  would  the  partisans  of  this  opinion  reply  to  those 
who  would  demonstrate  that  the  human  arm  exerts  a  force  of  about  fifty 
pounds  to  raise  the  weight  of  a  single  one; — that  the  heart  employs  an 
immense  power  to  express  a  drop  of  blood  ; — that  a  carp  spawns  thousands 
of  eggs  to  produce  one  or  two  fishes  ; — that  an  oak  yields  an  innumerable 
quantity  of  acorns,  which  very  often  produce  not  a  single  oak  ?  I  still  think, 
as  I  lor%  ago  told  you,  that  there  is  more  profusion  than  economy  in  nature." 
— Correitp.,  iv.  463. 

^OTE  0,  (p.  2.32.) 

As  the  philosophy  of  the  pBlcnt  day  extols  polytheism  precisely  because  it 
has  made  this  separation,  and  censures  Christianity  for  having  united  the 
moral  with  the  religious  force,  I  did  not  conceive  that  this  proposition  could 
be  attacked.  Nevertheless,  a  man  of  great  intelligence  and  taste,  and  to  whom 
the  utmost  deference  is  due,  seems  to  have  doubted  the  correctness  of  the 
assertion.  He  has  objected  to  me  the  personification  of  morul  beings,  as  that 
of  wisdom  in  Minerva,  <tc. 

I  may  be  wrong,  but  to  me  personifications  seem  not  to  prove  that  morals 
were  combined  with  religion  in  polytheism.  Most  assuredly,  in  adoring  all 
the  vices  deified,  people  adored  also  the  virtues.  But  did  the  priest  teach 
morality  in  the  temples  and  among  the  poor?  Did  his  ministry  consist  in  con 
soling  the  afflicted  with  the  hope  of  another  life,  or  inviting  the  poor  to  virtue, 
the  rich  to  charity  ?  If  any  moral  was  attached  to  the  worship  of  the  goddess 
of  Justice,  of  Wisdom,  was  not  this  moral  absolutely  destroyed,  particularly 
for  the  people,  by  the  worship  of  the  most  infamous  divinities?  All  that  can 
be  said  is  that  there  were  some  sentences  engraven  on  the  front  and  on  the 
walls  of  the  temples,  and  that,  in  general,  the  priest  and  the  legislator  incul 
cated  to  the  people  the  fear  of  the  gods.  But  this  is  not  sufficient  to  prove 
that  the  profe.-sion  of  morality  was  essentially  connected  with  polytheism, 
when  every  thing,  on  the  contrary,  demonstrates  that  it  was  totally  distinct. 

The  moral  precepts  which  occur  in  Homer  are  almost  always  independent  of 
the  celestial  action  ;  they  consist  merely  in  a  reflection  made  by  the  poet  on 
the  event  which  he  is  relating  or  the  catastrophe  which  he  describes.  If  he 
personifies  remorse,  the  divine  anger,  Ac., — if  he  portrays  the  guilty  in  Tar 
tarus  and  the  just  in  the  Elysian  Fields, — these  are  certainly  beautiful  fictions, 
but  they  constitute  not  a  moral  code  attached  to  polytheism,  as  the  gospel  la 


704  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


attached  to  the  Christian  religion.  Take  from  it  the  gospel,  and  Christianitj 
will  be  no  more.  Take  from  the  ancients  the  allegory  of  Minerva,  of  Themis, 
of  Nemesis,  and  polytheism  will  still  continue  to  exist.  It  is,  moreover,  cer 
tain  that  a  worship  which  admits  of  but  one  God  must  be  intimately  connected 
with  morality,  because  it  is  united  with  truth;  whereas  a  religion  which 
acknowledges  a  plurality  of  gods  necessarily  deviates  from  morality,  by 
approximating  to  error. 

As  to  those  who  make  it  a  crime  in  Christianity  to  have  added  the  force  of 
morals  to  that  of  religion,  they  will  find  my  answer  in  the  last  chapter  of  thia 
work,  where  I  show  that  the  modern  nations,  for  want  of  the  ancient  slavery, 
ought  to  have  a  powerful  curb  in  their  religion. 

(NOTE  P,  p.  287.) 

Here  are  some  fragments  which  we  recollect,  and  which  might  be  taken  for 

the  production  of  some  Greek  poet,  so  strongly  are  they  tinctured  with  the 

style  of  antiquity  : — 

"  Accours,  jeune  Chromis,  je  t'aime,  et  je  suis  belle, 
Blanche  comme  Diane  et  legere  comme  elle, 
Comme  elle  grande  et  fiere;  et  les  bergers,  le  soir, 
Lorsque,  les  yeux  baissees,  je  passe  sans  les  voir, 
Doutent  si  je  ne  suis  qu'une  simple  mortelle, 
Et  me  suivant  des  yeux  disent :  Comme  elle  est  belle! 
Neere  ne  vas  point  te  Conner  aux  flots, 
De  peur  d'etre  deesse ;  et  que  le^Batelots 
N'invoquent,  au  milieu  de  la  tourmente  amere, 
La  blanche  Galathee  et  la  blanche  Neere." 
Another  idyl,  called  Le  Malade,  and  too  long  for  quotation,  is  replete  with 

the  most  impressive  beauties.     The  following  fragment  is  of  a  different  kind. 

From  the  melancholy  which  pervades  it,  you  would  imagine  that  Chenier, 

when  he  composed  it,  had  a  presentiment  of  his  fate : — 
"  Souvent  las  d'etre  ^esclave  et  de  boire  la  lie 
De  ce  calice  amer  que  Ton  nomme  la  vie  ; 
Las  du  mepris  des  sots  qui  suit  la  pauvrete", 
Je  regarde  la  tombe,  asile  souhaite ; 
Je  souris  a  la  mort  volontaire  et  prochaine 
Je  me  prie,  en  pleurant,  d'oser  rompre  ma  chaine. 


Et  puis  mon  coeur  s'Scoute  et  s'ouvre  a  la  faiblesse, 
Mes  parens,  mes  amis,  1'avenir,  ma  jeunesse, 
Mes  ecrits  imparfaits,  car  a  ses  propres  yeux 
L'homme  sait  se  cacher  d'un  voile  sp6cieux. 
A  quelque  noir  destin  qu'elle  soit  asservie, 
D'une  etreinte  invincible  il  embrasse  la  vie : 
II  va  chercher  bien  loin,  plut&t  que  de  mourir, 
Quelque  pr6texte  ami  pour  vivre  et  pour  souffrir. 
'  II  a  souffert,  il  souffre  :  aveugle  d'esperance, 
II  se  traine  au  tombeau  de  souffrance  en  souffrance : 
Et  la  mort,  de  nos  maux  le  remede  si  doux, 
Lui  pemble  un  nouveau  mal,  le  plus  cruel  de  tous." 


NOTES.  705 

The  works  of  this  young  man,  his  various  accomplishments,  his  noble  pro 
posal  to  M.  de  Malesherbes,  his  misfortunes  and  death,  all  serve  to  attach  the 
most  lively  interest  to  his  memory.  It  is  remarkable  that  about  the  end  of 
the  last  century  France  lost  three  promising  geniuses  in  their  dawn, — Malfilatre, 
Gilbert,  and  Andre  Chenier.  The  two  former  perished  in  misery,  and  the  latter 
on  the  scaffold. 

NOTE  Q,  (p.  299.) 

We  subjoin  an  explanation  of  the  word  descriptive,  that  it  may  not  be  taken 
in  a  different  sense  from  that  which  we  assign  to  it  Several  persons  have 
been  shocked  at  our  assertion,  for  want  of  thoroughly  comprehending  what  we 
meant  to  say.  The  poets  of  antiquity  certainly  have  descriptive  passages. 
This  it  would  be  absurd  to  deny,  especially  if  we  give  the  utmost  latitude  to  the 
expression,  and  understand  by  it  descriptions  of  garments,  repasts,  armies, 
ceremonies,  Ac.  <tc. ;  but  this  kind  of  description  is  totally  different  from  ours. 
Upon  the  whole,  the  ancients  have  painted  manners,  we  portray  things; 
Virgil  describes  the  rustic  habitation,  Theocritus  the  shepherds,  and  Thomson 
the  wood*  and  solitudes.  If  the  Greeks  and  Latins  said  a  few  words  con 
cerning  a  landscape,  it  was  only  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  characters  in 
it  and  japidly  forming  a  ground  for  the  picture ;  but  they  never  distinctly 
represented,  like  us,  rivers,  mountains,  and  forests.  It  may,  perhaps,  be 
objected  that  the  ancients  were  right  in  considering  descriptive  poetry  as  an 
accessary,  and  not  as  the  principal  subject  of  the  p-iece ;  and  I  am  myself  of 
this  opinion.  A  strange  abuse  has  been  made  in  our  time  of  the  descriptive 
kind ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  true  that  it  is  an  additional  instrument  in  our 
hands,  and  that  it  has  extended  the  sphere  of  poetic  images,  without  depriving 
us  of  the  delineation  of  manners  and  passions  such  as  it  existed  for  the 
ancients. 

(NOTE  R,  p.  305.) 

INDIAN  POETRT. 

Extract  from  the  drama  of  Sacontala: — "  Hear,  0  ye  trees  of  this  hallowed 
forest,  hear  and  lament  the  departure  of  Sacontala  for  the  palace  of  her 
wedded  lord, — of  Sacontala,  who  drank  not,  though  thirsty,  before  you  were 
watered ;  who  cropped  not,  through  affection  for  you,  one  of  your  fresh  leaves, 
though  she  would  have  been  pleased  with  such  an  ornament  for  her  locks; 
whose  chief  delight  was  in  the  season  when  your  branches  are  spangled  with 
flowers." 

Chorut  of  Wood-Nymphs. — "  May  her  way  be  attended  with  prosperity ! 
May  propitious  breezes  sprinkle  for  her  delight  the  odoriferous  dust  of  rich 
blossoms !  May  pools  of  clear  water,  green  with  the  leaves  of  the  lotos, 
refresh  her  as  she  walks !  and  may  shady  branches  be  her  defence  from  the 
scorching  sunbeams  !" — Robertson's  India,  8vo.,  p.  237. 

ERSE    POETRT. 

Song  of  the  Bards. — First  Bard. 

"Night  is  dull  and  dark;  the  clouds  rest  on  the  hills;  no  star  with  green 
trembling  beam,  no  moon,  looks  from  the  sky.  I  hear  the  blast  in  the  wood, 
but  I  hear  it  distant  far.  The  stream  of  the  valley  murmurs,  but  its  murmur 

2U 


706  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


is  sullen  and  sad.  From  the  tree  at  the  grave  of  the  dead  the  long-howling 
owl  is  beard.  I  see  a  dim  form  on  the  plain  !  It  is  a  ghost !  It  fades,  it 
flies  !  Some  funeral  shall  pass  this  way.  The  meteor  marks  the  path. 

"  The  distant  dog  is  howling  from  the  hut  of  the  hill;  the  stag  lies  on  the 
mountain  moss ;  the  hind  is  at  his  side.  She  hears  the  wind  in  her  branchy 
horns.  She  starts,  but  lies  again. 

"  The  roe  is  in  the  cleft  of  the  rock.  The  heath-cock's  head  is  beneath  hia 
wing.  No  beast,  no  bird,  is  abroad,  but  the  owl  and  the  howling  fox, — she  on  a 
leafless  tree,  he  in  a  cloud  on  the  hill. 

"  Dark,  panting,  trembling,  sad,  the  traveller  has  lost  his  way.  Through 
shrubs,  through  thorns,  he  goes  along  the  gurgling  rill ;  he  fears  the  rocks 
and  the  fen.  He  fears  the  ghosts  of  night.  The  old  tree  groans  to  the  blast. 
The  falling  branch  resounds.  The  wind  drives  the  withered  burs,  clung  to 
gether,  along  the  grass.  It  is  the  light  tread  of  a  ghost !  he  trembles  amid 
the  night. 

"Dark,  dusky,  howling,  is  night;  cloudy,  windy,  and  full  of  ghosts.  The 
dead  are  abroad,  my  friends;  receive  me  from  the  night." — Ossian. 


NOTE  S,  (p.  322.) 

Imitation  by  Voltaire. 

"  Toi  sur  qui  inon  tyran  prodigue  ses  bienfaits, 
Soleil !  astre  de  feu,  jour  heureux  que  je  ha'is, 
Jour  qui  fais  mon  supplice,  et  dont  mes  yeux  s'etonnent; 
Toi,  qui  sembles  le  dieu  des  cieux  qui  t'environnent, 
Devant  qui  tout  6clat  disparoit  et  s'enfuit, 
Qui  fais  palir  le  front  des  astres  de  la  nuit; 
Image  du  Tres-Haut  qui  regla  ta  carriere, 
Helas !  j'eusse  autrefois  eclipse  ta  lumiere  ! 
Sur  la  voute  des  cieux  eleve  plus  que  toi, 
Le  trone  ou  tu  t'assieds  s'abaissoit  devant  moi; 
Je  suis  tombe ;  1'orgueil  m'a  plonge  dans  1'abime. 
Helas !  je  fus  ingrat,  c'est  la  mon  plus  grand  crime. 
J'osai  me  revolter  centre  mon  Createur : 
C'est  peu  de  me  creer,  il  fut  mon  bienfaiteur; 
II  m'aimoit:  j'ai  force  sa  justice  gternelle 
D'appesantir  son  bras  sur  ma  tete  rebelle ; 
Je  1'ai  rendu  barbare  en  sa  severite  ; 
II  punit  a  jamais,  et  je  1'ai  merite. 
Mais  si  le  repentir  pouvoit  obtonir  grace- - 
Non,  rien  ne  fle"chira  ma  haine  et  mon  audace; 
Non,  je  deteste  un  maitre,  et  sans  doute  il  vaut  mieux 
Regner  dans  les  enfers  qu'obeir  dans  .les  cieux." 

NOTE  T,  (p.  338.) 

Dante  has  some  fine  passages  in  his  Purgatory,  but  his  imagination,  so  in 
ventive  in  the  description  of  hell,  has  no  longer  the  same  fecundity  in  depict 
ing  sufferings  mingled  with  consolations.  The  dawn,  however,  which  he  be- 


NOTES.  707 


holds  on  leaving  Tartarus,  that  light  which  he  sees  passing  rapidly  over  th» 
•ea,  have  some  freshness  and  beauty : — 

"  Sweet  hue  of  eastern  sapphire,  that  was  spread 
O'er  the  serene  aspect  of  the  pure  air, 
High  up  as  the  first  circle,  to  mine  eyes 
Unwonted  joy  renewed,  soon  as  I  'scaped 
Forth  from  the  atmosphere  of  deadly  gloom, 
That  had  mine  eyes  and  bosom  filled  with  grief. 
The  radiant  planet,  that  to  love  invites, 
Made  all  the  Orient  laugh,  and  veiled  beneath 
The  Pisces'  light,  that  in  his  escort  came. 
To  the  right  hand  I  turned,  and  fixed  my  mind 
On  the  other  pole  attentive,  where  I  saw 
Four  stars  ne'er  seen  before  save  by  the  ken 
Of  our  first  parents.     Heaven  of  their  rays 
Seemed  joyous.     0  thou  northern  site  !  bereft 
Indeed,  and  widowed,  since  of  these  deprived. 

As  from  this  view  I  had  desisted,  straight 
Turning  a  little  toward  the  other  pole, 
There  from  whence  now  the  wain  had  disappeared, 
I  saw  an  old  man  standing  by  my  side 
Alone,  so  worthy  of  reverence  in  his  look 
That  ne'er  from  son  to  father  more  was  owed. 
Low  down  his  beard,  and  mixed  with  hoary  white, 
Descended,  like  his  locks,  which,  parting,  fell 
Upon  his  breast  in  double  fold.     The  beams 
Of  those  four  luminaries  on  his  face 
So  brightly  shone,  and  with  such  radiance  clear 
Decked  it,  that  I  beheld  him  as  the  sun. 


Then  on  the  solitary  shore  arrived, 
That  never  sailing  on  its  waters  saw 
Man  that  could  after  measure  back  his  course. 

Now  had  the  sun  to  that  horizon  reach'd, 
That  covers,  with  the  most  exalted  point 
Of  its  meridian  circle,  Salem's  walls  ; 
And  night,  that  opposite  to  him  her  orb 
Rounds,  from  the  stream  of  Ganges  issued  forth, 
Holding  the  scales  that  from  her  hands  are  dropped 
When  she  reigns  highest;  so  that  where  I  was, 
Aurora's  white  and  vermeil-tinctured  cheek 
To  orange  turned  as  she  in  age  increased. 

Meanwhile  we  lingered  by  the  water's  brink, 
Like  men  who,  musing  on  their  road,  in  thought 
Journey,  while  motionless  the  body  rests. 
When  lo !  as  near  upon  the  hour  of  dawn, 
Through  the  thick  vapors  Mars,  with  fiery  beam, 
Glares  down  in  west,  over  the  ocean  floor; 


708  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

So  seemed,  what  once  again  I  hope  to  view, 
A  light,  so  swiftly  coming  through  the  sea, 
No  winged  course  might  equal  its  career, 
From  which,  when  for  a  space  I  had  withdrawn 
Mine  eyes,  to  make  inquiry  of  my  guide, 
Again  I  looked,  and  saw  it  grown  in  size 
And  brightness." 

Dante's  Purgatory,  Gary's  Trans.,  cantos  1,  2. 

NOTE  U,  (p.  352.) 

The  reader  will  be  pleased  to  find  here  the  exquisite  passage  of  Bossuet  on 
St.  Paul  :— 

"That  you  may  understand,  then,  who  that  preacher  is,  destined  by  Provi 
dence  to  confound  human  wisdom,  hear  the  description  which  I  have  borrowed 
from  himself  in  the  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians. 

"  Three  things  usually  contribute  to  render  a  speaker  pleasing  and  impres 
sive  : — the  person  of  the  orator,  the  beauty  of  the  subjects  which  he  treats, 
and  the  ingenious  manner  in  which  he  illustrates  them.  The  reason  of  this  is 
evident ;  for  the  esteem  in  which  the  speaker  is  held  procures  a  favorable  hear 
ing;  excellent  things  nourish  the  mind,  and  the  talent  of  explaining  them  in  a 
pleasing  manner  obtains  for  them  an  easy  access  to  the  heart ;  but,  from  the 
way  in  which  the  preacher  of  whom  I  am  speaking  represents  himself,  it  is  easy 
to  judge  that  he  possesses  none  of  these  advantages. 

"  In  the  first  place,  Christians,  if  you  look  at  his  person,  he  acknowledges 
himself  that  his  figure  is  not  commanding — his  bodily  presence  is  weak;]  and 
if  you  consider  his  condition,  he  is  contemptible,  and  necessitated  to  earn  a 
subsistence  by  the  exercise  of  a  mechanical  art.  Hence  he  says  to  the  Corin 
thians,2  '  I  was  with  you  in  weakness  and  in  fear,  and  in  much  trembling/  from 
which  it  is  easy  to  conclude  how  contemptible  his  person  must  have  been. 
What  a  preacher,  Christians,  to  convert  so  many  nations ! 

"But,  perhaps,  the  doctrine  was  so  plausible  and  attractive  as  to  give  weight 
to  this  man  who  was  so  exceedingly  despised.  This  is  not  the  case.  '  I  judged 
not  myself,'  says  he,3  'to  know  any  thing  among  you  but  Jesus  Christ  and  him 
crucified;'  that  is  to  say,  he  knows  nothing  but  what  shocks,  but  what  scan 
dalizes,  but  what  appears  to  be  folly  and  extravagance.  How  then  can  he 
hope  his  auditors  to  be  persuaded  ?  But,  great  Paul !  if  the  doctrine  which 
thou  proclaimest  is  so  strange  and  difficult,  employ  at  least  polished  terms ; 
cover  with  the  flowers  of  rhetoric  the  hideous  face  of  thy  gospel,  and  soften  its 
austerity  by  the  charms  of  thy  eloquence.  '  God  forbid,'  replies  this  great  man, 
'that  I  should  mingle  human  wisdom  with  the  wisdom  of  the  Son  of  God;  'tis 
the  will  of  my  Master  that  my  words  be  not  less  harsh  than  my  doctrine  ap 
pears  incredible  : — not  in  the  persuasive  icords  of  human  wisdom.'*  St.  Paul  re 
jects  all  the  artifices  of  rhetoric.  His  speech,  instead  of  flowing  with  that 
agreeable  smoothness,  with  that  attempered  equality  which  we  admire  in  ora 
tors,  appears  uneven  and  unconnected  to  those  who  have  not  studied  its  im 
port;  and  the  refined  of  the  earth,  who  pretend  to  have  an  acute  ear,  are 

1  2  Cor.  x.  10.  a  1  Cor.  ii.  3. 

3  1  Cor.  ii.  2.  "  1  Cor.  ii.  4 


NOTES.  709 


offended  by  the  hnrs-hness  of  his  irregular  style.  But,  my  brethren,  let  us  not 
be  ashamed  of  this.  The  discourse  of  the  apostle  is  simple,  but  his  thoughts 
are  quite  divine.  If  he  is  ignorant  of  rhetoric,  if  he  despises  philosophy,  Jesus 
Christ  stands  him  instead  of  all  things;  and  his  name,  which  is  continually 
upon  his  lips,  his  mysteries,  which  he  treats  so  divinely,  will  render  his  sim 
plicity  omnipotent.  He  will  go: — this  man  so  ignorant  in  the  art  of  speaking 
well,  with  his  harsh  address,  with  his  diction  which  betrays  the  foreigner,  will 
go  to  polished  Greece,  the  mother  of  philosophers  and  orators  ;  and,  in  spite  of 
the  opposition  of  the  world,  he  will  there  establish  more  churches  than  Pluto 
gained  disciples  by  that  eloquence  which  was  accounted  divine.  He  will  preach 
Jesus  in  Athens,  and  the  most  learned  of  its  senators  will  quit  the  Areopagus 
for  the  school  of  this  barbarian.  He  will  push  his  conquests  still  farther:  he 
will  humble  at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  fasces  in  the 
person  of  a  pro-consul,  and  he  will  cause  the  judges  before  whom  he  is  sum 
moned  to  tremble  in  their  tribunals.  Rome  herself  shall  hear  his  voice;  and 
that  imperial  city  shall  one  day  esteem  herself  more  highly  honored  by  an 
epistle  addressed  to  her  citizens  by  Paul  than  by  all  the  celebrated  orations 
delivered  by  her  own  Cicero. 

"  And  how,  Christians,  how  happens  all  this  ?  It  is  because  Paul  possessed 
means  of  persuasion  which  Greece  never  taught  and  which  Rome  never  ac 
quired.  A  supernatural  power  which  delights  in  exalting  what  the  proud  de 
spise  accompanied  the  august  simplicity  of  his  words.  Hence  it  is  that  we 
admire  in  his  glowing  epistles  a  certain  virtue  more  than  human,  which  con 
vinces  against  all  common  rules,  or,  rather,  which  convinces  less  than  it  capti 
vates  the  understanding;  which  does  not  charm  the  ear,  but  strikes  home  to 
the  heart.  As  a  mighty  river  in  its  course  through  the  plain  still  retains  the 
impetuosity  acquired  in  the  mountains  among  which  it  rises,  so  that  celestial 
virtue  contained  in  the  writings  of  St.  Paul  retains,  in  conjunction  with 
simplicity  of  style,  all  the  vigor  which  it  derived  from  heaven,  whence  it 
descended. 

"  It  was  by  this  divine  virtue  that  the  simplicity  of  the  apostle  vanquished 
all  things.  It  overthrew  idols,  established  the  cross  of  Jesus,  and  persuaded 
multitudes  of  men  to  die  in  defence  of  its  glory;  finally,  in  his  admirable  epis 
tles,  it  has  explained  such  grand  secrets,  that  the  most  sublime  geniuses,  after 
having  been  long  engaged  in  the  loftiest  speculations  of  which  philosophy  is 
capable,  have  descended  from  the  vain  height  to  which  they  imagined  them 
selves  raised,  that  they  might  learn  to  lisp  in  the  school  of  Jesus  Christ,  under 
the  instruction  of  St.  Paul." 


NOTE  V,  (p.  3T8. 
Pliny's  catalogue  is  as  follows  : — 

Painters  of  the  three  yreat  Schools,  Ionian,  Sicyoninn,  and  Attic. 
Polynotu*  of  Thaaog  painted  a  warrior  with  his  buckler.     He  also  painted 
the  temple  of  Delphi,  and  the  portico  of  Athens,  in  competition  with  Milo. 

Apollodorus  of  Athens.     A  priest  in  the  act  of  adoration.     Ajax  set  on  fire 
by  lightning. 

Zcuxis.     Alcmcne;   Pan;   Penelope;    Jupiter   seated  on  a  throne  and  ijur- 
rounded  by  the  other  gods  standing;  the  infant  Hercules  strangling  two  ser- 


710  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

pents  in  the  presence  of  Amphytrion  and  Alcmene,  who  turns  pale  with  fright, 
the  Saeinian  Juno  ;  the  grapes ;  Helen ;  Marsias. 

Parrhasius.  The  curtain  ;  the  people  of  Athens  personified ;  Theseus ;  Me- 
leager;  Hercules  and  Perseus;  the  high-priest  of  Cybele;  a  Cretan  nurse  with 
her  child ;  Philoctetes ;  the  god  Bacchus ;  two  children,  accompanied  by  Vir 
tue;  a  pontiff,  attended  by  a  boy  holding  a  box  of  incense  and  crowned  with 
flowers ;  a  racer,  armed,  running  in  the  lists ;  another  armed  runner  laying 
aside  his  arms  after  the  race ;  tineas ;  Achilles ;  Agamemnon ;  Ulysses  con 
tending  with  Ajax  for  the  armor  of  Achilles. 

Timanthes.  Sacrifice  of  Iphigenia ;  a  sleeping  Polyphemus,  whose  thumb 
little  satyrs  are  measuring  with  a  thyrsus. 

Pamphylus.  A  battle  before  the  city  of  Phlius ;  a  victory  of  the  Athenians ; 
Ulysses  in  his  ship. 

Echion.  Bacchus;  tragedy  and  comedy  personified;  Semiramis ;  an  old 
woman  carrying  a  lamp  before  a  new-married  female. 

Apelles.  Campaspe  naked,  represented  as  Venus  Anadiomene  ;  King  Anti- 
gonus;  Alexander  brandishing  a  thunderbolt;  Megabysus,  priest  of  Diana; 
Clytus  preparing  for  battle  and  receiving  his  helmet  from  his  attendant;  a 
Habron,  or  effeminate  man  ;  Menander,  King  of  Caria;  Anceus ;  Gorgosthenes, 
the  tragedian ;  the  Dioscuri ;  Alexander  and  Victory ;  Bellona  chained  to  the 
car  of  Alexander;  a  hero  naked;  ahorse;  Neoptolenms  on  horseback  fighting 
the  Persians;  Archelous  with  his  wife  and  daughter  ;  Antigonus  armed;  Diana 
dancing  with  a  number  of  young  females ;  the  three  pieces  known  by  the  ap 
pellations  of  lightning,  thunder,  and  thunderbolt. 

Aristides  of  Thebes.  A  city  taken  by  assault ;  representing  a  mother  wounded 
and  dying:  battle  with  the  Persians ;  quadrigae  racing ;  a  supplicant :  hunters 
with  game;  portrait  of  Leontio,  the  painter;  Biblis ;  Bacchus  and  Ariadne;  a 
tragedian,  accompanied  by  a  boy;  an  old  man  instructing  a  child  to  play  on 
the  lyre ;  a  sick  man. 

Protogenes.  The  Lialyssus;  a  satyr  dying  for  love  :  Cydippus ;  Tlepolemus ; 
a  contemplative  Philiscus;  a  wrestler;  King  Antigonus;  Aristotle's  mother; 
Alexander ;  Pan. 

Asclepiodorus.     The  twelve  great  gods. 

Nicomachus.  The  rape  of  Proserpine;  Victory  on  a  car  soaring  in  the  air; 
Ulysses;  Apollo;  Diana;  Cybele  seated  on  a  lion;  female  Bacchanals  and 
Satyrs;  Scylla. 

Philoxenes  of  Eretria.  The  battle  between  Alexander  and  Darius ;  three 
Sileni. 

Grotesque  and  Fresco  Paintings. 

Under  this  head  Pliny  mentions  Pyreicus,  who  painted  in  great  perfection 
the  shops  of  barbers  and  cobttlers,  asses,  <fcc.  This  is  precisely  the  Flemish 
school.  He  then  says  that  Augustus  caused  landscapes  and  sea-views  to  be 
painted  on  the  walls  of  the  palaces  and  temples.  The  most  celebrated  pieces 
of  this  kind  represented  peasants  at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  bargaining  with 
some  women  to  carry  them  on  their  shoulders  across  a  marsh.  These  are  the 
only  landscapes  ascribed  to  antiquity,  and  even  these  were  only  painted  in 
fresco.  We  shall  recur  to  this  subject  in  another  note. 
Encaustic  Painting. 

Paueanias  of  Sicyone.  The  Hemeresios,  or  child;  Glycera  seated  and 
crowned  with  flowers;  a  hecatomb. 


NOTES.  711 

Euphranor.  An  equestrian  combat;  the  twelve  gods;  Theseus;  Ulysses 
feigning  madness ;  a  warrior  sheathing  his  sword. 

Cydia*.     The  Argonauts. 

Antidota*.     A  champion  armed  with  a  buckler ;  the  wrestler  and  flute-player. 

Niciat  the  Athenian.  A  Jb'o.est;  Nernaea  personified ;  Bacchus;  Hyacin- 
thus;  Diana;  the  tomb  of  Megabysus;  the  necromancy  of  Homer;  Calypso; 
lo  and  Andromeda;  Alexander;  Calypso  sitting. 

Athenian.  Phyiarcus;  Syngenico;  Achilles  disguised  as  a  female;  a  groom 
with  a  horse. 

Limonachiu  of  Byzantium.  Ajax ;  Medea;  Iphigenia  in  Taurus;  a  Lecy- 
thion,  or  tumbler;  a  noble  family;  a  Gorgon. 

Ariitolan*.  Epaminondas ;  Pericles;  Medea;  Virtue;  Theseus;  the  people 
of  Athens  personified;  a  hecatomb. 

Socrates.  The  daughters  of  ^Esculapius,  Hygeia,  Egle,  Panacea,  Laso; 
(Enos,  or  the  indolent  rope-maker. 

Antiphilur.  A  child  blowing  the  fire;  females  spinning;  King  Ptolemy 
hunting  ;  the  satyr  in  ambush. 

Ari«tophon.  Anceus  wounded  by  the  boar  of  Calydon ;  an  allegorical  pic 
ture  of  Priam  and  Ulysses. 

Artemon.  Danae  and  the  pirates;  Queen  Stratonice;  Hercules  and  Deja- 
nire;  Hercules  on  Mount  (Eta;  Laomedon. 

Pliny  proceeds  to  name  about  forty  inferior  painters,  but  mentions  very  few 
performances  by  them.  (Plin.,  lib.  xxxv.) 

Against  this  catalogue  we  have  only  to  set  that  which  may  be  obtained  at 
the  Mnsenm.  We  shall  merely  observe  that  most  of  these  antique  paintings 
are  portraits  or  historical  pieces;  and  that,  if  wo  would  be  quite  impartial,  we 
should  oppose  only  mythological  subjects  to  Christian  subjects. 

NOTE  W,  (p.  380.) 

The  catalogue  of  ancient  paintings  left  us  by  Pliny  contains  not  one  single 
landscape,  if  we  except  the  paintings  in  fresco.  Some  of  the  pieces  of  the  great 
masters  may  possibly  have  had  a  tree,  a  rock,  a  corner  of  a  valley,  or  of  a 
forest,  or  a  stream,  in  the  background;  but  this  is  not  sufficient  to  constitute 
a  landscape  properly  so  called,  such  as  the  pencil  of  a  Lorrain  and  a  Berghem 
has  produced. 

Among  the  antiquities  of  Herculaneum,  nothing  has  been  discovered  to  in 
duce  an  opinion  that  the  ancient  school  of  art  had  painters  of  landscape.  We 
merely  find  in  the  Telephus  a  woman  sitting,  crowned  with  garlands,  and  lean 
ing  upon  a  basket  filled  with  ears  of  corn,  fruit,  and  flowers.  Hercules  standg 
before  her  with  his  back  turned  toward  the  spectator,  and  a  doe  is  suckling  an 
infant  at  his  feet.  A  faun  is  playing  on  his  pipe  in  the  distance,  and  a  winged 
female  forms  the  background  to  the  figure  of  Hercules.  This  composition  id 
beautiful,  but  it  is  not  the  genuine  landscape,  the  naked  landscape,  the  repre 
sentation  of  an  accident  of  nature  aloue. 

Though  Vitruvius  asserts  that  Anaxagoras  and  Democritus  said  something 
eoncerning  perspective  in  treating  of  the  Greek  stage,  still  there  is  reason  to 
doubt  whether  the  ancients  were  acquainted  with  this  department  of  the  art: 
without  which  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  landscape-painting.  The  design 
of  the  suV>jccts  found  at  Herculaneum  is  dry,  and  greatly  resembles  sculpture 


12  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


and  bas-relief.  The  shadows,  composed  of  a  mixture  of  red  and  black,  ar« 
equally  thick  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  figure,  and  consequently  do  not 
make  objects  appear  at  a  certain  distance.  Even  fruits,  flowers,  and  vases,  ara 
deficient  in  perspective,  and  the  upper  contour  of  these  last  does  not  correspond 
with  the  same  horizon  as  their  base:  in  a  word,  all  those  subjects  borrowed 
from  fable  that  are  found  in  the  ruins  of  Herculaneum  prove  that  mythology 
blinded  painters  to  the  genuine  landscape,  as  it  did  poets  to  genuine  nature. 

The  ceilings  of  the  baths  of  Titus,  which  Raphael  studied,  contained  orly 
representations  of  the  human  form.  Some  of  the  iconoclast  emperors  permitted 
flowers  and  birds  to  be  painted  on  the  walls  of  the  churches  in  Constantinople 
The  Egyptians,  who  united  to  the  Greek  and  Latin  mythology  many  other 
divinities  of  their  own,  had  not  the  art  of  representing  nature.  Some  of  their 
paintings  still  to  be  seen  on  the  walls  of  their  temples  do  not  rise  higher,  in 
point  of  composition,  than  the  Chinese  daubs. 

Father  Sicard,  speaking  of  a  small  temple  situated  among  the  grottos  of 
Thebais,  says,  "The  ceiling,  the  walls,  the  interior,  the  exterior,  all  is  painted, 
and  with  colors  so  vivid,  yet  so  soft,  that  one  would  not  credit  it  without  hav 
ing  seen  it  ...  On  the  right  you  see  a  man  standing,  with  a  rod  in  each 
hand,  leaning  upon  a  crocodile,  and  a  maiden  near  him  with  a  rod  in  her  hand. 
On  the  left  of  the  gate*you  also  see  a  man  standing  and  leaning  upon  a  croco 
dile,  holding  a  sword  in  the  right  hand  and  a  burning  torch  in  the  left.  In 
the  interior  of  the  temple  are  represented  flowers  of  every  color,  instruments 
of  various  construction,  and  other  grotesque  and  emblematical  figures.  On 
one  side  you  meet  with  a  hunting-piece,  where  all  the  birds  that  frequent  the 
Nile  are  caught  by  one  fall  of  a  trap,  and  on  another  is  a  fishing-scene,  where 
the  fishes  of  that  river  are  taken  in  a  single  net,"  &c. — Lettr.  Edif.,  tome  v. 
p.  144. 

To  find  landscape  among  the  ancients,  you  must  examine  their  mosaics, 
though  even  these  are  historical  subjects.  The  famous  mosaic  in  the  palace 
of  the  Barberini  princes  at  Palestrina  represents  in  its  upper  part  a  mountain 
ous  country  with  hunters  and  animals.  In  the  lower  part  is  the  river  Nile, 
winding  around  a  number  of  small  islands.  Egyptian  men  are  seen  pursuing 
the  crocodile,  Egyptian  women  lying  beneath  their  cradles,  a  woman  presenting 
a  palm  to  a  warrior,  <fcc.  All  this  is  vastly  different  from  the  landscape  of 
Claude  le  Lorrain. 

NOTE  X,  (p.  390.) 

The  abbe  Barthelemi  found  the  prelate  Baiardi  engaged  in  a  reply  to  the 
monks  of  Calabria,  who  had  consulted  him  on  the  subject  of  the  Copernican 
system.  "He  returned  a  very  long  and  learned  answer  to  their  questions,  ex 
plained  the  laws  of  gravitation,  cautioned  them  against  the  delusions  of  the 
senses,  and  concluded  with  exhorting  them  not  to  disturb  the  ashes  of  Coper 
nicus." —  Voy.  en  Ital. 

NOTE  Y,  (p.  412.) 

We  can  scarcely  persuade  ourselves  that  some  of  these  notes  were  by  Vol 
taire,  so  unworthy  are  they  of  his  pen.  But  it  is  absolutely  impossible  to  over 
come  the  disgust  excited  every  moment  by  the  dishonesty  of  the  editors  and 
the  praises  which  they  lavish  on  each  other.  Who  would  believe,  unless  he 
had  seen  it  in  print,  that,  in  a  note  upon  a  note,  the  commentator  is  styled  the 


NOTES.  713 

ffec-i'Mry  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  Pascal  the  Secretary  of  Port  Royal?  In  a 
hundred  other  passages  Pascal's  ideas  are  distorted,  that  he  may  be  considered 
as  an  atheist.  When  he  says,  for  example,  that  human  reason  alone  cannot 
arrive  at  a  perfect  demonstration  of  the  existence  of  God,  how  they  triumph,  how 
they  exclaim,  What  a  curious  spectacle  to  see  M.  de  Voltaire  espouse  the  cause  of 
God  against  Pascal !  This  is  in  truth  making  game  of  common  sense,  and  pre- 
euming  rather  too  much  on  the  good-nature  of  the  reader. 

Is  it  not  evident  that  Pascal  reasons  as  a  Christian  who  would  press  the 
argument  of  the  necexsHy  of  revelation  ?  But  there  is  something  worse  even 
thin  that  in  this  commented  edition.  It  is  not  clear  to  us  that  the  New 
Thonnhts  which  have  been  added  to  it  are  not  at  least  perverted,  to  say  no 
more.  What  authorizes  us  to  think  so  is  the  liberty  that  has  been  taken  to 
retren  jh  several  of  the  old  ones,  and  frequently  to  divide  the  others,  (under  the 
pretext  that  the  former  arrangement  was  arbitrary,)  so  that  they  no  longer 
have  the  same  meaning  as  before.  Every  person  knows  how  easy  it  is  to  alter 
a  passage  by  breaking  the  concatenation  of  ideas,  and  by  separating  two  mem- 
bers  of  a  sentence  BO  as  to  produce  two  complete  sentences.  There  is  an 
address,  an  artifice,  a  secret  design  in  this  edition  which  would  have  rendered 
it  dangerous,  had  not  the  notes  fortunately  destroyed  all  the  effect  that  was 
expected  from  it. 

NOTE  Z,  (p.  414.) 

Besides  the  plans  of  reform  and  improvement  which  have  come  to  the  know- 
ledge  of  the  public,  a  multitude  of  projects  proposed  in  the  council  of  Louis 
XIV.  are  said  to  have  been  found  since  the  revolution  among  the  old  pap 
in  the  office  of  the  ministry;  among  the  rest,  one  for  the  extension  of  th*  frontier* 
of  France  to  the  Rhine,  and  another  for  the  seizure  of  Egypt.     As  to  the  edifice! 
and  works  for  the  embellishment  of  Paris,.they  appear  to  have  been  all  < 
cussed      It  was  in  contemplation  to  finish  the  Louvre,  to  convey  water  to  the 
city  to  lay  open  the  quays,  Ac.  Ac.     Reasons  of  economy,  or  some  other  motive 
probably,  prevented  the  execution  of  these  plans.     That  age  had  done  so  much 
that  it  was  necessary  for  it  to  leave  something  to  be  done  by  posterity. 

NOTE  AA,  (p.  427.) 

I  shall  advance  but  one  single  fact  in  reply  to  all  the  objections  which  may 
be  alleged  against  the  old  establishment  of  the  censorship.     Was  it  not 
France  that  all  works  against  religion  were  composed,  sold,  published,— nay,  even 
frequently  printed?  and  were  not  the  great  themselves  the  first  to  recommen, 
and  to  protect  them?     In  this  case  the  censorship  was  a  mere  bugbear,  since 
it  was  never  able  to  prevent  a  book  from  appearing,  or  an  author  from  writing 
his  sentiments  with  freedom  on  any  subject  whatever;  and,  after  all,  the  greal 
est  hardship  that  dfcld  befall  a  writer  was  to  be  obliged  to  spend  a  few  moni 
in  the  Bastile,  whence  he  was  soon  released  with  the  honors  of  a  persecution, 
which  afterward  constituted  his  only  title  to  celebrity. 

NOTE  BB,  (p.  443.) 
Extracts  from  St.  Chrysostom. 

Amid  the  inconsistent  and  disgraceful  acts  which  blurred  the  reign  of  the 
weak  Arcadius,  the  following  is  not  the  least Eutropus,  by  b, 


714  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


fcure,  by  nature  cruel,  vindictive,  and  ambitious,  was  raised  to  the  highest 
dignities  of  the  state,  and  was  styled  Consul  and  Father  of  the  Emperor.  In 
the  zenith  of  his  greatness,  he  exercised  his  power  with  the  most  excessive 
tyranny,  and  enacted  the  severest  Laws  against  the  Christian  church.  At  length 
the  day  of  retribution  came.  He  was  stripped  of  all  his  grandeur,  his  titles  and 
his  wealth,  and  was  reduced  to  the  order  of  the  meanest  citizen.  Thus  condi 
tioned,  he  fled  for  refuge  to  the  altar  of  the  cathedral.  Chrysostom  received 
him  with  the  charity  of  a  Christian  and  the  tenderness  of  a  parent.  On  the 
succeeding  day,  when  the  news  of  his  disgrace  and  flight  had  been  published 
through  the  city,  the  people  flocked  in  crowds  to  the  cathedral,  that  they 
might  exult  in  the  distress  of  their  once  dreaded  tyrant  and  drag  him  forth  to 
punishment.  The  time  was  critical.  There  was  no  leisure  for  premeditation. 
....  The  orator  ascended  the  pulpit,  and  in  a  rich  stream  of  extemporaneous 
eloquence,  which,  as  Suidas  observes,  no  other  man  in  any  age  possessed,  he 
addressed  his  impassioned  auditors  to  this  effect : — 

"  In  every  season  of  our  lives,  but  most  especially  in  the  present,  we  may 
exclaim,  '  Vanity  of  vanities  !  all  is  vanity  !'  Where  now  are  the  costly  insignia 
of  the  consulship,  and  where  the  blaze  of  torches?  Where  now  is  the  enthu 
siasm  of  applause,  and  the  crowded  hall,  and  the  sumptuous  banquet,  and  the 
midnight  revelry?  Where  is  the  tumult  that  echoed  through  the  city,  the  ac 
clamations  which  resounded  in  the  hippodromes,  and  the  flattery  of  the  spec 
tators  ?  All  these  are  fled.  The  first  tempestuous  gale  hath  scattered  the  rich 
foliage  on  the  ground,  presenting  to  our  eyes  the  naked  tree,  reft  of  its  bloom 
ing  honors  and  bowed  inglorious  to  the  earth.  So  wild  hath  been  the  storm, 
so  infuriate  the  blast,  that  it  threatened  to  tear  up  the  very  roots  from  their 
proud  foundation  and  to  rend  the  nerves  and  vitals  of  the  tree.  Where  now 
are  the  fictitious  friends? — where  is  the  swarm  of  parasites,  the  streaming 
goblets  of  exhaustless  wine,  the  arts  which  administered  to  luxury,  the  wor 
shippers  of  the  imperial  purple,  whose  words  and  actions  were  the  slaves  of  in 
terest?  ....  They  were  the  vision  of  a  night  and  the  illusion  of  a  dream, 
but  when  the  day  returned  they  were  blotted  from  existence ;  they  were  flowers 
of  the  spring,  but  when  the  spring  departed  they  were  all  withered ;  they  were  a 
shadow,  and  it  passed  away  ;  they  were  a  smoke,  and  it  was  dissolved ;  they  were 
bubbles  of  water,  and  they  were  broken ;  they  were  a  spider's  web,  and  it  was 
torn.  Wherefore,  let  us  proclaim  this  spiritual  saying,  incessantly  repeating, 
'  Vanity  of  vanities!  all  is  vanity!'  This  is  a  saying  which  should  be  inscribed 
on  our  garments,  in  the  Forum,  in  the  houses,  in  the  highways,  on  the  doors, 
and  on  the  thresholds ;  but  far  more  should  it  be  engraven  on  each  man's  con 
science  and  be  made  the  theme  of  ceaseless  meditation.  Since  fraud,  and  dis 
simulation,  and  hypocrisy,  are  sanctioned  in  the  commerce  of  the  world,  it 
behooves  each  man,  on  each  passing  day,  at  supper  and  at  dinner  and  in  the 
public  meetings,  to  repeat  unto  his  neighbor,  and  to  hearts  neighbor  repeat 
ing  unto  him,  '  Vanity  of  vanities !  all  things  are  vanity  !' 

"  Did  I  not  continually  say  to  you  that  wealth  is  a  fugitive  slave,  but  my 
words  were  not  endured?  Did  I  not  perpetually  remind  you  that  it  is  a  ser 
vant  void  of  gratitude,  but  you  were  not  willing  to  be  convinced  ?  Lo  !  expe 
rience  hath  proved  to  thee  that  it  is  not  only  a  fugitive  slave,  not  only  an 
ungrateful  servant,  but  likewise  a  destroyer  of  man.  It  is  this  which  hath 
undone  thee,  which  hath  abased  thee  in  the  dust. 


NOTES.  715 

'  Did  I  not  frequently  observe  that  the  wound  inflicted  by  a  friend  is  moro 
worthy  of  regard  than  the  kisses  of  an  enemy?  If  thou  hadst  endured  the 
wounds  my  hands  inflicted,  perchance  their  kisses  had  not  engendered  this 
death  to  thee.  For  my  wounds  are  the  ministers  of  health,  but  their  kisses  are 

the  harbingers  of  disease Where  now  are  thy  slaves  and  cup-bearers  ? 

Where  are  they  who  walked  insolently  through  the  Forum,  obtruding  upon  all 
their  encomiums  on  thee?  They  have  taken  the  alarm;  they  have  renounced 
thy  friendship  ;  they  have  made  thy  downfall  the  foundation  of  their  security. 

"  Far  different  our  practice.  In  the  full  climax  of  thy  enormities  we  braved 
thy  fury,  and  now  that  thou  art  fallen,  we  cover  thee  with  our  mantle  and  ten 
der  thee  our  service.  The  Church,  unrelentingly  besieged,  hath  spread  wide 
her  arms  and  pressed  thee  to  her  bflsom,  while  the  theatres,  those  idols  of  thy 
soul,  which  so  oft  have  drawn  down  thy  vengeance  upon  us,  have  betrayed 
thee,  have  abandoned  thee.  And  yet  how  often  did  I  exclaim,  'Impotent  is  thy 
rage  against  the  Church  ;  thou  seckest  to  overturn  her  from  her  lofty  eminence, 
and  thy  incautious  steps  will  be  hurried  down  the  precipice;'  but  all  was  disre 
garded  !  The  Hippodromes,  having  consumed  thy  riches,  sharpen  their  swords 
against  thee,  while  the  Church — poor  suffering  victim  of  thy  wrath ! — traverses 
the  mountains,  valleys,  woods,  panting  to  rescue  thee  from  the  snare. 

"I  speak  not  these  things  to  trample  on  a  prostrate  foe,  but  more  firmly  to 
establish  the  upright  I  am  not  to  lacerate  a  wound  yet  bleeding,  but  to  in 
sure  sweet  health  to  those  who  are  unwounded.  I  wish  not  to  bury  in  an  abyss 
of  waters  him  who  is  half-drowned  already,  but  to  caution  those  whose  bark 
glides  smoothly  on  the  ocean,  lest  they  should  be  wrecked  at  last.  And  how 
shall  they  be  preserved?  Let  them  meditate  on  the  vicissitudes  of  mortals. 
This  very  man,  had  he  but  feared  a  change,  had  not  experienced  a  change. 
But,  since  neither  foreign  nor  domestic  examples  could  reclaim  him,  ye  at  least, 
who  are  enshrined  in  wealth,  from  his  calamity  should  derive  instruction.  No 
thing  is  more  imbecile  or  more  empty  than  the  affairs  of  men  ;  therefore,  what 
ever  terms  I  might  employ  to  denote  their  vileness,  my  illustration  would  be 
insufficient.  To  call  them  a  blade  of  grass,  a  smoke,  a  dream,  a  flower,  would 
be  to  stamp  a  dignity  upon  them ;  for  they  are  less  than  nothing  ! 

"That  they  are  not  only  visionary  and  unsubstantial,  but  likewise  pregnant 
with  disaster,  is  manifest  from  hence.  Was  ever  man  more  elevated,  moro 
august,  than  he?  Did  he  not  surpass  the  universe  in  wealth?  Did  he  not 
ascend  the  meridian  of  dignities  ?  Did  not  all  men  tremble  and  bend  before 
him?  Lo !  he  is  become  more  necessitous  than  the  slave,  more  miserable  than 
the  captive,  more  indigent  than  the  beggar  wasted  with  excess  of  hunger;  each 
day  doth  he  behold  swords  waving,  gulfs  yawning,  the  lictors,  and  the  pas 
sage  to  the  grave.  Were  this  moment  to  be  his  last,  he  would  be  utterly  un 
conscious  ;  he  regards  not  the  sun's  fair  beam,  but,  standing  in  meridian  day, 
as  though  he  were  enveloped  in  tenfold  darkness,  his  sight  and  feelings  are  ex 
tinct.  But  wherefore  do  I  attempt  to  delineate  those  sufferings,  which  he  him 
self,  in  glowing  colors,  depicts  unto  us  ?  Even  yesterday,  when  soldiers  from 
the  imperial  palace  came  to  drag  him  to  his  fate,  with  what  a  speed,  with  what 
an  agitation,  did  he  rush  unto  the  altar?  Pale  was  his  countenance,  as  though 
he  were  an  inmate  of  the  tomb;  his  teeth  chattered,  his  whole  frame  trembled, 
his  speech  was  broken,  his  tongue  was  motionless;  ye  would  have  thought  his 
very  heart  had  been  congealed  to  stone. 


716  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

"  Believe  me,  I  relate  not  this  to  insult  and  triumph  in  his  fall,  but  that  I 
may  soften  your  hearts'  rough  surface,  may  infuse  one  drop  of  pity,  and  per 
suade  you  to  rest  satisfied  with  his  present  anguish.  Since  there  are  persons* 
in  this  assembly  who  even  reproach  my  conduct  in  admitting  him  to  the  altar, 
to  smooth  the  asperity  of  their  hearts  I  unfold  the  history  of  his  woes.  Where 
fore,  0  my  friend,  art  thou  offended?  Because,  thou  wilt  reply,  that  man  ia 
sheltered  by  the  Church  who  waged  an  incessant  war  against  it.  This  is  the. 
especial  reason  for  which  we  should  glorify  our  God,  because  he  hath  permitted 
him  to  stand  in  so  awful  a  necessity  as  to  experience  both  the  power  and  the 
clemency  of  the  Church : — the  power  of  the  Church,  because  his  continued 
persecutions  have  drawn  down  this  thunderbolt  on  his  head:  and  her  clemency, 
because,  still  bleeding  from  her  wounds,  she*  extends  her  shield  as  a  protection, 
she  covers  him  with  her  wings,  she  places  him  in  an  impregnable  security,  and, 
forgetting  every  past  circumstance  of  ill,  she  makes  her  bosom  his  asylum 
and  repose.  No  illustrious  conquest,  no  high-raised  trophy,  could  reflect  so  pure 
a  splendor  j  this  is  a  triumph  which  might  cover  the  infidel  with  shame  and 
raise  even  the  blushes  of  the  Jew!  It  is  this  which  irradiates  her  face  with 
smiles  and  lights  up  her  eye  with  exultation.  She  hath  received,  she  hath 
cherished,  a  fallen  enemy;  and,  when  all  besides  abandoned  him  to  his  fate,  she 
alone,  like  a  tender  mother,  hath  covered  him  with  her  garment,  and  withstood 
at  once  the  indignation  of  the  prince,  the  fury  of  the  people,  and  a  spirit 
of  inextinguishable  hatred  !  This  is  the  glory,  the  pride  of  our  religion  !  What 
glory  is  there,  you  will  exclaim,  in  receiving  an  iniquitous  wretch  unto  the 
altar  ?  Ah  !  speak  not  thus,  since  even  a  harlot  took  hold  of  the  feet  of  Christ, — 
a  harlot  utterly  impure ;  yet  no  reproach  proceeded  from  Jesus'  lips.  He  ap 
proved,  he  praised  her.  The  impious  did  not  contaminate  the  holy,  but  the 
pure  and  spotless  Jesus  rendered  by  his  touch  the  impure  harlot  pure.  0  man, 
remember  not  thine  injuries.  Are  we  not  the  servants  of  a  crucified  Redeemer, 
who  said,  as  he  was  expiring,  'Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  '? 
But  he  interdicted  this  asylum,  you  will  say,  by  his  decrees  and  laws.  Lo  !  he 
now  perceives  the  nature  of  what  he  did,  and  is  himself  the  first  to  dissolve  the 
laws  which  he  enacted.  He  is  become  a  spectacle  to  the  world,  and,  though 
silent,  from  hence  he  admonisheth  the  nations,  Do  not  such  things  as  I  have, 
lest  ye  should  suffer  what  I  suffer.  Illustrated  by  this  event,  the  altar  darts 
forth  an  unprecedented  splendor,  and  shines,  a  warning  beacon  to  the  earth. 
How  tremendous,  how  august,  doth  it  appear,  since  it  holds  this  lion  in  chains 
and  crouching  at  your  feet ! 

"Thus,  too,  the  victorious  monarch  is  illustrious,  not  because  he  is  seated  on 
a  throne,  invested  with  purple  and  adorned  with  jewels,  but  because  he  treads 
beneath  his  feet  captive  barbarians,  who  crouch  at  his  footstool  and  grovel  in 
the  dust 

"  That  he  used  not  his  power  to  conciliate  your  love  ye  yourselves  attest  in 
your  tumultous  concourse. 

"  This  day,  a  most  brilliant  spectacle,  a  most  venerable  assembly,  is  presented 
U>  my  eyes ;  the  church  is  thronged  as  on  the  festival  of  Easter,  and  this  cul 
prit,  with  a  silence  more  eloquent  than  the  trumpet's  voice,  summoneth  the 
city  hither.  Ye  virgins  abandoning  your  chambers,  ye  matrons  quitting  your 
retirements,  ye  men  leaving  the  Forum  empty,  have  flocked  together  here,  that 
ye  might  behold  the  nature  of  man  convicted,  the  frailty  of  human  affairs 


NOTES.  717 


publicly  exposed,  and  yon  meretricious  countenance,  which  yesterday  was 
brightened  with  the  tints  of  youth,  now  betraying  the  griui  wrinkles  of  disease 
and  age, — this  reverse  of  fortune,  like  a  dripping  sponge,  having  wiped  off  the 
plastered  paint  and  the  fictitious  charm  ....  Such  is  the  potency  of  this 
hapless  day.  It  hath  rendered  the  proudest  of  nature's  tyrants  the  meanest, 
the  most  abject  of  her  children  ! 

"  Doth  the  rich  man  enter  here?  Abundant  is  his  gain.  For,  beholding  the 
common  scourge  of  nations  degraded  from  such  an  elevation,  tamed  of  his 
savage  nature,  and  become  more  timid  than  the  most  timid  animal,  bound 
without  fetters  to  that  pillar,  and  girt  around  with  fear  as  with  a  chain,  he 
caluis  his  effervescent  pride,  he  represses  his  swelling  spirit,  and,  making  a 
suitable  reflection  on  sublunary  concerns,  he  retires,  learning  from  experience, 
and  feeling  with  conviction,  that  all  flesh  is  grass  and  all  the  glory  of  man  as 
the  flower  of  the  field :  the  grass  withereth  and  the  flower  fadeth 

"  The  poor  man,  entering  here  and  gazing  on  yon  spectacle  of  wo,  account- 
eth  not  himself  as  vile,  nor  grieveth  that  he  is  poor.  Nay,  he  droppeth  a  tear 
of  gratitude  to  his  poverty,  because  it  hath  been  to  him  a  citadel  which  never 
can  be  stormed,  a  harbor  where  no  billows  rage,  a  wall  of  adamantine  strength." 
— Discourse  on  the  Diagrace  of  Eutropiim. 

The  object  of  St.  Chrysostoin  in  this  address  was  not  only  to  instruct  his 
people,  but  to  move  them  by  the  recital  of  the  reverses  which  he  so  forcibly 
depicted.  In  this  he  had  the  consolation  to  succeed.  Notwithstanding  their 
aversion  for  Eutropius,  who  was  justly  regarded  as  the  author  of  all  they  had 
to  suffer,  both  in  public  and  private,  the  whole  auditory  was  moved  to  tears. 
When  the  orator  perceived  this,  he  continued : — 

"Have  I  calmed  your  minds?  Have  I  banished  anger  from  your  midst? 
Have  I  checked  the  impulses  of  inhumanity  ?  Have  I  excited  your  compassion  ? 
Yes  ;  those  tears  that  are  flowing  from  your  eyes  sufficiently  attest  it.  Now  that 
your  hearts  are  affected  and  an  ardent  charity  has  melted  their  icy  hardness,  let 
us  go  in  a  body  to  cast  ourselves  at  the  feet  of  the  emperor,  or  rather  let  us  pray 
the  God  of  mercy  to  appease  him,  that  he  may  grant  an  entire  pardon." 

This  appeal  had  its  effect,  and  St.  Chrysostoin  saved  the  life  of  Eutropius. 
But,  some  days  after,  the  latter  had  the  imprudence  to  leave  the  church,  when 
he  was  arrested  and  banished  to  the  island  of  Cyprus;  subsequently,  put  on 
trial  at  Chalcedon,  he  was  there  condemned  to  death. 

From  the  1st  book  De  Sacerdotio. 

St.  Chrysostom  had  an  intimate  friend,  named  Basil,  who  had  persuaded 
him  to  leave  his  maternal  home  and  to  live  with  him  in  a  state  of  retirement. 
"When  my  afflicted  mother  first  heard  of  this,"  says  St.  Chrysostom,  "she 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and,  leading  me  into  her  chamber,  she  made  mo  sit  down 
with  her  at  the  very  bed  on  which  she  had  brought  me  forth,  and,  weeping,  sho 
spoke  to  me  words  which  affected  me  much  more  than  her  tears.  *  My  son,' 
said  she,  '  it  was  not  the  will  of  God  that  I  should  enjoy  for  a  long  time  the 
virtuous  company  of  your  father.  Having  died  soon  after  the  sufferings  which 
gave  you  birth,  he  left  you  an  orphan,  and  me  a  widow,  sooner  than  was  con 
ducive  to  the  welfare  of  either.  I  have  endured  all  the  pains  and  troubles  of 
widowhood,  which  certainly  cannot  be  understood  by  those  who  have  not  ex 
perienced  them.  No  language  can  express  the  perplexity  and  excitement  of  a 


718  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


young  fforaan  who  has  just  left  the  paternal  house,  who  is  unacquainted  with 
business  matters,  and  who,  plunged  in  affliction,  finds  herself  implicated  in  new 
cares,  which,  on  account  of  her  youth  and  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  she  is  but 
little  fitted  to  assume.  She  must  supply  the  deficiency  of  her  servants  and 
guard  against  the  effects  of  their  malice  ;  she  must  be  on  the  defensive  against 
the  evil  designs  of  her  relatives,  suffer  continually  from  the  injustice  of  parti- 
sans  and  from  the  insolence  and  cruelty  which  they  display  in  the  collection 
of  taxes. 

"  '  When  a  father  leaves  a  daughter  after  him,  this  child  must  be  a  source  of 
great  trouble  and  solicitude  to  her  mother.  Nevertheless,  this  charge  is  sup 
portable,  as  it  is  not  accompanied  with  apprehension  or  expense.  But,  if  she 
has  a  son,  she  finds  it  much  more  difficult  to  bring  him  up,  and  he  becomes  a 
perpetual  subject  of  fear  and  anxiety,  without  speaking  of  what  it  costs  to  edu 
cate  him.  All  these  evils,  however,  have  not  induced  me  to  marry  again.  I 
have  not  allowed  myself  to  be  overcome  by  these  difficulties,  and,  trusting  in 
the  grace  of  God,  I  have  resolved  to  bear  up  against  all  the  trials  of  my  widow 
hood. 

"  *  But  my  only  consolation  in  this  state  has  been  to  have  you  always  before 
my  eyes,  and  to  behold  in  you  the  living  image  and  faithful  portrait  of  my 
deceased  husband  ;  a  consolation  which  began  from  your  infancy,  when  as  yet 
you  could  not  articulate  a  word,  and  when  parents  derive  the  greatest  joy  from 
their  children. 

"'  Moreover,  I  have  never  given  you  any  reason  to  think  that,  while  I  bear 
with  fortitude  the  evils  of  my  present  condition,  I  have,  with  a  view  to  escape 
them,  diminished  the  estate  of  your  father,  —  a  misfortune  which  I  know  fre 
quently  befalls  minors.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  preserved  all  that  was  left  to 
you,  though  I  have  omitted  no  expense  that  was  required  for  your  education  : 
this  I  have  drawn  from  my  own  resources.  But  I  do  not  say  this  with  a  view 
to  remind  you  of  your  obligations  to  me.  For  all  that  I  have  done  I  ask  of 
you  only  one  favor  :  do  not  begin  for  me  a  second  widowhood  ;  do  not  reopen 
a  wound  that  had  begun  to  heal.  Wait  at  least  until  my  death  ;  it  is,  perhaps, 
not  far  off.  They  who  are  young  may  hope  to  see  old  age  ;  but  at  my  time  of 
life  I  can  only  look  for  death.  When  you  will  have  buried  me  in  your  father's 
tomb,  and  mingled  these  bones  with  his  ashes,  you  may  then  enter  upon  any 
journey  or  travel  over  any  sea  that  you  wish  ;  no  one  will  prevent  you.  But, 
while  I  still  breathe,  have  some  regard  for  my  presence,  and  do  not  become 
tired  of  your  mother.  Do  not  draw  upon  yourself  the  divine  indignation,  by 
causing  so  much  grief  to  a  mother  who  has  not  deserved  it.  If  I  seek  to  in 
volve  you  in  worldly  pursuits,  if  I  try  to  force  upon  you  the  management  of 
my  affairs,  which  are  also  yours,  oh,  then  you  may,  with  my  consent,  disregard 
the  laws  of  nature,  the  trials  which  I  suffered  in  rearing  and  educating  you, 
the  respect  which  you  owe  to  a  mother,  and,  indeed,  every  motive  of  this  kind  ; 
but,  if  I  do  every  thing  in  my  power  to  insure  you  a  tranquil  and  happy  life, 
let  this  consideration  at  least,  if  nothing  else,  influence  your  mind.  Whatever 
may  be  the  number  of  your  friends,  none  of  them  will  allow  you  as  much  free 
dom  as  I  will.  Moreover,  no  one  feels  the  same  ardent  interest  as  I  do  in  your 
improvement  and  welfare.'" 

St.  Chrysostom  could  not  resist  this  touching  appeal  ;  and,  notwithstanding 
*  n  repeated  solicitations  of  his  friend  Basil,  he  could  not  be  induced  to  leave 


NOTES.  719 

a  mother  who  loved  him  so  tenderly  and  who  was  so  worthy  of  being  loved. 
Is  there  any  thing  in  pagan  antiquity  more  beautiful  thas  this, — more  feeling, 
more  tender,  more  eloquent,  more  characterized  by  that  simple  and  natural 
eloquence  so  infinitely  superior  to  all  the  studied  formality  of  art?  Is  there 
any  thing  in  this  discourse  which  could  be  considered  as  an  effort  of  thought 
or  an  affectation  of  sentiment  or  language?  Does  it  not. appear,  on  the 
contrary,  as  the  language  only  of  the  heart,  the  promptings  of  nature  herself? 
.But  what  is  most  admirable  here  is  the  wonderful  self-possession  of  that 
mother  overwhelmed  with  affliction.  Although  merged  in  grief, — though  in  a 
state  which  rendered  it  almost  impossible  to  command  her  feelings, — not  a  word 
of  anger  or  complaint  falls  from  her  lips  against  the  author  of  her  distress  and 
her  alarms,  either  through  respect  for  the  virtue  of  Basil  or  the  fear  of  irri 
tating  her  son,  whom  she  wished  only  to  move  and  to  overcome. 

NOTE  CC,  (p.  448.) 

"To  great  talents,"  says  M.  de  la  Harpe,  "it  is  given  to  animate  the  cold 
and  to  conquer  the  indifferent,  and,  when  combined  with  example,  (an  advan 
tage  which  all  our  preachers  have  fortunately  enjoyed,)  it  is  certain  that  the 
ministry  of  the  word  nowhere  has  such  power  and  such  dignity  as  in  the 
pulpit.  Everywhere  else  it  is  a  man  who  addresses  men :  here  it  is  a  being 
•jf  a  superior  order;  exalted  between  heaven  and  earth,  it  is  a  mediator  placed 
by  God  between  himself  and  his  creature.  Independent  of  earthly  considera 
tions,  he  proclaims  the  oracles  of  eternity.  The  very  place  from  which  he 
speaks,  and  that  where  he  is  heard,  confounds  and  eclipses  all  other  species 
of  grandeur  that  it  may  till  the  mind  with  its  own.  Kings  humble  themselves 
like  the  lowest  of  their  subjects  before  his  tribunal,  and  repair  thither  for 
instruction  alono.  Everything*  around  him  adds  weight  to  his  words:  his 
voice  resounds  throughout  the  sacred  edifice  amid  the  silence  of  universal 
devotion.  If  he  calls  God  to  witness,  God  is  present  on  the  altars;  if  he 
declares  the  nothingness  of  life,  death  is  at  hand  to  attest  it  and  to  remind 
those  who  hear  him  that  they  are  seated  upon  tombs. 

"  It  cannot  be  denied  that  external  objects — the  decorations  of  the  temples 
and  the  pomp  of  the  ceremonies — have  a  considerable  influence  on  the  minds 
of  men,  and  operate  upon  them  before  the  preacher,  provided  he  destroys  not 
their  effect.  Let  us  figure  to  ourselves  Mussillon  in  the  pulpit  ready  to  pro 
nounce  the  funeral  oration  of  Louis  XIV.,  first  casting  his  eyes  around  him, 
fixing  them  for  some  time  on  that  awful  and  imposing  pomp  which  attends 
kings  even  into  those  abodes  of  death  that  contain  naught  bur  coffins  and 
ashes,  then  casting  them  down  for  a  moment  with  an  air  of  meditation,  finally 
raising  them  toward  heaven,  and  in  a  firm  and  solemn  tone  pronouncing  these 
words  :  'God  alone  is  great,  my  brethren  !'  What  an  exordium  is  comprehended 
in  this  single  sentence  accompanied  with  that  action!  how  sublime  it  is  ren 
dered  by  the  spectacle  which  surrounds  the  preacher!  how  these  few  worda 
annihilate  whatever  is  not  God!" 

NOTE  DD,    (p.  455.) 

Lichtenatein. — The  encyclopedists  are  a  sect  of  self-styled  philosophers,  who 
nave  arisen  in  our  times  and  who  imagine  themselves  superior  to  all  antiquitr 


'20  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


in  point  of  knowledge.  With  the  effrontery  of  cynics,  they  have  the  impu 
dence  to  put  forth  every  paradox  that  enters  their  heads.  Affecting  an 
a  ,quaintance  with  geometry,  they  contend  that  no  one  can  think  rightly  who 
has  not  studied  that  science,  and,  consequently,  that  they  alone  possess  the 
art  of  reasoning  well.  Their  discourse,  even  on  the  most  common  occasions, 
is  filled  with  scientific  words.  They  will  tell  you,  for  instance,  that  certain 
laws  have  been  wisely  framed  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  the  squares  of  the  dis 
tances;  that  one  nation,  about  to  form  an  alliance  with  another,  is  drawn  to  it 
by  the  power  of  attraction,  and  that  both  will  soon  be  assimilated.  If  you 
propose  a  walk,  they  will  speak  of  it  as  the  resolution  of  a  curve.  If  they 
have  a  gravel-colic,  they  cure  themselves  by  the  laws  of  hydrostatics.  If  a 
louse  bites  them,  they  are  disturbed  by  an  infinitely  small  animal  of  the  first 
order.  If  they  fall,  it  is  because  they  lost  their  centre  of  gravity.  If  some 
journalist  is  bold  enough  to  attack  them,  they  drown  him  in  a  deluge  of  ink 
and  vituperation.  Such  treason  against  philosophy  is  considered  unpar 
donable. 

Eugene. — But  what  have  those  fools  to  do  with  our  name  in  the  world  or 
with  the  opinion  which  men  form  of  us  ? 

Lichtenstein.  —  Much  more  than  you  think,  because  they  vilify  all  the 
sciences,  except  their  mathematics.  According  to  them,  poetry  is  but  a 
frivolous  sort  of  writing,  the  fictions  of  which  should  be  discarded :  a  poet 
should  flourish  his  rhymes  only  in  algebraic  equations.  As  to  history,  it 
should  be  studied  inversely,  beginning  with  our  times  and  ascending  to  the 
antediluvian  period.  All  governments  are  reformed  by  those  men.  France 
should  be  a  republic,  with  a  geometrician  for  its  lawgiver,  and  with  other 
geometricians  to  govern  it  by  subjecting  all  its  affairs  to  the  infinitesimal 
calculus.  Such  a  republic  would  enjoy  a  constant  peace  and  would  have  no 

need  of  an  army Those  gentlemen  affect  a  holy  horror  of  war 

If  they  abominate  armies  and  generals  who  acquire  distinction,  that  does  not 
prevent  them  from  carrying  on  a  paper  war  against  each  other  and  using  the 
weapons  of  Billingsgate.  If  they  had  troops  at  their  disposal,  they  would  soon 

bring  them  into  action The  terms  they  employ  in  mutual  abuse  are 

called  philosophical  licenses.  Thought  should  be  enunciated;  any  truth  is 
worth  proclaiming;  and,  as  they  alone  are  the  depositaries  of  truth,  they 
think  themselves  privileged  to  express  all  the  extravagant  ideas  that  enter 
their  brains,  in  the  expectation  of  being  applauded. 

Marlboromjh. — I  suppose  there  is  no  longer  any  lunatic  asylum  in  Europe. 
If  there  is,  those  gentlemen  ought  certainly  to  be  placed  there,  in  order  to 
legislate  for  fools  like  themselves. 

Euyene.—M.y  advice  would  be  to  confide  to  them  the  government  of  some 
province  that  requires  punishment.  They  would  find,  after  having  turned 
every  thing  topsy-turvy,  that  they  are  a  set  of  ignoramuses ;  that  it  is  easy  to 
criticize,  but  difficult  to  execute;  and,  especially,  that  people  expose  them 
selves  to  talk  nonsense  without  end  when  they  undertake  to  speak  of  what 
they  do  not  understand. 

Lichtenstein.— Men  who  are  self-conceited  never  acknowledge  themselves 
to  be  in  the  wrong.     According  to  them  a  wise   man  never  makes  a  mistake 
he  alone  is  enlightened,  and  from  him   must  proceed  that  knowledge  which 
will  dissipate  the  thick  gloom  in  which  the  blind  multitude  are  enveloped; 


NOTES.  72! 

but  the  Lord  knows  how  he  enlightens  them.  At  one  time  he  discourses  on 
the  origin  of  prejudices  ;  at  another,  on  the  mind  ;  then  on  the  system  of 
nature.  There  is  no  end  to  this  stuff.  They  have  a  set  of  scamps  for  their 
followers,  who  pretend  to  imitate  them,  and  set  themselves  up  as  sub-precep 
tors  of  mankind:  and,  as  it  is  easier  to  utter  abuse  than  to  allege  good 
reasons,  they  assail  the  military  on  all  occasions  with  their  indecent 
invectives. 

Enyene.  __  One  coxcomb  will  always  find  another  coxcomb  to  admire  him  ; 
but  do  soldiers  qu.etly  submit  to  injuries  ? 

Lichtenstein.  —  They  let  the  curs  bark,  and  continue  their  way. 

Marlborouyh.  —  But  why  this  violent  opposition  to  the  noblest  of  all  profes 
sions,  —  a  profession  which,  by  extending  over  others  its  protection,  allows  them 
to  go  on  in  peace  ? 

Lichtenetein.  —  As  they  are  altogether  ignorant  of  the  military  art,  they 
imagine  that  they  bring  it  into  contempt  by  decrying  it.  As  I  have  remarked, 
they  denounce  the  sciences  generally,  and  hold  up  geometry  alone  as  worthy 
of  esteem,  in  order  to  extinguish  all  glory  that  belongs  to  others  and  concen 
trate  it  upon  themselves.  » 

Marlboroinjh.—  But  we  have  not  neglected  philosophy,  or  geometry,  or 
belles-lettres,  and  we  have  been  satisfied  with  having  some  merit  in  our  line. 

Eni/ene.  —  Nay,  more;  at  Vienna  I  was  the  patron  of  learned  men,  and  gave 
them  distinction,  even  when  they  were  little  thought  of  by  others. 

Lichtenstein.—  No  doubt;  because  you  were  really  great  men,  while  these 
self-dubbed  philosophers  are  but  a  set  of  scamps  whose  vanity  would  lead 
them  to  cut  a  certain  figure.  This,  however,  does  not  prevent  reiterated  abuse 
from  injuring  the  name  of  men  who  are  truly  great.  People  believe  that  bold 
sophistry  is  the  main  thing  for  a  philosopher,  and  that  ho  who  advances  a 
paradox  carries  off  the  palm.  How  often  have  I  heard  persons  condemning,  in 
a  most  ridiculous  strain,  your  very  best  actions,  and  qualifying  you  as  men 
who  had  usurped  a  reputation  in  an  age  of  ignorance,  which  was  incapable  of 
appreciating  merit  ! 

Marlborough.  —  Our  age  an  age  of  ignorance  !     That's  too  much  ! 

Lichtenitein.  —  The  present  age  is  the  age  of  philosophers. 

(Euvrea  de  Frederic  II. 


NOTE  EE,    (p.  456.) 
Portrait  (>f  J.  J.  Rousseau  and  Voltaire,  by  La  Harp*. 


Deux  surtout,  dont  le  nom,  le  talent,  1'eloquence, 

Faisant  aimer  1'erreur,  ont  fond6  sa  puissance, 

PrgparSrent  de  loin  des  maux  inattendus, 

Dont  ils  auroient  fremis,  g'ils  les  avoicnt  preVus. 

Oui,  je  le  crois,  te"moins  de  Icur  affreux  ouvrage, 

Ils  auroient  des  Francois  desavoue"  la  rage. 

Vaine  et  tardive  excuse  aux  faufes  de  1'orgueil ! 

Qui  prend  le  gouvernail  doit  connoitre  l'6cueil. 

La  foiblesse  reclame  un  pardon  legitime, 

Mais  de  tout  grand  pouvoir  Tabus  esf  un  grand  crime. 

tv 


GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Us  ont  parle"  (Ten  haut  aux  peuples  ignorans  ; 
Leur  voix  montait  au  ciel  pour  y  porter  la  guerre : 
Leur  parole  bardie  a  parcouru  la  terre. 
Tous  deux  ont  entrepris  d'oter  au  genre  humain 
Le  joug  sacre  qu'un  Dieu  n'imposa  pas  en  vain; 
Et  des  coups  que  ce  Dieu  frappe  pour  les  confondre, 
Au  monde,  leur  disciple,  ils  auront  a  r^pondre. 
Leur  noms  toujours  charges  de  reproches  nouveaux, 
Commenceront  toujours  le  recit  de  nos  uiaux. 
Ils  ont  fraye"  la  route  a  ce  peuple  rebelle, 
De  leur  triste  succes  la  honte  est  immortelle. 
L'un  qui  des  sa  jeunesse  errant  et  rebute, 
Nourrit  dans  les  affronts  son  orgueil  revolts, 
Sur  1'horizon  des  arts  sinistro  meteore, 
Marqua  par  le  scandale  une  tardive  aurore, 
Et,  pour  premier  essai  d'ur  talent  imposteur, 
Calomnia  les  arts,  ses  seuls  titres  d'bonneur, 
D'un  moderne  cynique^ffecta  1'arrogance, 
Du  paradoxe  altier  orna  1'extravagance, 
Ennoblit  le  sophisme,  et  cria  verite; 
Mais  par  quel  art  honteux  s'est-il  accredits  ? 
Courtisan  de  1'envie,  il  la  sert,  la  caresse, 
Va  dans  les  derniers  rangs  en  flatter  la  bassesse; 
Jusques  aux  fondemens  de  la  societe 
II  a  porte  la  faux  de  son  eyalite  : 
II  sema,  fit  germer,  chez  un  peuple  volage, 
Get  esprit  novateur,  le  monstre  de  notre  age, 
Qui  couvrira  1'Europe  et  de  sang  et  de  deuil. 
Rousseau  fut  parmi  nous  Fapotre  de  1'orgueil  ; 
H  vanta  son  enfance  a  Geneve  nourrie, 
Et  pour  venger  uu  livre,  il  troubla  sa  patrie, 
Tandis  qu'en  ses  ecrits,  par  un  autre  travers, 
Sur  sa  ville  chgtive  il  regloit  1'univers. 
J'admire  ses  talens,  j'en  deteste  1'usage; 
Sa  parole  est  un  feu,  mais  un  feu  qui  ravage, 
Dont  les  sombres  lueurs  brillent  sur  des  debris. 
Tout,  jusqu'aux  verites,  trompe  dans  ses  ecrits , 
Et  du  faux  et  du  vrai  ce  melange  adultere 
Est  d'un  sophiste  adroit  le  premier  caractere. 
Tour  a  tour  apostat  de  1'une  et  1'autre  loi, 
Admirant  1'evangile  et  reprouvant  la  foi, 
Chretien,  deiste,  arme  contre  Geneve  et  Rome, 
II  Spuise  a  lui  seul  Finconstance  de  1'homme, 
Demande  une  statue,  implore  une  prison ; 
Et  Tamour-propre  entin  egarant  sa  raison 
Frappe  ses  derniers  ans  du  plus  triste  delire ; 
II  fuit  le  monde  entier  qui  contre  lui  conspire, 
II  se  confesse  au  monde,  et  toujours  plein  de  soi, 
D;t  hautement  a  Dieu:   nul  e*t  mei'lleur  que  mot. 


NOTES.  723 


L'autre  encore  plus  faraeux,  plus  e"clatant  ge"nie, 
Fut  pour  nous  soixante  ans  le  dieu  de  1'harmonie. 
Ceint  de  tous  les  lauriers,  fait  pour  tous  les  succe"s, 
Voltaire  a  de  son  nom  fait  un  titre  aux  Francais. 
II  nous  a  vendu  cher  ce  brillant  heritage, 
Quand  libre  en  son  exil,  rassure  par  son  age, 
De  son  esprit  fougueux  1'essor  independant 
Prit  sur  1'esprit  du  sie"cle  un  si  haut  ascendant. 
Quand  son  ambition  toujours  plus  indocile 
Pretendit  detroner  le  Dieu  de  l'e"vangile, 
Voltaire  dans  Ferney,  son  bruyant  arsenal, 
Secouait  sur  1'Europe  un  magique  fanal, 
Que  pour  embraser  tout,  trente  ans  on  a  vu  luire, 
Par  lui  rimpiete"  puissante  pour  d6truire, 
Ebranla  d'un  effort  aveugle  et  furieux, 
Les  trfines  de  la  terre  appuye*es  dans  les  cieux. 
Ce  flexible  Prot6e  etait  n6  pour  seduiro  : 
Fort  de  tous  les  talens,  et  de  pluire  et  de  nuire, 
II  sut  multiplier  son  fertile  poison, 
Arme"  du  ridicule,  eludant  la  raison, 
•  Prodiguant  le  mensonge,  et  le  sel,  et  1'injuro, 

De  cent  masques  divers  il  revfit  I'imposture, 
Impose  a  1'ignorant,  insulte  a  1'houime  instruit; 
II  sut  jus^qu'au  vulgaire  abaisser  son  esprit, 
Faire  du  vice  un  jeu,  du  scandale  une  6cole, 
Grace  a  lui,  le  blaspheme  et  piquant  et  frivole 
Circulait  embelli  des  traits  de  la  gait6  ; 
Au  bon  sens  il  dta  sa  vieille  autorite", 
Repoussa  1'examen,  fit  rougir  du  scrupule, 
Et  mit  au  premier  rang  le  titre  d'incredule. 

NOTE  FF,  (p.  457.) 

In  1752,  M.  de  Montesquieu,  writing  to  the  abb6  de  Guasco,  says,  "Huart  wants 
to  bring  out  a  new  edition  of  the  Persian  Letters;  but  there  are  some  juvenilia 
which  I  should  like  first  to  retouch." 

In  reference  to  this  we  find  the  following  note  by  the  editor: — "He  told 
some  of  his  friends  that,  were  he  now  publishing  these  letters  for  the  first  time, 
he  would  omit  some  in  which  he  had  been  hurried  away  by  the  ardor  of  youth; 
that,  being  obliged  by  his  father  to  stick  close  to  his  desk  all  day,  he  was  so 
weary  of  it  at  night  that  to  amuse  himself  he  sat  down  to  compose  a  Persian 
Letter,  and  this  flowed  from  his  pen  without  study." — CEuvren  de  Montesquieu, 
tome  7,  p.  233. 

NOTE  GG,  (p.  458.) 

Such  was  the  opinion  of  Voltaire,  whom  I  am  fond  of  quoting  to  unbelievers, 
respecting  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  and  ours.  This  is  sufficiently  proved  by  the 
•ubjoined  passages  from  bis  letters,  to  which  we  must  always  look  for  his  real 
leutiments. 

"Racine  is  truly  g*eat,  and  so  much  the  greater  as  he  never  seems  to  aim  «t 


724  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


being  so.  The  perfect  man  is  indeed  to  be  seen  in  the  author  of  Athalia."— 
Corresp.  gen.,  tome  viii.  p.  465. 

"I  once  imagined  that  Racine  would  be  my  consolation,  but  he  throws  me 
into  despair.  'Tis  the  height  of  insolence  to  write  a  tragedy  after  that  great 
man.  I  know  of  none  but  bad  plays  since  his  time,  and  very  few  good  ones 
before  it."— Ibid.,  viii.  467. 

"I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  kindness  with  which  you  speak  of 
Brutu*  and  the  Orphan ;  I  will  even  acknowledge  that  there  are  some  beauties 
in  those  two  performances;  but  I  repeat,  Racine  forever!  The  more  you  read 
him,  the  more  you  discover  an  unrivalled  genius,  seconded  by  all  the  resources 
of  art.  In  a  word,  if  any  thing  on  earth  approaches  perfection,  it  is  Racine." 
—Ibid.,  viii.  501. 

"  The  fashion  of  the  present  day  is  to  speak  contemptuously  of  Colbert  and 
Louis  XIV.;  but  this  fashion  will  pass  away,  and  those  two  characters  will  be 
transmitted  to  posterity  with  Boileau." — Ibid.,  xv.  108. 

"I  could  easily  show  that  the  tolerable  productions  of  the  present  time  are 
all  borrowed  from  the  good  works  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  Our  badly-written 
books  are  not  so  bad  as  those  written  in  the  time  of  Boileau,  Racine,  and 
Moliere,  because  in  the  insipid  publications  of  our  days  there  are  always  some 
passages  evidently  extracted  from  authors  who  lived  in  the  age  of  good  taste. 
We  are  like  thieves,  who  change  and  ridiculously  adorn  the  clothes  whieh  they 
have  stolen  to  prevent  their  being  known.  With  this  knavery  is  joined  a  rage 
for  dissertation  and  paradox,  the  whole  being  a  compound  of  impertinence 
which  is  inexpressibly  disgusting." — Ibid.,  xiii.  219.  9 

" Accustom  yourself  to  a  dearth  of  talents  of  every  kind;  to  understanding 
grown  common  and  to  genius  become  rare;  to  a  deluge  of  books  on  war,  which 
will  result  in  our  being  beaten;  on  finances,  which  will  leave  us  without  a 
penny;  on  population,  which  will  not  supply  us  with  recruits  and  laborers; 
and  on  all  the  arts  without  our  succeeding  in  any." — Ibid.,  vi.  391. 

Finally,  in  his  excellent  letter  to  Lord  Hervey,  Voltaire  has  urged  what 
has  been  worse  said,  and  a  thousand  times  repeated,  respecting  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.  Thi?  Better,  written  1740,  is  as  follows: — 

.  .  .  .  "  But,  above  all,  my  lord,  be  not  so  angry  with  me  for  styling  the  last 
century  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  Full  Avell  I  know  that  Louis  XIV.  had  not 
the  honor  of  being  the  master  or  the  benefactor  of  a  Boyle,  a  Newton,  a  Halley, 
an  Addison,  a  Dryden;  but,  in  the  age  called  after  Leo  X.,  had  that  pontiff  the 
merit  of  every  thing  ?  Were  there  not  other  princes  who  contributed  to  refine 
and  enlighten  mankind?  A  preference  has,  nevertheless,  been  given  to  the 
name  of  Leo  X.,  because  he  encouraged  the  arts  more  than  any  other  individual. 
In  this  respect,  what  monarch  has  rendered  greater  service  to  mankind  than 
Louis  XIV.?  What  monarch  was  more  munificent,  showed  more  taste,  distin 
guished  himself  by  more  laudable  institutions?  I  admit  that  he  did  not  ac 
complish  all  that  he  might  have  done,  because  he  was  a  man;  but  he  accom 
plished  more  than  any  other,  because  he  was  a  great  man.  My  strongest  reason 
for  estimating  him  so  highly  is  that,  with  his  well-known  faults,  he  enjoys  a 
greater  reputation  than  any  of  his  contemporaries;  that,  although  he  expelled 
from  France  a  million  of  men,  who  were  all  interested  in  decrying  him,  all 
Europe  esteems  and  ranks  him  among  the  greatest  and  the  best  of  monarchs. 

"Nam )  then,  my  lord,  a  sovereign  who  has  invited  to  his  country  a  greater 


NOTES.  725 

number  of  eminent  foreigners,  and  who  has  been  a  greafer  patron  of  merit  in 
his  subjects.  Sixty  scholars  of  Europe,  astonished  at  being  known  to  him, 
received  gratuities  from  him  at  once.  'Though  the  king  is  not  your  sove 
reign/  said  Colbert,  in  writing  to  them,  'he  is  desirous  of  being  your  bene 
factor;  he  has  commanded  me  to  transmit  to  you  the  enclosed  bill  of  exchange 
as  a  token  of  his  esteem.'  A  Bohemian,  a  Dane,  received  these  letters,  dated 
from  Versailles.  Guillemini  erected  a  house  at  Florence  with  the  gifts  of 
Louis  XIV.;  he  inscribed  the  king's  name  on  the  front  of  it;  and  you  will  not 
admit  that  he  is  at  the  head  of  the  age  of  which  I  am  speaking ! 

"What  he  did  in  his  own  kingdom  ought  forever  to  serve  as  an  example. 
He  committed  the  education  of  his  son  and  grandson  to  the  most  eloquent  and 
the  most  learned  men  in  Europe.  He  provided  for  three  sons  of  Pierre  Cor- 
neille,  two  in  the  army  and  one  in  the  church:  he  fostered  the  rising  genius  of 
Racine  by  a  considerable  present  for  a  young  man  who  \vas  both  unknown 
and  poor;  and,  when  that  genius  had  acquired  maturity,  those  talents  which 
often  shut  the  door  to  fortune  secured  one  for  him.  He  possessed  more  than 
fortune;  he  enjoyed  the  favor  and  sometimes  the  familiarity  of  a  master 
whose  mere  look  was  a  bounty.  In  168S  and  10S9  ho  attended  the  king  in 
his  excursions  to  Marly, — an  honor  so  earnestly  solicited  by  the  courtiers;  ho 
?lept  in  the  king's  chamber  during  his  indispositions,  nntl  read  to  him  tliosi! 
master-pieces  of  eloquence  and  poetry  which  embellished  that  illustrious 
reign. 

"'Tis  this  favor,  bestowed  with  discernment,  that  produces  emulation  and 
excites  great  geniuses.  It  is  much  to  found  institutions,  it  is  something  to 
support  them;  but  to  stop  short  with  these  establishments  is  frequently  to  pro 
vide  the  same  retreats  for  the  useless  member  of  society  and  for  the  great  man, 
to  receive  into  the  same  hive  the  bee  and  the  drone. 

"Louis  XIV.  extended  his  care  to  every  thing;  he  protected  the  academics 
and  rewarded  such  persons  as  distinguished  themselves;  he  did  not  lavish  his 
favors  on  one  species  of  merit  to  the  exclusion  of  the  rest,  like  many  princes, 
who  encourage  not  what  is  excellent,  but  what  pleases  them:  natural  philosophy 
and  the  study  of  antiquity  shared  his  attention.  Nor  did  it  relax^  during  the 
wars  which  he  waged  with  Europe;  for,  while  building  three  hundred  citadels, 
while  he  had  on  foot  four  hundred  thousand  soldiers,  he  caused  an  observatory 
to  be  erected,  and  a  meridian  to  be  traced  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the 
other, — an  operation  unparalleled  in  the  world.  He  had  translations  :  f  tliu 
best  Greek  and  Latin  authors  printed  in  his  palace;  he  sent  mathematicians 
and  natural  philosophers  to  the  recesses  of  Africa  and  America,  to  extend  the 
sphere  of  knowledge.  Consider,  my  lord,  that,  but  for  the  voyage  and  experi 
ments  of  the  persons  whom  he  sent  to  Cayenne  in  1672,  and  the  measures  of 
M.  Picard,  Newton  would  never  have  made  his  discovery  respecting  attrac 
tion.  Consider,  I  beg  of  you,  a  Cassini  and  a  Huygens,  both  renouncing  their 
native  country  whicn  they  honor,  and  repairing  to  France  to  enjoy  the  esteem 
and  bounty  of  Louis  XIV.  And  do  you  imagine  that  the  English  themselves 
owe  him  no  obligations?  Tell  me,  then,  in  what  court  Charles  II.  acquired 
nuch  politeness  and  such  a  refined  taste.  Were  not  the  best  writers  of  the  ago 
of  Louis  XIV.  your  models?  Was  it  not  from  them  that  Addison,  who  of  all 
your  countrymen  possessed  the  most  correct  taste,  frequently  borrowed  the 
subjects  of  his  excellent  observations?  Bishop  Burnet  acknowledges  that  this 
61* 


726  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY 

taste,  acquired  in  France  by  the  courtiers  of  Charles  IT.,  had  introduced  among 
you  a  reformation  even  in  the  pulpit  itself,  notwithstanding  the  difference  of 
our  religions;  such  is  universally  the  influence  of  right  reason.  Tell  me  if  the 
well-written  books  of  Hi  at  time  were  not  employed  in  the  education  of  all  the 
princes  of  the  empire?  In  what  courts  of  Germany  were  not  French  theatres 
established  ?  What  prince  did  not  strive  to  imitate  Louis  XIV.  ?  What  nation 
did  not  then  follow  the  fashions  of  France? 

•'You  adduce,  my  lord,  the  example  of  Peter  the  Great,  who  introduced  the 
arts  into  his  empire  and  who  was  the  founder  of  a  new  nation;  you  tell  me, 
nevertheless,  that  his  age  will  never  be  called  in  Europe  the  age  of  the  Czar 
Peter,  and  hence  you  conclude  that  I  ought  not  to  style  the  past  age  the  age 
of  Louis  XIV.  Between  these  two  there  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  wide  differ 
ence.  The  Czar  Peter  acquired  information  among  foreign  nations,  and  carried 
home  the  arts  to  his  own  country;  but  Louis  XIV.  instructed  other  nations; 
every  thing,  even  to  his  very  faults,  was  useful  to  them.  The  Protestants  who 
quitted  his  dominions  carried  with  them  an  industry  which  had  constituted 
the  wealth  of  France.  Do  you  reckon  as  nothing  so  many  manufactures  of 
silk  and  glass  ?  The  latter  were  brought  to  perfection  among  you  by  our  refu 
gees,  and  we  have  lost  what  you  have  gained. 

"Finallv,  the  French  language,  my  lord,  has  become  almost  the  universal 
language.  To  whom  are  we  indebted  for  this?  Was  it  so  widely  diffused  in 
the"time  of  Henry  IV.?  Certainly  not;  the  Italian  and  Spanish  were  alone 
studied.  Our  eminent  writers  produced  this  change;  but  who  patronized,  em 
ployed,  encouraged  these  writers?  Colbert,  you  will  perhaps  tell  me.  So  it 
was;  and  I  admit  that  the  minister  is  entitled  to  a  share  of  his  master's  glory. 
But  what  would  a  Colbert  have  effected  under  any  other  prince  ?— under  your 
William,  who  was  fond  of  nothing,  under  Charles  II.  of  Spain,  or  under  many 
other  sovereigns  ? 

"  Would  you  believe,  my  lord,  that  Louis  XIV.  reformed  the  taste  of  the 
court  in  more  than  one  way?  He  chose  Lulli  for  his  musician,  and  took  the 
privilege  from  Lambert,  because  Lambert  was  a  man  of  mean  abilities  and 
Lulli  possessed  superior  talents.  He  could  discriminate  between  wit  and 
genius;  he  gave  to  Quinault  the  subjects  of  his  operas;  he  directed  the  paint 
ings  of  Le  Brun;  he  supported  Boileau,  Racine,  and  Moliere  against  their 
enemies;  he  encouraged  the  useful  as  well  as  the  fine  arts;  he  lent  money  to 
Van  Robais  for  his  manufactures;  he  advanced  millions  to  the  East  India  Com 
pany  which  he  had  formed;  he  conferred  pensions  on  learned  men  and  brave 
officers.  Not  only  were  great  things  done  during  his  reign,  but  it  was  himself 
who  did  them.  Do  not  disdain,  then,  my  lord,  the  efforts  which  I  make  to  raise 
to  his  glory  a  monument  which  I  consecrate  still  more  to  the  benefit  of  the 
human  race. 

"  I  esteem  Louis  XIV.,  not  merely  because  he  was  Jhe  benefactor  of  the 
French,  but  because  he  was  the  benefactor  of  mankind ;  it  is  as  a  man,  and 
not  as  a  subject,  that  I  write;  my  design  was  to  portray  the  last  age,  and  not 
simply  a  prince.  I  am  tired  of  histories  which  relate  nothing  but  the  adven 
tures  of  a  king,  as  if  he  existed  alone,  or  as  if  nothing  existed  but  in  relation 
to  him.  In  a  word,  it  is  rather  the  history  of  a  great  age  than  that  of  a  great 
king  which  I  am  writing. 

"Pelisson  would  have  written  more  eloquently  than  I;  but  he  was  a  courtiei 


NOTES.  727 

and  a  pensioner.     I  am  neither;   to  me,  therefore,  it  belongs   to  speak  th« 
truth." — Corresp.  gen.,  iii.  53. 

NOTE  HH,  (p.  460.) 

The  abbe"  Fleury,  in  his  work  on  the  Manners  of  the  Chrittiang,  expresses  the 
opinion  that  the  ancient  monasteries  were  built  on  the  plan  oi  the  Roman 
houses,  as  described  in  Vitruvius  and  Palladio.  "The  church,"  says  he, 
"which  we  come  to  first,  that  seculars  may  have  free  access  to  it,  seems  to 
occupy  the  place  of  the  first  hall,  termed  by  the  Romans  atrium.  From  this 
they  passed  into  a  court  surrounded  by  covered  galleries,  to  which  was  given 
the  name  of  perittile.  This  corresponds  exactly  with  the  cloisters  which  you 
enter  after  passing  through  the  church,  and  from  which  you  proceed  to  other 
parts  of  the  edifice,  as  the  chapter-house,  which  is  the  exhaedron  of  the  ancients, 
the  refectory,  which  answers  to  the  triclinium,  and  the  garden,  which  is  behind 
all  the  rest,  as  it  was  in  the  houses  of  antiquity." 

NOTE  II,  (p.  476.) 

The  following  is  the  beautiful  hymn  alluded  to  by  the  author,  as  translated 
ff  )m  the  Portuguese  by  Dr.  Leyden  : — 

Hymn  to  the  B.  V.  Mary,  Star  of  th*  S0a. 

Star  of  the  wide  and  pathless  sea, 
Who  lov'st  on  mariners  to  shine, 
These  votive  garments  wet,  to  thee 
We  hang  within  thy  holy  shrine. 
When  o'er  us  flashed  the  surging  brine, 
Amid  the  warring  waters  tost, 
We  called  no  other  name  but  thine, 
And  hoped  when  other  hope  was  lost 

Ave  Marit  Stella, 

Star  of  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
When  dark  and  lone  is  all  the  sky, 
And  mountain-waves  o'er  ocean's  plain 
Erect  their  stormy  heads  on  high  j 
When  virgins  for  their  true  loves  sigh, 
They  raise  their  weeping  eyes  to  thee : 
The  star  of  ocean  heeds  their  cry, 
And  saves  the  foundering  bark  at  sea. 

Ave  Marit  Stella. 

Star  of  the  dark  and  stormy  sea, 
When  wrecking  tempests  round  us  rave, 
The  gentle  virgin-form  we  see 
Bright  rising  o'er  the  hoary  wave; 
The  howling  storms,  that  seem  to  crave 
Their  victims,  sink  in  music  sweet ; 
The  surging  sea  recedes,  to  pave 
The  path  beneath  thy  glistening  feet. 

Ave  Maria  Stella. 


GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

Star  of  the  desert  waters  wild, 
Who,  pitying,  hear'st  the  seaman's  cry, 
The  God  of  mercy,  as  a  child, 
On  that  chaste  bosom  loves  to  lie ; 
While  soft  the  chorus  of  the  sky 
Their  hymns  of  tender  mercy  sing, 
And  angel-voices  name  on  high 
The  mother  of  the  heavenly  King. 

Ave  Maria  Stella. 

Star  of  the  deep  !  at  that  blest  name 
The  waves  sleep  silent  round  the  keel, 
The  tempests  wild  their  fury  tame 
That  made  the  deep's  foundations  reel. 
The  soft  celestial  accents  steal 
So  soothing  through  the  realms  of  wo, 
That  suffering  souls1  a  respite  feel 
From  torture  in  the  depths  below. 

Ave  Maria  Stella. 

Star  of  the  mild  and  placid  seas, 
Whom  rainbow-rays  of  mercy  crown, 
Whose  name  thy  faithful  Portuguese, 
O'er  all  that  to  the  depths  go  down, 
With  hymns  of  grateful  transport  own ; 
When  gathering  clouds  obscure  their  light, 
And  heav'n  assumes  an  awful  frown, 
The  star  of  ocean  glitters  bright. 

Ave  Maria  Stella. 

Star  of  the  deep  !  when  angel  lyres 
To  hymn  thy  holy  name  essay, 
In  vain  a  mortal  harp  aspires 
To  mingle  in  the  mighty  lay  ! 
Mother  of  God  !  one  living  ray 
Of  hope  our  grateful  bosom  fires, 
When  storms  and  tempests  pass  away, 
To  join  the  bright  immortal  choirs. 

Ave  Maris  Stella. 


NOTE  KK,   (p.  485.) 

The  different  parts  of  the  office  derive  their  names  from  the  periods  into 
which  the  Romans  distributed  the  day.  The  first  part  of  the  day  was  called 
Prima;  the  second,  Tertia ;  the  third,  Sexta;  the  fourth,  Nona;  because 
they  commenced  with  the  first,  third,  sixth,  and  ninth  hours.  The  first  watch 
was  called  Vespera,  or  evening. 

»  We  have  here  softened  the  expression,  newly-damned,  which  seems  inadmissible,  even 
as  a  poetical  license.  T. 


NOTES.  729 

NOTE  LL,  (p.  493.) 

"Formerly  I  celebrated  mass  with  a  levity  which  gradually  introduces  itself 
into  the  most  solemn  acts  when  they  are  performed  too  often.  Since  my  con- 
version,  I  celebrate  with  more  reverence.  I  become  penetrated  with  the 
majesty  of  the  Supreme  Being ;  I  am  filled  with  the  idea  of  his  presence  and 
of  the  insufficiency  of  the  human  mind,  which  has  so  slight  a  conception  of 
what  relates  to  its  divine  Author.  Recollecting  that  I  offer  to  him,  according 
to  an  established  form,  the  vows  of  the  people,  I  carefully  observe  all  the  cere 
monies  and  recite  the  prayers  with  attention,  omitting  nothing  that  is  pre 
scribed.  When  I  draw  near  to  the  moment  of  consecration,  I  collect  my 
thoughts,  and  endeavor  to  perform  this  act  with  all  the  dispositions  which  the 
Church  and  the  grandeur  of  the  sacrament  require.  I  strive  to  silence  reason 
in  the  presence  of  Supreme  Intelligence,  asking  myself,  '  Who  art  thou,  to 
measure  infinite  power?'  I  pronounce  the  sacramental  words  with  respect  and 
with  all  the  faith  of  which  I  am  capable.  Whatever  the  dignity  and  excellence 
of  this  incomprehensible  mystery,  I  feel  assured  that  on  the  day  of  judgment 
I  shall  not  be  punished  for  the  sin  of  having  profaned  it  in. my  heart." — 
Rousseau,  Emile,  tome  iii. 

NOTE  MM,  (p.  496.) 

"Absurd  rigorists  in  religion  have  no  idea  of  the  influence  of  ceremonies 
over  the  people.  They  have  never  witnessed  our  veneration  of  the  cross  on 
Good-Friday,  or  the  enthusiasm  of  the  multitude  at  the  procession  of Corpus- 
Christi, — an  enthusiasm  by  which  I  myself  am  sometimes  overcome.  I  have 
never  beheld  that  long  lino  of  priests  in  their  sacerdotal  robes, — those  youthful 
acolythes,  in  their  white  surplices  tied  round  with  a  broad  blue  cincture,  scat 
tering  flowers  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament, — that  crowd  going  before  and 
following  after  in  religious  silence, — that  immense  number  of  men  with  their 
heads  bowed  to  the  earth, — I  have  never  heard  that  grave  and  affecting  chant, 
en  toned  by  the  clergy  and  followed  up  by  countless  men,  women,  and 
children, — without  being  deeply  moved,  and  even  forced  to  shed  tears.  In  all 
that  there  is  an  impressiveness  of  melancholy  which  is  indescribable.  I  was 
acquainted  with  a  Protestant  artist  who  had  resided  a  long  time  in  Rome,  and 
who  acknowledged  that  he  bad  never  assisted  at  the  services  in  St.  Peter's, 
when  the  Pope  officiated  surrounded  by  the  cardinals  and  all  the  Roman  pre 
lates,  without  becoming  a  Catholic 

Take  away  all  external  symbols,  and  what  remains  will  soon  be  reduced  to  a 
metaphysical  jumble,  that  will  assume  as  many  strange  forms  and  appearances 
as  there  are  heads." — Diderot,  Eaaaia  anr  la  Pcintnre. 


NOTE  NN,  (p.  510.) 

The  Feralia  of  the  ancient  Romans  differed  from  our  Commemoration  of  the 
Dead  in  being  celebrated  only  in  memory  of  those  who  had  died  during  the 
year.  They  began  about  the  18th  of  February  and  lasted  eleven  days,  during 
which  marriages  were  prohibited,  sacrifices  were  suspended,  the  statues'  of  the 
gods  were  veiled,  and  the  templet)  closed.  Our  anniversary  .services,  and  those 
of  the  7th,  Uth,  and  10th  days,  :i re  borrowed  from  the  Romans,  who  them  - 


730  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

selves  derived  them  from  the  Greeks.*  These  last  had  their  ivayfyara,  or  offer 
ings  for  souls  to  the  infernal  gods;  their  racwia,  or  funeral;  ropj^ara,  or  burial, 
evvara,  or  novena;—  also,  triacades  or  triacontades,  the  thirtieth  day.  The 
Latins  had  their  justa,  exequice,  inferice,  par entati ones,  novendulia,  dtnicalia, 
februa,  feralia.  When  the  dying  man  was  about  to  expire,  his  friend  or 
nearest  relative  applied  his  lips  to  his  to  catch  his  last  gasp,  after  which  his 
body  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  proper  persons,  to  be  washed,  embalmed, 
and  carried  to  the  tomb,  or  funeral  pile,  with  the  usual  ceremonies.  The 
priests  headed  the  convoy,  in  which  were  carried  portraits  of  the  deceased's 
ancestors,  with  crowns  and  trophies.  The  whole  pageant  was  preceded  by  two 
bands  of  vocalists,  one  singing  lively  airs,  the  other  engaged  in  a  more  solemn 
chant.  It  was  supposed  by  the  ancient  philosophers  that  the  soul  (which  was 
a  mere  harmony,  according  to  them)  ascended  amid  these  funeral  sounds  to 
Olympus,  where  it  would  enjoy  the  heavenly  melody  of  which  it  was  an  emana 
tion.  (See  Macrobius,  De  Somnio  Sdpionis.)  The  body  was  deposited  in  a 
sepulchre  or  funeral  urn,  with  a  last  farewell :—  Vale,  vale,  vale:  noa  te  ordine 
quo  natura  pcrmiserit  sequemur. 

NOTE  00,  (p.  519.) 

"  Above  the  town  of  Brig,  the  valley  is  transformed  into  a  narrow  and  im 
passable  precipice,  the  bottom  of  which  is  occupied  by  the  Rhone.  The  road 
crosses  the  northern  mountains  and  leads  into  a  most  frightful  solitude.  The 
Alps  present  nothing  more  dismal.  You  travel  for  two  hours,  without  meeting 
the  least  sign  of  a  dwelling,  along  a  dangerous  path  which  is  overhung  with 
frowning  woods,  and  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  the  depth  of  which  cannot  be 
reached  by  the  eye.  This  is  a  celebrated  place  for  murders;  and,  when  I  passed 
it,  I  saw  several  heads  mounted  on  pikes, — a  worthy  decoration  of  this  terrific 
region  !  At  length  you  arrive  at  the  village  of  Lax,  situated  in  the  most 
desert  and  retired  part  of  this  country.  The  land  on  which  it  is  built  has  a 
rapid  descent  toward  the  precipice,  from  the  bottom  of  which  you  hear  the 
dull  roar  of  the  Rhone.  On  the  other  bank  is  another  village,  similarly  situ 
ated.  The  two  churches  stand  opposite  to  each  other,  and  from  one  of  the 
cemeteries  I  heard  the  chant  of  both  parishes,  which  seemed  to  answer  each 
other.  Let  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  grave  and  melancholy  character 
of  the  German  hymns  imagine  them  sung  in  a  place  like  this,  accompanied 
by  the  distant  noise  of  the  river  and  the  roaring  of  the  wind  amid  the  firs !" 
— Letters  on  Switzerland,  by  William  Coxe,  vol.  ii.,  note  by  Raymond. 

NOTE  PP,  (p.  525.) 

The  royal  tombs  destroyed  in  the  abbey  of  St.  Dennis  by  the  Vandals  01 
the  French  revolution,  on  the  6th,  7th,  and  8th  of  August,  1793,  amounted  to 
fifty-one.  Thus,  the  work  of  nearly  twelve  centuries  was  demolished  in  three 
days.  The  coffins  containing  the  remains  of  the  distinguished  dead  \vrre 
broken  and  scattered  on  every  side,  while  their  bones  or  ashes  were  thrown 
together  promiscuously  in  a  common  ditch.  The  valuables  discovered  in  ;Uf.-e 
repositories  of  departed  greatness  were  sacrilegiously  pillaged  and  turned  t" 
profane  uses.  In  1796,  the  lead  with  which  the  whole  church  was  rovi-ivd 

'  The  author  here  is  iuao.-urate :    the  Roman  liturgy  has  no  service  for  the  Dth  and 

40th -Jays.     T. 


NOTES.  731 


•was  torn  off,  melted,  and  converted  into  bullets.  This  venerable  monument, 
the  vaults  of  which  once  enclosed  the  remains  of  the  royal  houses  of  France, 
from  Dagobert,  in  663,  to  the  son  of  Louis  XVL,  in  1789,  has  since  been 
restored  to  its  ancient  splendor. 

NOTE  QQ,  (p.  531.) 

Robertson  has  done  justice  to  Voltaire  in  saying  that  that  universal  writer 
is  not  so  unfaithful  an  historian  as  is  commonly  supposed.  We  think  with  him 
that  Voltaire  did  not  always  quote  incorrectly  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  he  was 
guilty  of  many  omissions,  which  we  cannot  impute  to  ignorance  on  his  part. 
Moreover,  his  citations  are  presented  in  such  way  as  to  bear  a  very  different 
sense  from  that  intended  by  the  authors.  Thus,  he  has  the  appearance  of 
being  exact  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  is  remarkably  at  fault.  He  had  no 
need  of  employing  this  artifice  in  his  excellent  histories  of  Louis  XIV.  and 
Charles  XII. ;  but,  in  bis  Hiatoire  Generate,  which,  from  beginning  to  end,  is 
but  a  slander  of  the  Christian  religion,  he  resorts  to  every  species  of  weapon  to 
effect  his  purpose.  At  one  time  it  is  a  flat  denial,  at  another,  a  bold  assertion. 
Then,  he  mutilates  and  distorts  facts.  He  confidently  affirms  that  there  was  no 
Christian  hierarchy  for  nearly  one  hundred  years.  He  quotes  no  authority  for 
this  strange  assertion,  but  merely  says,  "  It  is  admitted,"  Ac.  According  to 
him,  we  have  no  voucher  for  the  succession  immediately  after  St.  Peter  but 
the  fraudulent  list  contained  in  an  apocryphol  work  entitled  Pontificate  of 
Damascus : '  while  we  possess  a  treatise  of  St.  Irena>us  on  heresies,  which  pre 
sents  a  complete  catalogue  of  the  popes  from  the  time  of  the  apostles.2  He 
counts  twelve  to  the  period  when  he  wrote.  Irenieus  was  born  about  the  year 
120  of  the  Christian  era,  and  was  a  disciple  of  Papias  and  St.  Polycarp,  who 
themselves  had  been  disciples  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  He  was  not  far, 
therefore,  from  being  an  eye-witness  of  what  he  relates.  Ho  names  St. 
Linus  after  St.  Peter,  and  informs  us  that  it  is  this  Linus  who  is  referred 
to  in  the  Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  Timothy.3  How  is  it  that  Voltaire,  or 
those  who  aided  him  in  his  work,  were  not  awed  by  this  overwhelming 
authority,  if  aware  of  its  existence?  How  could  he  assert  that  no  one  ever 
heard  of  Linus,  when  this  first  successor  of  Peter  is  mentioned  by  the 
apostles  themselves  ? 

NOTE  RR,  (p.  535.) 

He  even  goes  so  far  as  to  deny  the  persecution  under  Nero,  and  asserts  that 
no  Roman  emperor,  until  Domitian,  molested  the  Christians.  "  It  was  as  un 
just,"  says  he,  "  to  impute  this  accident  (the  burning  of  Rome)  to  the  Christian 
body  as  to  the  emperor,  (Nero.)  Neither  he,  nor  the  Christians,  nor  the  Jews, 
had  any  interest  in  the  destruction  of  Rome;  but  it  was  necessary  to  do  some 
thing  by  way  of  appeasing  the  people,  who  had  become  excited  against  the 
strangers  in  the  city,  obnoxious  alike  to  the  Romans  and  the  Jews.  Hence,  a 
few  unfortunates  were  sacrificed  to  public  revenge.4  This  temporary  violence 


•  Etsai  tur  Us  Mceurs  det  A'ati-n*,  en.  viii.      •  Lib.  iii.  ch.  3. 

»  Lib.  iii.  ch.  4.  «  What  revenge,  if  they  were  not 


732  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

does  not  appear  to  have  been  a  persecution  against  their  faith.  It  had  nothing 
to  do  with  their  religion,  which  was  unknown  to  the  Romans  and  was  con 
founded  with  Judaism,  which  was  as  much  protected  by  the  laws  as  it  was  an 
object  of  contempt."1  Here  we  have  one  of  the  strangest  paragraphs  that  ever 
fell  from  the  pen  of  an  historian. 

Did  Voltaire  never  read  Suetonius  or  Tacitus  ?  He  denies  the  existence  or 
authenticity  of  certain  inscriptions  discovered  in  Spain,  which  give  thanks  to 
Nero  for  having  abolished  a  new  superstition  in  the  province.  One  of  these 
inscriptions,  however,  is  to  be  seen  at  Oxford : — Neroni  Claud.  Cats.  Aug.  Max. 
ob  Provinc.  latronib.  et  Tlis  qui  novam  generi  horn,  superstition  inculcab.  puryat. 
Nor  can  we  see  why  Voltaire  should  have  any  doubt  of  the  superstition  here 
spoken  of  being  the  Christian  religion.  Suetonius,  alluding  to  it,  uses  the  very 
same  language  : — Afflicti  suppliciis  Christiani,  genus  hominum  superstitionia 
novce  ac  maleficce.2  We  shall  now  learn  from  Tacitus  what  was  that  temporary 
violence  so  knowingly  exercised,  not  against  Jews,  but  against  Christians. 

"  To  silence  rumor,  Nero  hunted  up  some  guilty  persons,  and  inflicted  the 
most  cruel  tortures  upon  unfortunate  people  who  were  abhorred  for  their  crimes 
and  commonly  called  Christians.  Christ,  from  whom  they  derived  their  name, 
was  condemned  to  death,  under  Tiberius,  by  Pontius  Pilate,  which  had  the 
effect  of  checking  for  a  moment  this  detestable  superstition.  But  the  torrent 
soon  overflowed  again,  not  only  in  Judea,  where  it  had  originated,  but  even  in 
Rome,  where  every  filth  of  the  earth  vents  itself  ultimately  and  increases. 
Those  who  acknowledged  themselves  Christians  were  the  first  arrested,  and 
their  testimony  led  to  the  seizure  of  an  immense  multitude,  who  were  less  con 
victed  of  having  fired  the  city  of  Rome  than  of  hating  their  fellow-men.  Their 
punishment  was  accompanied  by  the  popular  derision.  Some  were  enveloped 
in  the  skins  of  beasts,  to  be  devoured  by  dogs  j  others  were  crucified,  or  their 
bodies,  covered  with  pitch,  served  as  torches  by  night.  Nero  gave  the  use  of 
his  own  gardens  for  this  exhibition,  and  at  the  same  time  mingled  in  the  games 
of  the  circus,  appearing  in  the  dress  of  a  coachman  or  driving  a  chariot. 
Though  the  victims  were  guilty  and  merited  capital  punishment,  they  excited 
the  compassion  of  the  spectators,  who  considered  them  sacrificed  not  so  much 
to  the  public  good  as  to  the  amusement  of  a  savage."3 

There  is  a  painful  contrast  between  the  sentiment  of  pity  to  which  Tacitus 
alludes  and  the  spirit  of  a  certain  modern  writer.  The  Roman  historian  speaks 
evidently  of  the  Christians,  and  not  of  the  Jews.  The  words  hating  their  fel 
low-men,  in  the  passage  above  quoted,  may  have  led  Voltaire  to  assert  that  the 
Romans  supposed  their  victims  to  be  Jews,  and  not  Christians ;  but  he  did  not 
perceive  that,  while  endeavoring  to  rob  the  latter  of  a  just  compassion,  he  boro 
an  honorable  testimony  to  their  merit;  for  it  is  highly  glorious  to  the  Chris 
tians,  says  Bossuet,  to  have  had  for  their  first  persecutor  the  persecutor  of  the 
human  race. 

NOTE  SS,  (p.  552.) 

Mons.  de  Clo ,  having  been  compelled  to  fly  from  the  terrors  of  the 

revolution  with  one  of  his  brothers,  joined  the  army  of  Conde",  where  he  served 
with  honor  until  the  restoration  of  peace,  when  he  resolved  to  retire  from  the 


i.  ch.  iii. 


Sueton.,  in  Nercme.  3  Annal,  lib.  xv.  44. 


NOTES.  733 

world.  He  went  to  Spain  and  entered  a  Trappist  monastery,  where  he  died  a 
short  time  after  his  profession.  While  travelling  in  Spain,  and  during  his  no 
vitiate  at  the  convent,  he  wrote  several  letters  to  his  family  and  friends,  which 
we  give  below,  just  as  they  came  from  his  pen.1  The  reader  will  find  in  them 
a  faithful  delineation  of  the  religious  life  which  existed  among  the  Trappistj, 
and  which  is  now  but  an  historical  tradition.2  These  letters,  written  in  an  un 
affected  style,  often  display  a  considerable  elevation  of  sentiment,  and  are  cha 
racterized  throughout  by  that  simplicity  which  is  the  more  agreeable  as  it  is 
peculiar  to  the  French  mind  and  is  daily  becoming  more  rare  among  us.  The 
subject  of  the  letters  recalls  all  our  misfortunes.  They  place  before  us  a  young 
and  gallant  Frenchman  driven  from  his  country  by  the  revolution,  and  offer 
ing  himself  as  a  voluntary  victim  to  the  Almighty  in  expiation  of  the  evils 
and  impieties  of  his  country.  Thus  did  St.  Jerom,  in  the  depth  of  solitude, 
endeavor,  by  his  tears  and  prayers,  to  avert  the  downfall  of  the  Roman  empire. 
This  collection  of  letters  forms  a  complete  history,  and  would  no  doubt  have 
oaet  with  an  extensive  sale  had  it  been  published  as  an  interesting  narrative. 
But  the  churm  of  this  correspondence  is  in  its  religious  tone,  which  confirms 
what  we  have  endeavored  to  show  in  this  work : — 

To  hi*  fellow-eniiyrunts  at  liar  eel  ona. 

"  March  13,  1799. 

"My  last  journey,  dear  friends,  was  very  pleasant.  I  passed  through  Aran- 
luez,  where  the  royal  family  were.  I  remained  five  days  »t  Madrid,  and  the 
same  at  Saragossa,  where  I  had  the  happiness  of  visiting  Our  Lady  del  Pilar. 
I  found  the  travelling  in  Spain  more  agreeable  than  in  any  other  country ;  .  .  .  . 
but  to  speak  of  such  things  now  is  no  longer  to  iny  taste.  I  have  bid  adieu  to 
the  mountains  and  plains,  and  renounced  all  travelling  projects  in  this  world, 
in  order  to  begin  the  journey  of  the  world  to  come.  For  the  last  nine  months 
I  have  been  at  the  Trappist  monastery  of  Sainto-Susan,  where,  with  the  grace 
of  God,  I  will  end  my  days.  I  have  not  as  much  merit  as  others  in  suffering 
bodily  pains,  because  by  my  epicureanism  they  had  become  hnbitual.  Our 
life  here  is  not  an  idle  one.  We  rise  «t  half-past  one  in  the  morning,  and  pass 
the  time  until  five  in  prayer  and  spiritual  reading.  We  then  goto  work,  which 
continues  till  about  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  break  our  fast. 
This  is  the  rule  for  the  brothers.  The  fathers  also  work  much,  but  at  the  ap 
pointed  time  they  leave  the  field,  to  chant  the  office  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the 
canonical  office,  and  that  of  the  dead Every  half-hour  the  superior  no 
tifies  us  to  raise  our  thoughts  to  God,  which  serves  very  much  to  lighten  our 
pains.  It  reminds  us  that  we  are  working  for  a  Muster  who  will  not  delay  to 
reward  us  at  the  proper  time.  I  have  witnessed  the  death  of  one  of  our  fathers. 
Oh  !  if  you  knew  what  consolation  is  experienced  at  the  moment  of  death  !  Our 
reverend  abbot  asked  the  dying  priest  if  he  regretted  to  have  Buffered  a  little 
during  life.  I  confess  to  my  shame  that  I  have  sometimes,  felt  a  wish  to  die, 
like  those  cowardly  soldiers  who  wish  to  be  released  before  the  time.  Saint 

*  As  the  same    sentiments    occur    in    several    letters,  we  present    them   soniewL.it 
abridged.    T. 

*  The    reader  will   remember  that  thi.s   work  was    published   when   France   was  just 
emerging  from  the  de-saluting  effects  of  the  revolution,  which  had  abolished  all  religious 
bouses.     T. 

62 


734  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY 

Mary  of  Eg/pt  did  penam  e  for  forty  years.  She  was  less  guilty  than  I  am, 
and  she  has  now  been  enjoying  the  glory  of  heaven  for  a  thousand  years.  Pray 
for  me,  my  dear  friends,  that  we  may  meet  again  on  the  great  day 

To  liin  brothers  and  sisters  in  France. 

"Holy   Week,  1799. 

"I  have  been  here  at  St.  Susan's  since  the  first  Monday  of  Lent.  It  is  a 
Trappist  monastery,  where  I  expect  to  end  my  days.  I  have  already  passed 
through  the  most  austere  season  of  the  year.  We  never  rise  later  than  half- 
past  one,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  the  bell  the  community  assemble  in  the 
church.  The  brothers  (of  whom  I  am  one,  under  the  name  of  Brother  J. 
Climaens)  leave  the  chapel  at  half-past  two,  for  the  reading  of  the  Psalms  or 
some  other  spiritual  book.  At  four,  they  return  to  the  church,  where  they  re 
main  until  five,  when  they  commence  their  manual  labor.  They  work  in  a 
shop  until  daylight;  then,  each  one  taking  a  large  and  a  small  pickaxe,  they 
proceed  in  order  to  the  out-door  employment,  which  continues  sometimes  until 
half-past  three  o'clock,  p.  M.,  when  the  work  is  resumed  in  the  shop,  preparatory 
to  dinner,  which  takes  place  at  half-past  four.  On  leaving  the  table,  the  com 
munity  go  in  procession  to  the  church,  reciting  the  Miserere,  and  in  coming 
from  it  they  chant  the  De  profundis,  after  which  they  return  to  the  labor  of  the 
shop.  Here  they  card,  spin,  manufacture  cloth  and  other  things,  each  one 
according  to  his  knowledge.  Every  thing  used  in  the  house  is  made  by  the 
brothers,  as  far  as  practicable.  Each  one  has  to  eat  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of 
his  brow,  professing  poverty  and  striving  to  give  no  one  any  trouble, — on  the 
contrary,  offering  hospitality  to  all  who  come  to  see  us.  We  possess,  however, 
only  two  teams  of  mules,  about  two  hundred  sheep,  and  a  few  goats  that  feed 
on  the  barren  mountains  around  us.  It  can  only  be  the  effect  of  a  particular 
providence  that  seventy  persons  live  together  on  so  little,  besides  the  great 
number  of  strangers  from  every  direction,  who  are  always  treated  to  white 
bread  and  the  best  lenten  diet  that  we  can  prepare  with  oil  or  butter — which 
we  never  use  ourselves.  When  we  use  wheat  bread,  the  flour  must  be  unbolted. 
As  I  am  not  very  skilful  in  the  shop,  I  pick  beans  or  lentils  for  the  table.  Rice 
is  not  picked  in  the  same  way.  All  these  things  are  cooked  only  with  water 
and  salt. 

"  At  a  quarter  to  six  we  go  to  prayer  or  spiritual  reading  for  fifteen  minutes. 
After  the  reading,  which  is  made  aloud,  the  fathers  recite  Complin  in  the  church. 
While  they  are  going  thither,  the  prior  distributes  work  among  the  brothers. 
Towards  the  end  of  Complin,  the  bell  rings,  summoning  all  to  the  Salve  Reyina, 
which  lasts  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  chant  is  beautiful,  and  suffices  of  it 
self  to  make  you  forget  all  the  labors  of  the  day.  This  is  followed  by  fifteen 
minutes'  adoration.  At  a  quarter  after  seven  we  recite  the  Sub  tuum  pr<v- 
tidiniu,  after  which  all  the  inmates  of  the  establishment  repair  to  the  cloister, 
and  there,  prostrating  themselves  in  a  row,  in  that  lowly  posture  recite  with. 
David  the  psalm  Miserere  in  perfect  silence.  This  hist  ceremony  appears  (o 
me  sublime;  for  man  never  seems  more  in  his  pl.ioe  than  when  humbled  in  the 
presence  of  the  Almighty.  At  length  the  reverend  father  abbot  rises,  and, 
standing  at  the  door  of  the  church,  he  gives  holy  water  to  the  whole  com 
munity  as  they  pass  out  on  their  way  to  the  dormitory.  Here  they  kneel 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  until- the  signal  for  retiring,  which  takes  place  at 
naif-past  seven. 


NOTES.  735 

"  For  some  time  after  entering  a  house  like  this,  a  person  is  annoyed  by  the 
many  little  trials  which  come  continually  in  the  way  of  old  habits.  For  in 
stance  :  you  are  never  allowed  to  lean  on  any  thing  when  seated,  nor  to  sit 
down  when  fatigued,  merely  for  the  sake  of  resting  yourself.  Man  is  born  to 
labor  in  this  world,  and  he  ought  not  to  look  for  repose  until  IIB  has  finished 
his  pilgrimage.  In  this  way  you  lose  all  ownership  of  your  body.  If  you 
happen  to  wound  yourself  a  little  severely,  or  break  an  earthen  vessel,  you 
have  to  acknowledge  it  immediately  on  your  knees,  and  in  silence.  For  this 
purpose  you  merely  show  the  wound  you  have  received  or  the  fragments  of 
the  article  that  was  broken.  There  is  also  the  confession  of  one's  faults.  You 
must  accuse  yourself  aloud,  even  of  unintentional  faults.  Moreover,  you  are 
often  reported  by  one  of  the  brothers  for  faults  of  various  kinds  that  you  may 
have  committed.  It  would  be  too  long  to  tell  you  of  other  things. 

"  The  greatest  austerity  is  practised  during  the  time  of  Lent.  At  other  sea- 
aons  we  never  dine  later  than  two  o'clock.  It  was  in  Lent  that  I  entered  this 
establishment,  like  those  racers  who  begin  by  exercising  with  leaden  shoes.  It 
seems  to  me  now  that  we  lead  the  life  of  Sybarites,  and  we  can  truly  say  that 
we  do  very  little  in  comparison  to  the  labor  and  self-denial  of  the  saints.  Wheu 
I  think  of  what  is  undertaken  by  men  who  travel  to  the  South  Seas,  cross  the 
Isthmus  of  Panama,  penetrating  through  the  thickets  that  have  been  forming 
since  the  origin  of  time,  suffering  the  burning  heats  of  the  equator  or  the  rigors 
of  the  frigid  zone,  and  all  this  only  in  search  of  gold, — when  I  consider  what 
vain  efforts  they  make  to  obtain  such  treacherous  objects,  and  on  the  other 
hand  that  they  who  labor  for  God  are  never  disappointed, — we  cannot  but  ex 
claim,  Alas  !  how  little  do  we  do  for  heaven  ! 

"  We  are  all  convinced  of  this  truth  ;  and  there  are  brothers  among  us  who 
would  be  willing  to  embrace  every  kind  of  penance;  but  no  austerity  can  be 
practised  here  without  an  express  permission,  which  is  rarely  granted,  because, 
being  poor,  we  must  husband  our  strength  in  order  to  work.  If  sometimes  I 
happen  to  doze,  when  leaning  against  a  wall,  some  charitable  brother  soon 
rouses  me,  and  methinks  I  hear  him  say,  'You  will  rest  when  you  get  to  the 
paternal  home,'  in  domo  ceternitatit.  When  at  work,  either  in  the  field  or  in 
the  shop,  the  eldest  brother  now  and  then  gives  a  signal  by  clapping  bis  hands, 
when  each  one  suspends  his  occupation  and  for  five  or  six  minutes  raises  his 
thoughts  to  heaven  amid  a  profound  silence;  this  suffices  to  moderate  the 
told  of  winter  and  the  heats  of  summer.  You  must  witness  it  in  order  to  form 
an  idea  of  the  contentment  and  joy  which  reign  in  the  community.  The  best 
evidence  of  the  happiness  that  such  a  life  confers  is  the  reunion  of  the  Trap- 
pists  after  their  expulsion  from  France,  and  the  number  of  convents  of  thia 
order  that  have  been  founded  in  different  countries.  In  this  house  there  are 
about  seventy  members,  and  applicants  for  admission  are  rejected  every  day. 
I  had  some  difficulty  in  being  permitted  to  enter:  but  fortunately  I  succeeded, 
trusting  in  the  protection  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  to  whom  I  addressed  my.«elf 
before  leaving  Cordova.  I  was  not  discouraged  by  the  fir.«t  refusal,  knowing 
very  well  that  the  reverend  father  abbot  is  not  the  sovereign  master;  accord 
ingly,  in  a  few  days,  he  came  to  my  room,  and,  embracing  me,  said,  '  In  future, 
ronvider  me  as  your  Vrother ;  I  would  have  reason  to  reproach  myself  if  I  dis 
missed  one  who  flies  from  the  world  in  order  to  labor  for  his  salvation  in  thi' 
bouse.' 


736  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


"  This,  indeed,  by  the  grace  of  God,  is  my  only  motive  in  coming  hither.  I 
had  formed  the  resolution  three  months  before  quitting  France.  But  where 
or  how  was  I  to  accomplish  my  design  ?  I  knew  not.  It  is  but  a  short  dis 
tance  from  Barcelona  to  this  place ;  but  the  shortest  way  is  not  always  that  of 
Divine  Providence.  It  seemed  to  be  the  will  of  God  that  I  should  go  first  tc 
Cordova,  passing  through  one  of  the  most  beautiful  regions  on  earth, — the  king- 
doins  of  Valentia,  Murcia,  and  Grenada.  I  never  beheld  a  more  charming 
country  than  Andalusia.  The  more  I  travelled  the  more  I  felt  increasing 
within  me  the  desire  of  visiting  other  lands.  But,  having  met  in  the  vicinity 
of  Tarragona  a  Swiss  officer  whom  I  had  known  in  Valais,  he  took  my  bundle 
upon  his  horse  and  we  travelled  together.  Our  conversation  happening  to 
turn  upon  Val-Sainte  and  upon  the  trials  of  the  poor  monks  who  had  been 
obliged  te  seek  a  refuge  in  Russia,  he  told  me  that  they  had  formed  a  colony 
in  Aragon.  I  at  once  resolved  to  go  thither,  and  set  out  upon  that  long  jour 
ney,  travelling  alone  day  and  night,  and  across  mountains  which,  near  Tor- 
tosa,  became  very  dense.  In  this  part  of  the  country  the  traveller  often  pro 
ceeds  over  fifteen  miles  without  meeting  a  human  being,  while  here  and  there 
he  sees  a  number  of  crosses,  indicating  the  melancholy  end  of  some  one  who 
has  passed  that  way. 

"  The  country  through  which  I  journeyed,  whether  cheerful  or  gloomy,  in 
spired  me  with  pleasant  thoughts,  or  threw  me  into  that  kind  of  sadness  which, 
by  the  variety  of  sentiments  it  suggests,  becomes  agreeable.  I  don't  think 
that  I  ever  made  a  journey  with  more  confidence  or  with  more  pleasure.  I 
met  with  none  but  good,  respectable,  and  charitable  people  on  my  way.  No 
place  is  more  cheerful  than  a  Spanish  inn,  from  the  number  of  persons  assem 
bled  there.  On  arriving,  I  hung  up  uny  sack  on  a  nail,  without  the  slightest 
concern,  and,  having  agreed  upon  the  fare,  a  poor  traveller  like  me  was  in  no 
danger  of  being  cheated.  I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  never  found  a  people 
more  disinterested.  The  servants  persisted  in  declining  the  little  remunera 
tion  which  I  offered  them,  and  oftentimes  a  coachman  would  take  charge  of 
my  wallet  for  several  days,  without  accepting  any  compensation.  In  short,  I 
have  a  high  regard  for  this  nation,  which  knows  how  to  respect  itself,  which 
does  not  go  abroad  to  engage  in  foreign  service,  and  which  preserves  a  true 
originality  of  character.  A  great  deal  is  said  about  the  loose  morality  of  this 
county  ,  but  I  do  not  think  that  it  equals  that  of  France.  What  noble  people 
you  fUd  here !  Were  it  possible  to  destroy  religion  in  Spain,  it  would  not 
produce  fewer  martyrs  than  our  own  country.  I  doubt,  however,  whether  this 
•will  be  attempted.  Libertinism  must  first  pass  from  the  mind  to  the  heart; 
and  the  Spaniards  are  yet  very  far  from  that  degree  of  perversion.  The  more 
elevated  as  well  as  the  humbler  class  of  society  have  a  practical  respect  for 
religion  ;  and,  though  very  high-spirited,  they  claim  no  superiority  in  the 
church  :  there  you  will  see  the  duchess  seated  next  to  her  servant.  The  church 
is  generally  the  handsomest  building  in  the  place,  and  is  kept  very  clean;  the 
pavement  is  covered  with  mats,  at  least  in  Andalusia.  Thousands  of  lamps 
burn  day  and  night  in  the  temple  of  God.  You  will  sometimes  see  as  many 
us  ten  or  eleven  lamps  burning  in  a  small  chapel  of  the  Ble^ed  Virgin. 
Though  an  immense  quantity  of  bee-hives  are  found  here  among  the  moun 
tains,  the  people  procure  wax  from  France.  Africa,  and  America. 

'•  I  have  written  an  account  of  my  travels  to  some  of  my  friends,  and  requested 


NOTES.  737 


them  to  ?end  it  to  you.  If  you  see  it,  it  will  amuse  you.  One  day,  in  a  desert 
country,  I  came  to  a  magnificent  gate,  the  only  remains  of  a  vast  city  con 
structed  hy  the  ancient  Romans.  I  stopped  to  examine  that  gate,  which  has 
no  doubt  been  there  for  two  thousand  years;  and  it  occurred  to  my  mind  that 
that  city  was  once  inhabited  by  people  who,  when  in  the  flower  of  their  age, 
imagined  that  death  was  far  from  them,  or  never  gave  it  a  thought;  that  there 
were  different  parties  among  them,  some  fiercely  at  war  with  others,  and  now 
their  ashes  have  been  lying  for  ages  in  a  promiscuous  mass.  I  also  saw  Mur- 
viedro,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Saguutum,  and,  reflecting  upon  the  vanity  of 
time,  I  turned  my  thoughts  wholly  upon  eternity.  What  will  it  matter  to  me. 
in  twenty  or  thirty  years  hence,  that  I  have  been  despoiled  of  my  fortune  dur 
ing  an  antichristian  persecution  ?  St.  Paul,  the  hermit,  having  been  accused 
by  his  brother-in-law,  retired  into  the  desert,  leaving  his  relative  great  wealth  ; 
but,  as  St.  Jen.iu  remarks,  who  would  not  now  wish  rather  to  have  worn  the 
poor«tunic  of  St.  Paul,  with  his  virtues,  than  the  royal  purple,  with  its  cares 
and  punishmeat?  All  these  considerations  induced  me  to  take  refuge  here  at 
once  and  to  dismiss  all  further  projects  of  travel.  If  I  get  to  heaven,  as  I 
hope,  after  ha\  iug  done  pgnance,  I  shall  then  see  all  the  countries  of  the 
earth. 

"  Toward  the  end  of  Lent,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  I  was  seized  with  a  severe 
hemorrhage  in  the  evening,  which  continued  every  morning  after,  and  I  felt 
myself  daily  growing  weaker.  After  Easter,  however,  as  the  community  dined 
at  half-past  eleven  and  had  a  good  collation  in  the  evening,  my  health  im 
proved.  From  Easter  to  Pentecost  we  are  allowed  to  use  the  milk  of  goats. 
While  the  rule  of  the  house  is  rigid,  the  superiors  are  charity  itself.  Our  reve 
rend  abbot  is  even  accused  of  being  too  indulgent;  but,  if  this  is  a  fault,  it  is 
one  peculiar  to  the  saints.  The  only  privilege  he  enjoys  is  that  of  rising 
earlier  and  retiring  later  than  the  rest.  His  bed  is  like  that  of  his  brethren 
— two  boards  placed  together,  with  a  pillow  of  straw.  He  has  no  room  but  the 
parlor,  where  any  one  who  suffers  from  pain  of  mind  or  of  body  can  apply  to 
him  for  comfort  and  receive  it.  I  have  already  experienced  what  I  was  told 
on  entering  here.  Though  the  brethren  never  speak  together,  they  have  the 
most  friendly  feeling  for  each  other.  If  any  one  becomes  negligent,  it  gives 
them  pain  ;  they  pray  for  him:  he  is  admonished  with  the  greatest  charity, 
and  if  it  be  necessary  to  dismiss  him,  or  if  he  wish  of  his  own  accord  to  leave, 
every  thing  that  he  brought  to  the  house  is  returned  to  him,  and  not  a  penny 
is  retained  as  a  compensation  for  his  board  and  clothing.  Every  thing  is 
done  to  make  him  satisfied  at  his  departure.  When  the  father,  mother,  or 
brother,  of  a  religious  dies,  and  the  family  notify  the  superior  of  the  event, 
all  the  community  are  directed  to  pray  for  the  deceased;  but  no  one  knows 
the  name  of  the  individual  who  is  the  object  of  these  prayers.  Let  this,  my 
lear  brother,  be  a  source  of  consolation  to  you  in  your  last  moments. 

"  I  desire  nothing  so  much  as  to  die  here,  and  that  soon,  not  to  increase 
the  number  of  my  sins.  But,  should  I  be  obliged  to  leave  this  place  on 
account  of  my  shattered  health,  I  will  purchase  a  little  homestead  and  con 
tinue  to  live  by  the  sweat  of  my  brow.  This  is  the  vocation  of  all  men. 
I  would  prefer  a  residence  in  Spain  to  returning  to  France.  In  any  event, 
it  will  have  been  a  great  benefit  to  me  to  have  learned  here  how  to  do 
penancp,  and  to  despise  my  body,  which  will  so  soon  return  to  dust,  in  order 
62*  2  W 


738  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


to  save  my  soul,  which  is  immortal.  We  must  consider,  also,  that  it  is  not 
the  dress  nor  the  house  that  makes  one  virtuous.  The  bad  angels  rebelled 
in  heaven  itself,  and  Adam  sinned  in  the  terrestrial  paradise;  and  I  know 
well  that  I  am  not  personally  better  for  being  in  this  holy  community. 
Theoretically,  I  am  disposed  to  suffer,  since  our  Divine  Saviour  has  traced  for 
us  the  path  of  self-denial  as  the  only  road  to  heaven ;  but,  in  practice,  Avhen 
I  feel  cold  I  naturally  seek  the  sunshine,  and,  when  too  warm,  the  refreshing 
shade. 

"P.  S. — Nearly  forty  days  have  elapsed  since  I  commenced  this  letter,  and  I 
become  more  and  more  sensible  of  the  great  mercy  of  God  in  withdrawing  me 
from  the  high-road  of  the  world  and  placing  me  in  this  house.  I  now  see 
that  so  inestimable  a  grace  could  have  been  secured  to  me  only  through  the 
precious  merits  of  Him  who  has  redeemed  us  all  and  who  seeks  only  the  sal 
vation  of  the  sinner I  have  bestowed  an  alms  of  three  hundred  franca 

upon  the  house  of  La  Trappe  in  behalf  of  my  three  sisters  and  three  brothers; 
and,  if  I  persevere,  it  will  afford  me  great  consolation  to  hear  so  many  excellent 

prayers  offered  up  here  for  my  family Farewell,  brothers  and  sisters  ! 

Think  of  me  only  in  your  prayers;  for  I  am  civilly  dead  in  regard  to  you,  and 
expect  not  to  see  you  again  before  the  day  of  the  resurrection.  Be  charitable  ; 
do  good  to  them  who  have  sought  to  injure  you  :  for  alms-deeds  is  a  kind  of 
second  baptism,  which  effaces  sin  and  is  an  almost  infallible  means  of  securing 
heaven.  Distribute,  then,  freely  to  the  poor;  when  you  are  merciful  to  them 
you  are  so  to  Jesus  Christ  himself,  who  will  have  pity  on  you.  May  you  be 
well  convinced  of  what  I  say  !  Farewell ! 

"June  2,  1799." 

Extract  from  a  Letter  to  his  Brother. 

"  Oh !  may  we  have  the  happiness  to  get  to  heaven  !  What  shall  we  not 
then  see !  Let  us  hope  in  Him  who  has  taken  upon  himself  the  sins  of  the 
world  and  by  his  death  has  restored  us  to  life.  If  any  thing  remain  of  my 
possessions,  it  is  my  wish  that  a  chapel  be  erected  to  Our  Lady  of  the  Seven 
Dolors,  within  the  limits  of  our  paternal  estate,  as  we  once  proposed  on  our 
way  to  Munich.  You  remember  what  pleasure  we  experienced,  after  having 
passed  through  a  Protestant  country,  in  beholding  again  the  sign  of  salvation, 
the  only  hope  of  the  sinner.  As  soon  as  the  police  will  throw  no  obstacle  in 
the  way,  have  crosses  erected  on  the  wayside,  for  the  consolation  of  travellers, 
with  seats  for  such  as  are  fatigued,  and  place  there  the  inscription  which  we 
saw  in  Bavaria : — Ihr  milden  ruhen  sie  aus, — '  Take  some  rest,  you  who  are 
weary.' 

"April,  1800." 

The  following  year,  the  writer  of  these  letters  was  admitted  to  the  religious 
vows,  and,  nine  months  after,  he  was  called  to  the  reward  of  his  sacrifices  for 
the  love  of  God.  While  living  in  the  community  he  was  the  edification  of  all 
around  him,  by  his  profound  humility,  his  prompt  obedience,  his  tender 
and  ardent  charity,  and  his  invincible  patience.  But  the  spirit  of  poverty 
was  his  distinguishing  trait.  He  witnessed  the  approach  of  his  last  hour 
with  the  greatest  peace,  thanking  God  continually  for  having  afforded  him, 
in  this  house  of  penance,  the  means  of  satisfying  for  his  sins  and  preparing 
himself  for  the  next  world.  "  How  happy  I  am  !"  he  said,  while  lying  upon 


NOTES.  739 

the  ashes  and  straw  where  he  died,  and  taking  the  reverend  abbot  by  the  hand 
in  a  most  feeling  manner,  which  affected  all  present.  "You  are  the  author  of 
my  salvation;  for7,  in  opening  to  me  the  gates  of  the  monastery,  you  opened  to 
me  those  of  heaven.  You  have  prevented  me  from  perishing  miserably  in  the 
world,  and  I  will  pray  God  to  reward  your  great  charity  toward  me."  lie 
received  the  last  sacraments  in  the  church,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
Trappists,  and,  some  days  before  he  died,  he  begged  pardon  of  his  brethren 
for  the  faults  they  might  have  witnessed  in  his  conduct,  and  entreated  them  to 
obtain  for  him,  by  their  prayers,  the  grace  of  a  happy  death. 

NOTE  TT,  (p.  607.) 

When,  in  a  preceding  part  of  this  work,  we  alluded  to  the  fine  historical 
fluojects  of  modern  times,  which  would  become  interesting  in  the  hands  of 
some  able  writer,  the  Hirtoire  des  Croieades,  by  Michaud,  had  not  yet  made  its 
appearance.  We  have  elsewhere  expressed  our  opinion  of  this  excellent  pro 
duction,  from  which  we  will  here  quote  a  passage  in  confirmation  of  what  we 
have  said  respecting  the  advantages  which  Europe  derived  from  the  institution 
of  chivalry  : — 

"Chivalry  was  known  in  the  West  before  the  Crusades.  These  wars,  which 
appeared  to  have  the  same  aim  as  chivalry, — that  of  defending  the  oppressed, 
serving  the  cause  of  God,  and  combating  with  infidels, — gave  this  institution 
more  splendor  and  consistency — a  direction  more  extended  and  salutary. 

"Religion,  which  mingled  itself  with  all  the  institutions  and  all  the  pas 
sions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  purified  the  sentiments  of  the  knights  and  elevated 
them  to  the  enthusiasm  of  virtue.  Christianity  lent  chivalry  its  ceremonies 
and  its  emblems,  and  tempered,  by  the  mildness  of  its  maxims,  the  asperities 
of  warlike  manners. 

"  Piety,  bravery,  and  modesty,  were  the  distinctive  qualities  of  chivalry:— 
' Sff9€  God,  and  he  will  help  yon  ;  be  mild  and  courteous  to  every  <jentlnmant 
by  diverting  yourself  of  all  pride  ;  be  neither  a  flatterer  nor  a  tl<tnderer,  foi 
Htich  people  seldom  come  to  great  excellence.  Be  loyal  in  word*  and  deeds , 
keep  your  word ;  be  helpful  to  the  poor  and  to  orphans,  and  God  will  reward 
yon.'1  Thus  said  the  mother  of  Bayard  to  her  son  :  and  these  instructions  of 
a  virtuous  mother  comprised  the  whole  code  of  chivalry. 

"  The  most  admirable  part  of  this  institution  was  the  entire  abnegation  of 
self, — that  loyalty' which  made  it  the  duty  of  every  knight  to  forget  his  own 
glory  and  only  publish  the  lofty  deeds  of  his  companions-in-arms.  The  deeds 
of  valor  of  a  knight  were  his  fortune,  his  means  of  living;  and  he  who  was 
tilent  upon  them  was  a  robber  of  the  property  of  others.  Nothing  appeared 
more  reprehensible  than  for  a  knight  to  praise  himself.  '  If  the  squire,'  says 
Le  Code  des  Preux,  'be  vain-glorious  of  what  he  has  done,  he  is  not  worthy 
to  become  a  knight.'  An  historian  of  the  Crusades  offers  us  a  singular  ex 
ample  of  this  virtue,  which  is  not  entirely  humility,  and  might  be  called 


*  "  Serves  Dieu,  et  il  vous  aidera :  soyez  doux  et  courtois  a  tout  gentilhomme  en  titan t 
du  Vous  tout  orgueil ;  tie  soyoz  ttatteur,  ne  rapporteur ;  car  telles  inanieres  de  gens  D* 
viennent  pas  a  grande  perfection.  Soyez  loyal  en  faits  et  en  dit« ;  tenez  votre  parole 
•oyez  iecoarable*  a  pauvres  et  orphelins,  et  Dieu  vous  le  guerdonnera." 


740  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


the  false  modesty  of  glory,  when  he  describes  Tancred  checking  his  careei 
in  the  field  of  battle,  to  make  his  squire  swear  to  be  forever  silent  upon  his 
exploits. 

"  The  most  cruel  insult  that  could  be  offered  to  a  knight  was  to  accuse  him 
of  falsehood.  Want  of  truth,  and  perjury,  were  considered  the  most  shameful 
of  all  crimes.  If  oppressed  innocence  implored  the  succor  of  a  knight,  wo  to 
aim  who  did  not  respond  to  the  appeal!  Shame  followed  every  offence  toward 
the  weak  and  every  aggression  toward  an  unarmed  man. 

"  The  spirit  of  chivalry  kept  up  and  strengthened  among  warriors  the  gene 
rous  sentiments  which  the  military  spirit  of  feudalism  had  given  birth  to. 
Devotion  to  his  sovereign  was  the  first  virtue,  or  rather  the  first  duty,  of  a 
knight.  Thus  in  every  state  of  Europe  grew  up  a  young  military  power, 
always  ready  for  fight,  and  always  ready  to  sacrifice  itself  for  prince  or  for 
country,  as  for  the  cause  of  justice  and  innocence. 

"One  of  the  most  remarkable  characteristics  of  chivalry,  and  that  which 
at  the  present  day  most  strongly  excites  our  surprise  and  curiosity,  was  the 
alliance  of  religious  sentiments  with  gallantry.  Devotion  and  love,— such 
was  the  principle  of  action  of  a  knight;  God  and  the  ladies, — such  was  his 
device. 

"  To  form  an  idea  of  the  manners  of  chivalry,  we  have  but  to  glance  at  the 
tournaments,  which  owed  their  origin  to  it,  and  which  were  as  schools  of 
courtesy  and  festivals  of  bravery.  At  this  period,  the  nobility  were  dispersed 
and  lived  isolated  in  their  castles.  Tournaments  furnished  them  with  op 
portunities  for  assembling;  and  it  was  at  these  brilliant  meetings  that  the 
memory  of  ancient  gallant  knights  was  revived  —  that  youth  took  them 
for  models,  and  imbibed  chivalric  virtues  by  receiving  rewards  from  the  hands 
of  beauty. 

"  As  the  ladies  were  the  judges  of  the  actions  and  the  bravery  of  the  knights, 
they  exercised  an  absolute  empire  over  the  minds  of  the  warriors ;  and  I  have 
no  occasion  to  say  that  this  ascendency  of  the  softer  sex  threw  a  charm  over 
the  heroism  of  the  preux  and  the  paladins.  Europe  began  to  escape  from 
barbarism  from  the  moment  the  most  weak  commanded  the  most  strong, — from 
the  moment  when  the  love  of  glory,  when  the  noblest  feelings  of  the  heart,  the 
tenderest  affections  of  the  soul,  every  thing  that  constitutes  the  moral  force  of 
society,  was  able  to  triumph  over  every  other  force. 

"  Louis  IX.,  a  prisoner  in  Egypt,  replies  to  the  Saracens  that  he  will  do 
nothing  without  Queen  Marguerite,  'who  is  his  lady.'  The  Orientals  could  not 
comprehend  such  deference,  that  they  have  remained  so  far  in  the  rear  of  the 
nations  of  Europe  in  nobleness  of  sentiment,  purity  of  morals,  and  elegance 
of  manners. 

"  Heroes  of  antiquity  wandered  over  the  world  to  deliver  it  from  scourges  and 
monsters;  but  these  heroes  were  not  actuated  by  religion,  which  elevates  the 
soul,  nor  by  that  courtesy  which  softens  the  manners.  They  were  acquainted 
with  friendship,  as  in  the  cases  of  Theseus  and  Pirithous,  and  Hercules  and 
Lycas;  but  they  knew  nothing  of  the  delicacy  of  love.  The  ancient  poets 
take  delight  in  representing  the  misfortunes  of  certain  heroines  abandoned  by 
their  lovers;  but,  in  their  touching  pictures,  there  never  escapes  from  their 
plaintive  muse  the  least  expression  of  blame  against  the  hero  who  thus  caused 
the  tears  of  beauty  to  flow.  In  the  Middle  Ages,  or  according  to  the  manners 


NOTES.  741 

of  chivalry,  a  warrior  who  should  have  imitated  the  conduct  of  Theseus  to 
Ariadne,  or  that  of  the  son  of  Anchises  toward  Dido,  would  not  have  failed  to 
incur  the  reproach  of  treachery. 

"Another  difference  between  the  spirit  of  antiquity  and  the  sentiments  of  the 
moderns  is,  that  among  the  ancients  love  was  supposed  to  enervate  the  courage 
of  heroes ;  and  that  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  the  women,  who  were  the  judges 
of  valor,  constantly  kept  alive  the  love  of  glory  and  an  enthusiasm  for  virtue 
in  the  hearts  of  the  warriors.  We  find  in  Alain  Chattier  a  conversation  of 
several  ladies,  who  express  their  opinions  upon  the  conduct  of  their  knights, 
who  had  been  present  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt.  One  of  these  knights  had 
sought  safety  in  flight,  and  the  lady  of  his  thoughts  exclaims,  'According  to 
the  law  of  love,  I  should  havo  loved  him  better  dead  than  alive.'  In  the  first 
Crusade.  Adela.  Countess  of  Blois,  wrote  to  her  husband,  \vho  was  gone  to  the 
East  with  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  :— '  Beware  of  meriting  the  reproaches  of  the 
brave.'  As  the  Count  of  Blois  returned  to  Europe  before  the  taking  of  Jerusa 
lem,  his  wife  made  him  blush  at  his  desertion,  and  forced  him  to  return  to 
Palestine,  where  he  fought  bravely  and  found  a  glorious  death.  Thus  the 
spirit  and  the  sentiments  of  chivalry  gave  birth  to  prodigies  equally  with  the 
most  ardent  patriotism  of  ancient  Lacedacmon  ;  and  these  prodigies  appeared  so 
simple,  so  natural,  that  the  chroniclers  only  repeat  them  in  passing,  and  with 
out  testifying  the  least  surprise  at  them. 

"This  institution,  so  ingeniously  called  'Fountain  of  Courtesy,'  which  comes 
from  God,  is  still  much  more  admirable  when  considered  under  the  all-powerful 
influence  of  religious  ideas.  Christian  charity  claimed  all  the  affections  of  the 
knight,  and  demanded  of  him  a  perpetual  devotion  for  the  defence  of  pilgrims 
and  the  care  of  the  sick.  It  was  thus  that  were  established  the  orders  of 
St.  John  of  the  Temple,  of  the  Teutonic  Knights,  and  several  others,  all  insti 
tuted  to  combat  the  Saracens  and  solace  human  miseries.  The  infidels  admired 
their  virtues  as  much  as  they  dreaded  their  bravery.  Nothing  is  more  touch 
ing  than  the  spectacle  of  these  noble  warriors  who  were  seen  by  turns  in  the 
field  of  battle  and  in  the  asvlum  of  pain,  sometimes  the  terror  of  the  enemy, 
and  as  frequently  the  consolers  of  all  who  suffered.  That  which  the  paladins 
of  the  West  did  for  beauty  the  knights  of  Palestine  did  for  poverty  and  mis 
fortune.  The  former  devoted  their  lives  to  the  ladies  of  their  thoughts;  the 
latter  devoted  theirs  to  the  poor  and  the  infirm.  The  grand-master  of  the 
•Bilitary  order  of  St  John  took  the  title  of  '  Guardian  of  the  poor  of  Jesus 
Christ,''  and  the  knights  called  the  sick  and  the  poor  '  Our  lords.'  It  appears 
almost  an  incredible  thing,  but  the  grand-master  of  the  order  of  St  Lazarus, 
instituted  for  the  cure  and  the  relief  of  leprosy,  was  obliged  to  be  chosen  from 
among  the  lepers.1  Thus  the  charity  of  the  knights,  in  order  to  be  the  better 

'  Le  I'ere  Ilelyot,  in  his  Ifistoire  da  Ordra  Monastiquet,  vol.  i.  p.  *»,  expresses  himself  thus, 
when  speaking  of  the  order  of  St.  Lazarus:-"  What  is  very  remarkable  is,  th:it  they  .-ould 
only  .-1-ct  as  Brawl-master  a  leprous  knight  of  the  hospital  of  Jerusalem,  whi«-h  luted  up 
t,,  thf.  time  of  Innocent  IV..— that  is  to  say,  about  the  year  1253  ,-wben,  havlnjs  been  obliged 
to  abandou  Syria,  they  addressed  the  pontiff  and  represented  to  him  that  always  having 
had,  from  their  foundation,  a  leprous  knight  for  grand-master,  they  found  themselves  m 
the  impossibility  of  electing  one,  because  the  infidels  had  killed  all  the  leprous  knighti 
of  th.-ir  hospital  at  Jerusalem.  For  this  reason  they  prayed  the  pontiff  to  allow  them  tf 
f-v  t>«  future,  as  s;rand-master,  a  knight  who  had  not  been  attacked  bv  l«orosy  aw* 


742  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


acquainted  with  human  miseries,  in  a  manner  ennobled  that  which  is  most  dig. 
gusting  in  the  diseases  of  man.  Did  not  this  grand-master  of  St.  Lazarus, 
who  was  obliged  himself  to  be  afflicted  with  the  infirmities  he  was  called 
upon  to  alleviate  in  others,  imijtate,  as  much  as  is  possible  on  earth,  the 
example  of  the  Son  of  God,  who  assumed  a  human  form  in  order  to  deliver 
humanity  ? 

"It  may  be  thought  there  was  ostentation  in  so  great  a  charity;  but  Chris 
tianity,  as  we  have  said,  had  subdued  the  pride  of  the  warriors,  and  that  was, 
without  doubt,  one  of  the  noblest  miracles  of  the  religion  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
All  who  then  visited  the  Holy  Land  could  but  admire  in  the  knights  of  St.  John, 
the  Temple,  arid  St.  Lazarus,  their  resignation  in  suffering  all  the  pains  of  life, 
their  submission  to  all  the  rigors  of  discipline,  and  their  docility  to  the  least 
wish  of  their  leader.  During  the  sojourn  of  St.  Louis  in  Palestine,  the  Hospi 
tallers  having  had  a  quarrel  with  some  Crusaders  who  were  hunting  on  Mount 
Carmel,  the  latter  brought  their  complaint  before  the  grand-master.  The  head 
of  the  hospital  ordered  before  him  the  brothers  who  had  outraged  the  Cru 
saders,  and,  to  punish  them,  condemned  them  to  eat  their  food  on  the  ground 
upon  their  mantles.  'It  happened,'  says  the  Sieur  de  Joinville,  'that  I  was 
present  with  the  knights  who  had  complained,  and  we  requested  the  master  to 
allow  the  brothers  to  arise  from  their  mantles,  which  he  refused.'  Thus  the 
rigor  of  the  cloisters  and  the  austere  humility  of  cenobites  had  nothing  repul 
sive  for  these  warriors.  Such  were  the  heroes  that  religion  and  the  spirit  of 
the  Crusades  had  formed.  I  know  that  this  submission  and  humility  in  men 
accustomed  to  arms  may  be  turned  into  ridicule  j  but  an  enlightened  philoso 
phy  takes  pleasure  in  recognising  the  happy  influence  of  religious  ideas  upon 
the  manners  of  a  society  given  up  to  barbarous  passions.  In  an  age  when  all 
power  was  derived  from  the  sword,  in  which  passion  and  anger  might  have 
carried  warriors  to  all  kinds  of  excesses,  what  more  agreeable  spectacle  for 
humanity  could  there  be  than  that  of  valor  humbling  itself  and  strength  for 
getting  <tself? 

"  Wo  are  aware  that  the  spirit  of  chivalry  was  sometimes  abused,  and  that  its 
noble  maxims  did  not  govern  the  conduct  of  all  knights.  We  have  described 
in  the  history  of  the  Crusades  the  lengthened  discords  which  jealousy  created 
between  the  two  orders  of  St.  John  and  the  Temple.  We  have  spoken  of  the 
vices  with  which  the  Templars  were  reproached  toward  the  end  of  the  Holy 

•who  might  be  in  good  health;  and  the  pope  referred  them  to  the  Bishop  of  Truscate,  that 
he  might  accord  them  this  permission  after  having  examined  if  that  could  be  done  ac 
cording  to  the  will  of  God.  This  is  reported  by  Pope  Pius  IV.  in  bis  bull  of  the  year 
1565,  so  extended  and  so  favorable  to  the  order  of  St.  Lazarus,  by  which  he  renews  all  the 
privileges  and  all  the  gifts  that  his  predecessors  had  granted  to  it,  and  gives  it  fresh  ones. 
Here  is  what  he  says  of  the  election  these  knights  ought  to  make  of  a  leprous  grand 
master  : — "  Et  Innocentius  IV.,  per  eum  accepto,  quod  licet  de  antiqua  approbata  et  hac- 
tenus  pacifice  observata  consuetudine  obtentum  esset,  ut  miles  leprosus  domus  Sancti- 
Lazari  llierosolymitani  in  ejus  magistrum  assumeretur;  verutn  quia  fere  omiies  milites 
leprosi  dictao  domus  ab  inimicis  fidei  miserabiliter  interfecti  fuerant,  et  hujusmodi  con- 
suetudo  nequiebat  commode  observari :  idcirco  tune  episcopo  Tusculano  per  qua'sdam 
coinmiserat,  ut,  si  sibi  secundum  Deum  visum  foiot  expedire,  fratribus  ipsis  licentiam, 
aliquem  militem  sanum  et  fratribus  predicts?  domus  Sancti-Lazari  in  ejus  magistrum 
(pin  obstante  consuetudine  hujusmodi  de  caetero  eligendi)  auctoritate  apostolica  cou- 


NOTES.  743 


Wars.  We  could  speak  still  more  of  the  absurdities  of  knight-errantry ;  but 
our  task  is  here  to  write  the  history  of  institutions,  and  not  that  of  human 
passions.  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  corruption  of  men,  it  will  always 
be  true  that  chivalry,  allied  with  the  spirit  of  courtesy  and  the  spirit  of  Chris 
tianity,  awakened  in  human  hearts  virtues  and  sentiments  of  which  the  an 
cients  were  ignorant, 

"  That  which  proves  that  every  thing  was  not  barbarous  in  the  Middle  Ages  is 
that  the  institution  of  chivalry  obtained  from  its  birth  the  esteem  and  admira 
tion  of  all  Christendom.  There  was  no  gentleman  who  was  not  desirous  of 
being  a  knight.  Princes  and  kings  took  honor  to  themselves  for  belonging  to 
chivalry.  In  it  warriors  came  to  take  lessons  of  politeness,  bravery,  and 
humanity.  Admirable  school !  in  which  victory  laid  aside  its  pride  and  gran 
deur  its  haughty  disdain;  to  which  those  who  had  riches  and  power  came  to 
learn  to  make  use  of  them  with  moderation  and  generosity. 

"As  the  education  of  the  people  was  formed  upon  the  example  of  the  higher 
classes  of  society,  the  generous  sentiments  of  chivalry  spread  themselves  by 
degrees  through  all  ranks,  and  mingled  with  the  character  of  the  European 
nations;  gradually  there  arose  against  those  who  were  wanting  in  their  duties 
of  knighthood,  a  general  opinion,  more  severe  than  the  laws  themselves,  which 
was  as  the  code  of  honor,  as  the  cry  of  the  public  conscience.  What  might 
not  be  hoped  from  a  state  of  society,  in  which  all  the  discourses  held  in  camps, 
in  tournaments,  in  meetings  of  warriors,  were  reduced  to  these  words | — 'Evil 
be  to  him  who  forgets  the  promises  he  has  made  to  religion,  to  patriotism,  to 
virtuous  love;  evil  be  to  him  who  betrays  his  God,  his  king,  or  his  lady'? 

"When  the  institution  of  chivalry  fell  by  the  abuse  that  was  made  of  it,  or 
rather  in  consequence  of  the  changes  in  the  military  system  of  Europe,  there 
remained  still  in  European  society  some  of  the  sentiments  it  had  inspired,  in 
the  same  manner  as  there  remains  with  those  who  have  forgotten  the  religion 
in  which  they  were  born,  something  of  its  precepts,  and  particularly  of  the 
profound  impressions  which  they  received  from  it  in  their  infancy.  In  the 
times  of  chivalry  the  reward  of  good  actions  was  glory  and  honor.  This  coin, 
which  is  so  useful  to  nations  and  which  costs  them  nothing,  did  not  fail  to 
have  some  currency  in  following  ages.  Such  is  the  effect  of  a  glorious  remem 
brance,  that  the  marks  and  distinctions  of  chivalry  serve  still  in  our  days  to 
recompense  merit  and  bravery. 

"  The  better  to  explain  and  make  clear  all  the  good  that  the  Holy  Wars  brought 
with  them,  we  have  elsewhere  examined  what  would  have  happened  if  they 
had  had  all  the  success  they  might  have  had.  Let  us  now  attempt  another 
hypothesis,  and  let  our  minds  dwell  for  a  moment  upon  the  state  in  which  . 
Europe  would  have  been  without  the  expeditions  which  th»  West  so  many 
times  repeated  against  the  nations  of  Asia  and  Africa.  In  the  eleventh  cen 
tury,  several  European  countries  were  invaded  and  others  were  threatened  by 
the  Saracens.  What  means  of  defence  had  the  Christian  republic  then,  when 
most  of  the  states  were  given  up  to  license,  troubled  by  discords,  and  plunged 
in  barbarism  ?  If  Christendom,  as  M.  de  Bonald  remarks,  had  not  then  gone 
out  by  all  its  gates,  and  at  repeated  times,  to  attack  a  formidable  enemy,  have 
we  not  a  right  to  believe  that  this  enemy  would  have  profited  by  the  inaction 
of  the  Christian  nations,  and  that  he  would  have  surprised  them  amid  their 
divisions,  and  subdued  them  one  after  another?  Which  of  us  does  not 


744  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


tremble  with  horror  at  thinking  that  France,  Germany,  England,  and  Italy 
might  have  experienced  the  fate  of  Greece  and  Palestine?" — Hist,  of  Or  us.,  voi 
iii.  p.  295,  Robson's  trans. 


NOTE  UU,  (p.  626.) 

\Ve  request  the  reader's  attention  to  the  following  extracts  from  Robertson's 
History  of  America  : — 

"From  the  time  that  ecclesiastics  were  sent  as  instructors  into  America, 
they  perceived  that  the  rigor  with  which  their  countrymen  treated  the  nations 
rendered  their  ministry  altogether  fruitless.  The  missionaries,  in  conformity 
to  the  mild  spirit  of  that  religion  which  they  were  employed  to  publish,  early 
remonstrated  against  the  maxims  of  the  planters  with  respect  to  the  Americans, 
and  condemned  the  repartimientoa  or  distributions,  by  which  they  were  given 
up  as  slaves  to  their  conquerors,  as  no  le.ss  contrary  to  natural  justice  and  the 
precepts  of  Christianity  than  to  sound  policy.  The  Dominicans,  to  whom  the 
instruction  of  the  Americans  was  originally  committed,  were  most  vehement  in 
testifying  against  the  repartimientoa.  In  the  year  one  thousand  five  hundred 
and  eleven,  Montesino,  one  of  their  most  eminent  preachers,  inveighed  against 
this  practice,  in  the  great  church  of  St.  Domingo,  with  all  the  impetuosity  of 
popular  eloquence.  Don  Diego  Columbus,  the  principal  officers  of  the  colony, 
and  all  the  laymen  who  had  been  his  hearers,  complained  of  the  monk  to  his 
superiors  j  but  they,  instead  of  condemning,  applauded  his  doctrine  as  equally 
pious  and  seasonable.  The  Franciscans,  influenced  by  the  spirit  of  opposition 
and  rivalship  which  subsists  between  the  two  orders,  discovered  some  inclina 
tion  to  take  part  with  the  laity  and  to  espouse  the  defence  of  the  repartimientoa. 
But,  as  they  could  not  with  decency  give  their  avowed  approbation  to  a  system 
of  oppression  so  repugnant  to  the  spirit  of  religion,  they  endeavored  to  palliate 
what  they  could  not  justify,  and  alleged,  in  excuse  for  the  conduct  of  their 
countrymen,  that  it  was  impossible  to  carry  on  any  improvement  in  the  colony 
unless  the  Spaniards  possessed  such  dominion  over  the  natives  that  they  could 
compel  them  to  labor.1 

"  The  Dominicans,  regardless  of  such  political  and  interested  considerations, 
would  not  relax  in  any  degree  the  rigor  of  their  sentiments,  and  even  refused 
to  absolve  or  admit  to  the  sacrament  such  of  their  countrymen  as  continued 
to  hold  the  natives  in  servitude.2  Both  parties  applied  to  the  king  for  his  de 
cision  in  a  matter  of  such  importance.  Ferdinand  empowered  a  nommittee  of 
his  privy  council,  assisted  by  some  of  the  most  eminent  civilians  and  divines 
in  Spain,  to  hear  the  deputies  sent  from  Hispaniola  in  support  of  their  respect 
ive  opinions.  After  a  long  discussion,  the  speculative  point  in  controversy 
was  determined  in  favor  of  the  Dominicans.  The  Indians  were  declared  to  be  a 
free  people,  entitled  to  all  the  natural  rights  of  men;  but,  notwithstanding  this 
decision,  the  reparttmientoa  were  continued  upon  their  ancient  footing.3  As 
this  determination  admitted  the  principle  upon  which  the  Dominicans  founded 
their  opinion,  they  renewed  their  efforts  to  obtain  relief  for  the  Indians  with 
additional  boldness  and  zeal.  At  length,  in  order  to  quiet  the  colony,  which 


i  Herrera,  de^.  1,  lib.  viii.  chap.  11;  Oviedo.  lib.  iii.  chap.  6,  p.  97. 

*  Oviodo,  lib  iii.  chap.  6.  p.  97.         3  Herrera,  dec.  1,  lib  viii.  chap.  12,  lib.  ix.  chap.  6. 


NOTES.  745 

was  alarmed  by  their  remonstrances  and  censures,  Ferdinand  issued  a  decree 
of  his  privy  council,  (1513,)  declaring  that,  after  mature  consideration  of  the 
Apostolic  Bull,  and  other  titles  by  which  the  crown  of  Castile  claimed  a  right 
to  its  possessions  in  the  New  World,  the  servitude  of  the  Indians  was  warranted 
both  by  the  laws  of  God  and  of  man ;  that,  unless  they  were  subjected  to  the 
dominion  of  the  Spaniards  and  compelled  to  reside  under  their  inspection,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reclaim  them  from  idolatry  or  to  instruct  them  in  the 
principles  of  the  Christian  faith  ;  that  no  further  scruple  ought  to  be  entertained 
concerning  the  lawfulness  of  the  repartimientos,  as  the  king  and  council  were 
willing  to  take  the  charge  of  that  upon  their  own  consciences  ;  and  that  there 
fore  the  Dominicans  and  monks  of  other  religious  orders  should  abstain  for  the 
future  from  those  invectives  which,  from  an  excess  of  charitable  but  ill-informed 
zeal,  they  had  uttered  against  that  practice.1 

"That  his  intention  of  adhering  to  this  decree  might  be  fully  understood, 
Ferdinand  conferred  new  grants  of  Indians  upon  several  of  his  courtiers,  (25.) 
But,  in  order  that  he  might  not  seem  altogether  inattentive  to  the  rights  of 
humanity,  he  published  an  edict,  in  which  he  endeavored  to  provide  ior  tho 
mild  treatment  of  the  Indians  under  the  yoke  to  which  he  subjected  them;  he 
regulated  the  nature  of  the  work  which  they  should  be  required  to  perform,  he 
prescribed  the  mode  in  which  they  should  be  clothed  and  fed,  and  gave  direc 
tions  with  respect  to  their  instructions  in  the  principles  of  Christianity.^ 

"  But  the  Dominicans,  who,  from  their  experience  of  what  was  past,  judged 
concerning  the  future,  soon  perceived  the  ineflicacy  of  those  provisions,  and 
foretold  that,  as  long  as  it  was  the  interest  of  individuals  to  treat  the  Indians 
with  rigor,  no  public  regulations  could  render  their  servitude  mild  or  tolerable. 
They  considered  it  as  vain  to  waste  their  own  time  and  strength  in  attempting 
to  communicate  the  sublime  truths  of  religion  to  men  whose  spirits  were  broken 
and  their  faculties  impaired  by  oppression.  Some  of  them,  in  despair,  requested 
the  permission  of  their  superiors  to  remove  to  the  continent,  and  to  pursue  the 
object  of  their  mission  among  such  of  the  natives  as  were  not  hitherto  corrupted 
by  the  example  of  the  Spaniards  or  alienated  by  their  cruelty  from  the  Chris 
tian  faith.  Such  as  remained  in  Ilispaniola  continued  to  remonstrate,  with 
decent  firmness,  against  the  servitude  of  the  Indians.3 

"The  violent  operations  of  Albuquerque,  the  new  distributor  of  Indians, 
revived  the  zeal  of  the  Dominicans  against  the  repartimientos,  and  called  forth 
an  advocate  for  that  oppressed  people  who  possessed  all  the  courage,  the  talents, 
and  activity,  requisite  in  supporting  such  a  desperate  cause.  This  was  Bartho 
lomew  de  las  Casas,  a  native  of  Seville,  and  one  of  the  clergymen  sent  out  with 
Columbus  in  his  second  voyage  to  Hispaniola  in  order  to  settle  in  that  island. 
He  early  adopted  the  opinion  prevalent  among  ecclesiastics  with  respect  to 
the  unlawfulness  of  reducing  tho  natives  to  servitude;  and,  that  he  might  de 
monstrate  the  sincerity  of  his  conviction,  he  relinquished  all  the  Indians  who 
had  fallen  to  his  own  share  in  the  division  of  the  inhabitants  among  their  con 
querors,  declaring  that  he  should  ever  bewail  his  own  misfortune  and  guilt  in 
having  exercised  for  a  moment  this  impious  dominion  over  his  fellow-creatures.4 

i  Hen-era,  dec.  1,  lib.  ix.  chap.  14.  »  Ibid.,  dec.  1,  lib.  ix.  chap.  14. 

•  Id.,  ibid.,  Touron,  HisUiire  Gtntndt.  dt.  TAmirique.  tome  i.  p.  252. 
«  Fr.  Aug.  Davila  PmliUa,  Hist.  d<-  la  Fundacimi  de.  Iti  Prwiiicia  dt  St.  Jayo  dc  Mexico, 
p  303.  304;  Hc-m-nt,  dw.  1,  lib.  x.  chap.  12. 


746  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 


From  that  time  he  became  the  avowed  patron  of  the  Indians,  and  by  his  bold 
interpositions  in  their  behalf,  as  well  as  by  the  respect  due  to  his  abilities  and 
character,  he  had  often  the  merit  of  setting  some  bounds  to  the  excesses  of  his 
countrymen.  He  did  not  fail  to  remonstrate  warmly  against  the  proceedings 
of  Albuquerque  ;  and,  though  he  soon  found  that  attention  to  his  own  interest 
rendered  this  rapacious  officer  deaf  to  admonition,  he  did  not  abandon  the 
wretched  people  whose  cause  he  had  espoused.  He  instantly  set  out  for  Spain, 
with  the  most  sanguine  hopes  of  opening  the  eyes  and  softening  the  heart  of 
Ferdinand  by  that  striking  picture  of  the  oppression  of  his  new  subjects  which 
he  would  exhibit  to  his  view.1 

"  He  easily  obtained  admittance  to  the  king,  whom  he  found  in  a  declining 
state  of  health.  With  much  freedom,  and  no  less  eloquence,  he  represented  to 
him  all  the  fatal  effects  of  the  repartimientos  in  the  New  World,  boldly  charg 
ing  him  with  the  guilt  of  having  authorized  this  impious  measure,  which  had 
brought  misery  and  destruction  upon  a  numerous  and  innocent  race  of  men 
whom  Providence  had  placed  under  his  protection.  Ferdinand,  whose  mind  as 
well  as  body  was  much  enfeebled  by  his  distemper,  was  greatly  alarmed  at  this 
charge  of  impiety,  which  at  another  juncture  he  would  have  despised.  He 
listened  with  deep  compunction  to  the  discourse  of  Las  Casas,  and  promised  to 
take  into  serious  consideration  the  means  of  redressing  the  evil  of  which  he 
complained.  But  death  prevented  him  from  executing  his  resolution.  Charles 
of  Austria,  to  whom  all  his  crowns  devolved,  resided  at  that  time  in  his  pater 
nal  dominions  in  the  Low  Countries.  Las  Casas,  with  his  usual  ardor,  pre 
pared  immediately  to  set  out  for  Flandjrs,  in  order  to  occupy  the  ear  of  the. 
young  monarch,  when  Cardinal  Ximenes,  who,  as  regent,  assumed  the  reins  of 
government  in  Castile,  commanded  him  to  desist  from  the  journey  and  engaged 
to  hear  his  complaints  in  person. 

"  He  accordingly  weighed  the  matter  with  attention  equal  to  its  importance; 
and,  as  his  impetuous  mind  delighted  in  schemes  bold  and  uncommon,  he  soon 
fixed  upon  a  plan  which  astonished  the  ministers  trained  up  under  the  formal 
and  cautious  administration  of  Ferdinand.  Without  regarding  either  the 
rights  of  Don  Diego  Columbus  or  the  regulations  established  by  the  late  king, 
he  resolved  to  send  three  persons  to  America  as  superintendents  of  all  the  colo 
nies  there,  with  authority,  after  examining  all  circumstances  on  the  spot,  to 
decide  finally  with  respect  to  the  point  in  question.  It  was  a  matter  of  delibe 
ration  and  delicacy  to  choose  men  qualified  for  such  an  important  station.  As 
all  the  laymen  settled  in  America,  or  who  had  been  consulted  in  the  adminis 
tration  of  that  department,  had  given  their  opinion  that  the  Spaniards  couid 
not  keep  possession  of  their  new  settlements  unless  they  were  allowed  to 
retain  their  dominion  over  the  Indians,  he  saw  that  he  could  not  rely  on  their 
impartiality,  and  determined  to  commit  the  trust  to  ecclesiastics.  As  the 
Dominicans  and  Franciscans  had  already  espoused  opposite  sides  in  the  con 
troversy,  he,  from  the  same  principle  of  impartiality,  excluded  both  these 
fraternities  from  the  commission.  He  contined  his  choice  to  the  monks  of  iSt 
Jerome— a  small  but  respectable  order  in  Spain.  With  the  assistance  of  their 
general,  and  in  concert  with  Las  Casas,  he  soon  pitched  upon  three  persona 
whom  he  deemed  equal  to  the  charge.  To  them  he  joined  Zuazo,  a  private 

«  Herrera,  dec.  1.  lib.  x.  chap.  12;  dec.  2.  lib.  i.  chap.  11 :  Davila  Pndilla,  Hist.,  p.  304. 


NOTES.  747 


lawyer  of  distinguished  probity,  with  unbounded  power  to  regulate  all  judicial 
proceedings  in  the  colonies.  Las  Casas  was  appointed  to  accompany  them, 
with  the  title  of  protector  of  the  Indians.1 

"  To  vest  such  extraordinary  powers,  as  might  at  once  overturn  the  system 
of  government  established  in  the  New  World,  in  four  persons,  who,  from  their 
humble  condition  in  life,  were  little  entitled  to  possess  this  high  authority, 
appeared  to  Zapata  nnd  other  ministers  of  the  late  king  a  measure  so  wild 
and  dangerous  that  they  refused  to  issue  the  despatches  necessary  for  carrying 
it  into  execution.  But  Ximenea  was  not  of  a  temper  patiently  to  brook 
opposition  to  any  of  his  schemes.  He  sent  for  the  refractory  ministers  and 
addressed  them  in  such  a  tone  that,  in  the  utmost  consternation,  they  obeyed 
his  orders.2  The  superintendents,  with  their  associates  Zuazo  and  Las  Casas, 
sailed  for  St.  Domingo.  Upon  their  arrival,  the  first  act  of  their  authority  was 
to  set  at  liberty  all  the  Indians  who  had  been  granted  to  the  Spanish  courtiers 
or  to  any  person  not  residing  in  America.  This,  together  with  the  information 
which  had  been  receiveJ  from  Spain  concerning  the  object  of  the  commission, 
spread  a  general  alarm.  The  colonists  concluded  that  they  were  to  be  deprived 
lit  once  of  the  hands  with  which  they  carried  on  their  labor,  :md  that,  of  con 
sequence,  ruin  was  unavoidable.  But  the  fathers  of  St.  Jerom  proceeded 
with  such  caution  and  prudence  as  soon  dissipated  all  their  fears.  They 
discovered,  in  every  step  of  their  conduct,  a  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of 
affairs  which  is  seldom  acquired  in  cloister,  and  displayed  a  moderation  as 
well  as  gentleness  still  more  rare  among  persons  trained  up  in  the  solitude  and 
austerity  of  a  monastic  life.  Their  ears  were  open  to  information  from  every 
quarter;  they  compared  the  different  accounts  which  they  received;  and,  after 
a  mature  consideration  of  the  whole,  they  were  fully  satisfied  that  the  state  of 
the  colony  rendered  it  impossible  to  adopt  the  plan  proposed  by  Las  Casas  and 
recommended  by  the  cardinal.  They  plainly  perceived  that  the  Spaniards 
settled  in  America  were  so  few  in  number  that  they  could  neither  work  the 
mines  which  had  been  opened,  nor  cultivate  the  country;  that  they  depended, 
for  effecting  both,  upon  the  labor  of  the  natives,  and,  if  deprived  of  it,  they 
must  instantly  relinquish  their  conquests  or  give  up  all  the  advantages 
which  they  derived  from  them;  that  no  allurement  was  so  powerful  as  to 
(surmount  the  natural  aversion  of  the  Indians  to  any  laborious  effort,  and 
that  nothing  but  the  authority  of  a  master  could  compel  them  to  work;  and, 
if  they  were  not  kept  constantly  under  the  eye  and  discipline  of  a  superior, 
BO  great  was  their  natural  listlessuess  and  indifference  that  they  would 
neither  attend  to  religious  instruction  nor  observe  those  rites  of  Christianity 
which  they  had  already  been  taught.  Upon  all  those  accounts,  the  super 
intendents  found  it  necessary  to  tolerate  the  repartimientos,  and  to  suffer  the 
Indians  to  remain  under  subjection  to  their  Spanish  masters.  They  used 
their  utmost  endeavors,  however,  to  prevent  the  fatal  effects  of  this  establish 
ment,  and  to  secure  to  the  Indians  the  consolation  of  the  best  treatment 
compatible  with  a  state  of  servitude.  For  this  purpose  they  revived  former 
regulations,  they  prescribed  new  ones,  they  neglected  no  circumstance  that 
tended  to  mitigate  the  rigor  of  the  yoke;  and  by  their  authority,  their  ex 
ample,  and  their  exhortations,  they  labored  to  inspire  their  countrymen  with 


1  Ik-nvia,  der.  -2,  lib.  ii.  c. 


748  GENIUS  OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


sentiments  of  equity  and  gentleness  toward  the  unhappy  people  upon  *hoM 
industry  they  depended.  Zuazo,  in  his  department,  seconded  the  endeavors 
of  the  superintendents.  He  reformed  the  courts  of  justice  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  render  their  decisions  equitable  as  well  as  expeditious,  and  introduced 
various  regulations  which  greatly  improved  the  interior  policy  of  the  colony. 
The  satisfaction  which  his  conduct  and  that  of  the  superintendents  gave 
was  now  universal  among  the  Spaniards  settled  in  the  New  World;  and  all 
admired  the  boldness  of  Ximenes  in  having  departed  from-the  ordinary  path 
of  business  in  forming  his  plan,  as  well  as  his  sagacity  in  pitching  upon  per 
sons  whose  wisdom,  moderation,  and  disinterestedness,  rendered  them  worthy 
of  this  high  trust.1  Las  Casas  alone  was  dissatisfied.  The  prudential  consi 
deration  which  influenced  the  superintendents  made  no  impression  upon  him. 
He  regarded  their  idea  of  accommodating  their  conduct  to  the  state  of  the 
colony  as  the  maxim  of  an  unhallowed,  timid  policy,  which  tolerated  what 
was  unjust  because  it  was  beneficial.  He  contended  that  the  Indians  were 
by  nature  free,  and,  as  their  protector,  he  required  the  superintendents  not 
to  bereave  them  of  the  common  privilege  of  humanity.  They  received  his 
most  virulent  remonstrances  without  emotion,  but  adhered  firmly  to  their  own 
system.  The  Spanish  planters  did  not  bear  with  him  so  patiently,  and  were 
ready  to  tear  him  in  pieces  for  insisting  on  a  requisition  so  odious  to  them. 
Las  Casas,  in  order  to  screen  himself  from  their  rage,  found  it  necessary  to 
take  shelter  in  a  convent;  and,  perceiving  that  all  his  efforts  in  America 
were  fruitless,  he  soon  set  out  for  Europe,  with  a  fixed  resolution  not  to 
abandon  the  protection  of  a  people  whom  he  deemed-  to  be  cruelly  op 
pressed.2 

"  Had  Ximenes  retained  that  vigor  of  mind  with  which  he  usually  applied 
to  business,  Las  Casas  must  have  met  with  no  very  gracious  reception  upon 
his  return  to  Spain.  But  he  found  the  cardinal  languishing  under  a  mortal 
distemper  and  preparing  to  resign  his  authority  to  the  young  king,  who  was 
daily  expected  from  the  Low  Countries.  Charles  arrived,  took  possession  of 
the  government,  and,  by  the  death  of  Ximenes,  lost  a  minister  whose  abilities 
and  integrity  entitled  him  to  direct  his  affairs.  Many  of  the  Flemish  nobility 
had  accompanied  their  sovereign  to  Spain.  From  that  warm  predilection  to 
his  countrymen  which  was  natural  at  his  age,  he  consulted  them  with  respect 
to  all  the  transactions  in  his  new  kingdom ;  and  they,  with  an  indiscreet  eager 
ness,  intruded  themselves  into  every  business  and  seized  almost  every  depart 
ment  of  administration.3  The  direction  of  American  affairs  was  an  object  too 
alluring  to  escape  their  attention.  Las  Casas  observed  their  growing  influence  j 
and,  though  projectors  are  usually  too  sanguine  to  conduct  their  schemes  with 
much  dexterity,  he  possessed  a  bustling,  indefatigable  activity,  which  some 
times  accomplishes  its  purposes  with  greater  success  than  the  most  exquisite 
discernment  and  address.  He  courted  the  Flemish  ministers  with  assiduity. 
He  represented  to  them  the  absurdity  of  all  the  maxims  hitherto  adopted  with 
respect  to  the  government  of  America,  particularly  during  the  administration 
of  Ferdinand,  and  pointed  out  the  defects  of  those  arrangements  which 
Ximenes  had  introduced.  The  memory  of  Ferdinand  was  odious  to  the 

1  Hen-era,  dec.  2,  lib.  ii.  c.15 ;  Remesal,  Hist.  Gener.,  lib.  ii.  c.  14,  15,  16. 
•»  Ibid.,  dec.  2,  lib.  ii.  c.  16.  a  History  of  Charles  V. 


NOTES.  749 

Flemings.  The  superior  virtues  and  abilities  of  Ximenes  had  long  been  the 
object  of  their  envy.  They  fondly  wished  to  have  a  plausible  pretext  for 
condemning  the  measures  both  of  the  monarch  and  of  the  minister,  and  of 
reflecting  some  discredit  on  their  political  wisdom.  The  friends  of  Don  Diego 
Columbus,  as  well  as  the  Spanish  courtiers  who  had  been  dissatisfied  with  the 
cardinal's  administration,  joined  Las  Casas  in  censuring  the  scheme  of  sending 
superintendents  to  America.  This  union  of  so  many  interests  and  passions 
was  irresistible ;  and,  in  consequence  of  it,  the  fathers  of  St.  Jerom,  together 
with  their  associate  Zuazo,  were  recalled.  Roderigo  de  Figueroa,  a  lawyer  of 
some  eminence,  was  appointed  chief-judge  of  the  island,  and  received  instruc 
tions,  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  Las  Casas,  to  examine  once  more,  with 
the  utmost  attention,  the  point  in  controversy  between  him  and  the  people  of 
the  colony,  with  respect  to  the  treament  of  the  natives,  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
to  do  every  thing  in  his  power  to  alleviate  their  sufferings  and  prevent  the 
extinction  of  the  race.1 

«  This  was  all  that  the  zeal  of  Las  Casas  could  procure  at  that  juncture  in 
favor  of  the  Indians.  The  impossibility  of  carrying  on  any  improvements  in 
America,  unless  the  Spanish  planters  could  command  the  labor  of  the  natives, 
was  an  insuperable  objection  to  his  plan  of  treating  them  as  free  subjects.  In 
order  to  provide  some  remedy  for  this,  without  which  ho  found  it  was  in  vain 
to  mention  his  scheme,  Las  Casas  proposed  to  purchase  a  sufficient  number  of 
negroes  from  the  Portuguese  settlements  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  to  trans 
port  them  to  America,  in  order  that  they  might  be  employed  as  slaves  in 
working  the  mines  and  cultivating  the  ground.  One  of  the  first  advantages 
which  the  Portuguese  had  derived  from  their  discoveries  in  Africa  arose  from 
the  trade  in  slaves.  Various  circumstances  concurred  in  reviving  this  odious 
commerce,  which  had  been  long  abolished  in  Europe,  and  which  is  no  less 
repugnant  to  the  feelings  of  humanity  than  to  the  principles  of  religion.  As 
early  as  the  year  one  thousand  five  hundred  and  three,  a  few  negro  slaves  had 
been  sent  into  the  New  World.2  In  the  year  one  thousand  five  hundred  and 
eleven,  Ferdinand  permitted  the  importation  of  tnem  in  great  numbers.3  They 
were  found  to  be  a  more  robust  and  hardy  race  than  the  natives  of  America. 
They  were  more  capable  of  enduring  fatigue,  more  patient  under  servitude, 
and  the  labor  of  one  negro  was  computed  to  be  equal  to  that  of  four  Indians.4 
Cardinal  Ximenes,  however,  when  solicited  to  encourage  this  commerce, 
peremptorily  rejected  the  proposition,  because  he  perceived  the  iniquity  of 
reducing  one  race  of  men  to  slavery  while  he  was  consulting  about  the  means 
of  restoring  liberty  to  another.5  But  Las  Casas.  from  the  inconsistency 
natural  to  men  who  hurry  with  headlong  impetuosity  toward  a  favorite  point, 
was  incapable  of  making  this  distinction.  While  he  contended  earnestly  for 
the  liberty  of  the  people  born  in  one  quarter  of  the  globe,  he  labored  to  en 
slave  the  inhabitants  of  another  region;  and,  in  the  warmth  of  his  zeal  to 
save  the  Americans  from  the  yoke,  pronounced  it  to  be  lawful  and  expedient 
to  impose  one  still  heavier  upon  the  Africans.  Unfortunately  for  the  latter, 
Las  Casas's  plan  was  adopted.  Charles  g'ranted  a  patent  to  one  of  his  Flemish 
favorites,  containing  an  exclusive  right  of  importing  four  thousand  negroes 


i  Herrcra,  doc.  2,  lib.  ii.  c.  16, 19,  21 ;  lib.  iii.  c.  7,  8.  »  Ibid.,  dec.  2,  lib.  v.  c.  12. 

•  Ibid.,  lib.  vilL  c.  i).  «  Ibid.,  lib.  ix.  c.  5.  •  Ibid.,  dec.  2,  lib.  ii.  C.  8. 

68* 


750  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


into  America.  The  favorite  sold  his  patent  to  some  Genoese  merchants  for 
twenty-five  thousand  ducats,  and  they  were  the  first  who  brought  into  a  regu 
lar  form  that  commerce  for  slaves  between  Africa  and  America  which  has 
since  been  carried  on  to  such  an  amazing  extent.' 

"But  the  Genoese  merchants,  (1518,)  conducting  their  operations  at  first 
with  the  rapacity  of  monopolists,  demanded  such  a  high  price  for  negroes  that 
the  number  imported  into  Hispaniola  made  no  great  change  upon  the  state  of 
the  colony.  Las  Casas,  whose  zeal  was  no  less  inventive  than  indefatigable, 
had  recourse  to  another  expedient  for  the  relief  of  the  Indians.  He  observed 
that  most  of  the  persons  who  had  settled  in  America  hitherto  were  sailors  and 
soldiers  employed  in  the  discovery  or  conquest  of  the  country — the  younger 
sons  of  noble  families,  allured  by  the  prospect  of  acquiring  sudden  wealth,  or 
desperate  adventurers,  whom  their  indigence  or  crimes  forced  to  abandon  their 
native  land.  Instead  of  such  men,  who  were  dissolute,  rapacious,  and  incapa 
ble  of  that  sober,  persevering  industry  which  is  requisite  in  forming  new  colo 
nies,  he  proposed  to  supply  the  settlements  in  Hispaniola  and  other  parts  of 
the  New  World  with  a  sufticient  number  of  laborers  and  husbandmen,  who 
should  be  allured  by  suitable  premiums  to  remove  thither.  These,  as  they  were 
accustomed  to  fatigue,  would  be  able  to  perform  the  work  to  which  the  Indians, 
from  the  feebleness  of  their  constitutions,  were  unequal,  and  might  soon  become 
useful  arid  opulent  citizens.  But,  though  Hispaniola  stood  much  in  need  of  a 
recruit  of  inhabitants,  having  been  visited  at  this  time  with  the  small-pox, 
which  swept  off  almost  all  the  natives  who  had  survived  their  long-continued 
oppression,  and  though  Las  Casas  had  the  countenance  of  the  Flemish  minis 
ters,  this  scheme  was  defeated  by  the  Bishop  of  Burgos,  who  thwarted  all  his 
projects.2 

"  Las  Casas  now  despaired  of  procuring  any  relief  for  the  Indians  in  those 
places  where  the  Spaniards  were  already  settled.  The  evil  was  become  so  in 
veterate  there  as  not  to  admit  of  a  cure.  But  such  discoveries  were  daily  mak 
ing  in  the  continent  as  gave  high  idea  both  of  its  extent  and  populousness.  In 
all  those  vast  regions  there  wlis  but  one  feeble  colony  planted;  and,  except  a 
small  spot  on  the  Isthmus  of  Darien,  the  natives  still  occupied  the  whole  coun 
try.  This  opened  a  new  and  more  ample  field  for  the  humanity  and  zeal  of 
Las  Casas,  who  flattered  himself  that  he  might  prevent  a  pernicious  system 
from  being  introduced  there,  though  he  had  failed  of  success  in  his  attempts  to 
overturn  it  where  it  was  already  established.  Full  of  this  idea,  he  applied  for 
a  grant  of  the  unoccupied  country  stretching  along  the  seacoast  from  the  Gulf 


1  Herrera.  dec.  1,  lib.  ii.  c.  20.  It  is  but  just  to  remark,  according  to  other  writers, — 
1.  That  the  proposal  to  transport  negroes  from  Africa,  on  this  occasion,  did  not  originate 
with  Las  Casas.  He  merely  approved  of  the  measure  already  suggested.  2.  This  measure, 
as  he  understood  it,  consisted,  not  in  making  slaves  of  those  who  were  free,  but  merely  in 
transporting  to  America  those  negroes  who  were  already  suffering  a  cruel  slavery  in 
their  own  country.  3.  Whence  it  follows  that  the  plan  of  Las  Casas  tended  to  ameliorate 
the  condition  of  those  unhappy  Africans,  and,  far  from  being  an  oppressive  or  unjust 
policy,  was  entirely  consistent  with  the  humane  and  active  zeal  which  he  had  displayed 
for  the  benefit  of  the  American  Indians.  If  his  measures  afterward  degenerated  by  the 
cupidity  of  others  into  the  abuses  of  the  slave-trade,  it  was  not  the  effect  of  any  design 
or  co-operation  on  his  part.  See  Baluffi,  JJ America  un  tempo  Spagnuola,  p.  255,  Ac.; 
Henrion.  Hist,  des  Missions  Oath.,  tome  i.  p.  350,  &c.  T. 

*  Ibid.,  dec  2,  lib.  ii.  c.  21. 


NOTES.  751 


of  Paria  to  the  western  frontier  of  that  province  now  known  by  the  name  of 
Santa  Martha.  He  proposed  to  settle  there  with  a  colony  composed  of  hns- 
bamlmen,  laborers,  and  ecclesiastics.  He  engaged,  in  the  space  of  two  years, 
to  civilize  ten  thousand  of  the  natives,  and  to  instruct  them  so  thoroughly  in 
the  arts  of  social  life  that  from  the  fruits  of  their  industry  an  annual  revenno 
of  fifteen  thousand  ducats  should  arise  to  the  king.  In  ten  years  he  expected 
that  his  improvements  would  be  so  far  advanced  as  to  yield  annually  sixty 
thousand  ducats.  He  stipulated  that  no  soldier  or  sailor  should  ever  be  per 
mitted  to  settle  in  this  district,  and  that  no  Spaniard  whatever  should  enter 
it  without  his  permission.  He  even  projected  to  clothe  the  people  whom  he 
took  along  with  him  in  some  distinguishing  garb,  which  did  not  resemble  the 
Spanish  dress,  that  they  might  appear  to  the  natives  to  be  a  different  race  of 
men  from  those  who  had  brought  so  many  calamities  upon  their  country.1 
From  this  scheme,  of  which  I  have-  traced  only  the  great  lines,  it  is  manifest 
that  Las  Casas  had  formed  ideas  concerning  the  method  of  treating  the  Indians 
similar  to  those  by  which  the  Jesuits  afterward  carried  on  their  great  opera 
tions  in  another  part  of  the  same  continent.  He  supposed  that  the  Europeans, 
by  availing  themselves  of  that  ascendant  which  they  possessed  in  consequence 
of  their  superior  progress  in  science  and  improvement,  might  gradually  form 
the  minds  of  the  Americans  to  relish  those  comforts  of  which  they  were  desti 
tute,  might  train  them  to  the  arts  of  civil  life,  and  render  them  capable  of  its 
functions. 

"  But  to  the  Bishop  of  Burgos  and  the  Council  of  the  Indies  this  project  ap 
peared  not  only  chimerical,  but  dangerous  in  a  high  degree.  They  deemed  the 
faculties  of  the  Americans  to  be  naturally  so  limited,  and  their  indolence  so  ex 
cessive,  that  every  attempt  to  instruct  or  to  improve  them  would  be  fruitless. 
They  contended  that  it  would  be  extremely  imprudent  to  give  the  command 
of  a  country  extending  above  a  thousand  miles  along  the  coast  to  a  fanciful 
presumptuous  enthusiast,  a  stranger  to  the  affairs  of  the  world  and  unacquainted 
with  the  arts  of  government.  Las  Casas,  far  from  being  discouraged  with  a 
repulse,  which  he  had  reason  to  expect,  had  recourse  once  more  to  the  Flemish 
favorites,  who  zealously  patronized  his  scheme,  merely  because  it  had  been  re 
jected  by  the  Spanish  ministers.  They  prevailed  with  their  master,  who  had 
lately  been  raised  to  the  imperial  dignity,  to  refer  the  consideration  of  this 
measure  to  a  select  number  of  his  privy  counsellors.  Las  Casas  having  excepted 
against  the  members  of  the  Council  of  the  Indies  as  partial  and  interested,  they 
were  all  excluded.  The  decision  of  men  chosen  by  recommendation  of  the 
Flemings  was  perfectly  conformable  to  their  sentiments.  They  warmly  ap 
proved  of  Las  Casas's  plan,  and  gave  orders  for  carrying  it  into  execution,  but 
restricted  the  territory  allotted  him  to  three  hundred  miles  along  the  coast  of 
Cumana,  allowing  him,  however,  to  extend  it  as  far  as  he  pleased  toward  the 
interior  part  of  the  country.* 

"  This  determination  did  not  pass  uncensured.  Almost  every  person  who 
had  been  in  the  West  Indies  exclaimed  against  it,  and  supported  their  opinion 
so  confidently,  and  with  such  plausible  reasons,  as  made  it  advisable  to  pause 
and  to  review  the  subject  more  deliberately.  Charles  himself,  though  accus 
tomed  at  this  early  period  of  his  life  to  adopt  the  sentiments  of  his  ministers 

»  Herrera,  dec.  2,  lib.  iv.  c.  2. 

»  Gomara,  Hist.  Gener.,  c.  77 ;  Herrera,  dec.  2,  lib.  iv.  c.  3;  Oviedo,  lib.  xix.  c.  5. 


752  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

with  such  submissive  deference  as  did  not  promise  that  decisive  vigor  <)f  inind 
which  distinguished  his  riper  years,  could  not  help  suspecting  that  the  eager 
ness  with  which  the  Flemings  took  part  in  every  affair  relating  to  America 
flowed  from  some  improper  motive,  and  began  to  discover  an  inclination  to  * 
examine  in  person  into  the  state  of  the  question  concerning  the  character  of 
the  Americans  and  the  proper  manner  of  treating  them.  An  opportunity  of 
making  this  inquiry  with  great  advantage  soon  occurred,  (June  20.)  Quevedo, 
the  Bishop  of  Darien,  who  had  accompanied  Padrarias  to  the  continent  in  the 
year  one  thousand  five  hundred  and  thirteen,  happened  to  land  at  Barcelona, 
where  the  court  then  resided.  It  was  quickly  known  that  his  sentiments  con 
cerning  the  talents  and  disposition  of  the  Indians  differed  from  those  of  Las 
Casas ;  and  Charles  naturally  concluded  that,  by  confronting  two  respectable 
persons,  who,  during  their  residence  in  America,  had  full  leisure  to  observe  the 
manners  of  the  people  whom  they  pretended  to  describe,  he  might  be  able  to 
discover  which  of  them  had  formed  his  opinion  with  the  greatest  discernment 
and  accuracy. 

"A  day  for  this  solemn  audience  was  appointed.  The  emperor  appeared 
with  extraordinary  pomp,  and  took  his  seat  on  a  throne  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
palace.  His  principal  courtiers  attended.  Don  Diego  Columbus,  Admiral  of 
the  Indies,  was  summoned  to  be  present.  The  Bishop  of  Darien  was  called 
upon  first  to  deliver  his  opinion.  He,  in  a  short  discourse,  lamented  the  fatal 
desolation  of  America  by  the  extinction  of  so  many  of  its  inhabitants;  he  ac 
knowledged  that  this  must  be  imputed,  in  some  degree,  to  the  extensive  rigor 
and  inconsiderate  proceedings  of  the  Spaniards,  but  declared  that  all  the  people 
of  the  New  World  whom  he  had  seen,  either  in  the  continent  or  in  the  islands, 
appeared  to  him  to  be  a  race  of  men  marked  out  by  the  inferiority  of  their 
talents  for  servitude,  and  whom  it  would  be  impossible  to  instruct  or  improve 
unless  they  were  kept  under  the  continual  inspection  of  a  master.  Las  Casas, 
at  greater  length  and  with  more  fervor,  defended  his  own  system.  He  rejected 
with  indignation  the  idea  that  any  race  of  men  was  born  to  servitude  as  irre 
ligious  and  inhuman.  He  asserted  that  the  faculties  of  the  Americans  were 
not  naturally  despicable,  but  unimproved  ;  that  they  were  capable  of  receiving 
instruction  in  the  principles  of  religion  as  well  as  of  acquiring  the  industry 
and  arts  which  would  qualify  them  for  the  various  offices  of  social  life;  that 
the  wildness  and  timidity  of  their  nature  rendered  them  so  submissive  and 
docile  that  they  might  be  led  and  formed  with  a  gentle  hand.  He  professed 
that  his  intentions  in  proposing  the  scheme  now  under  consideration  were  pure 
and  disinterested;  and,  though  from  the  accomplishment  of  his  designs  inesti 
mable  benefits  would  result  to  the  crown  of  Castile,  he  never  had  claimed,  nor 
ever  would  receive,  any  recompense  on  that  account. 

"  Charles,  after  hearing  both  and  consulting  with  his  ministers,  did  not 
think  himself  sufficiently  informed  to  establish  any  general  arrangement  with 
respect  to  the  state  of  the  Indians;  but,  as  he  had  perfect  confidence  in  the  in 
tegrity  of  Las  Casas,  and  as  even  the  Bishop  of  Darien  admitted  his  scheme  to 
be  of  such  importance  that  a  trial  should  be  made  of  its  effects,  he  issued  a 
patent,  (1522,)  granting  him  the  district  of  Cumana,  formerly  mentioned,  with 
full  power  to  establish  a  colony  there  according  to  his  own  plan.1 

1  Ilerrera,  dec.  2,  lib.  iv.  c.  8,  4,  5 ;  Argensola,  Annales  d'Aragon,  74,  97  ;  Remisal,  If  int. 
Gener.,  lib.  ii.  c.  19-20. 


NOTES.  753 

"La's  Casas  pushed  on  the  preparations  for  his  voyage  with  his  usual  ardor. 
But,  either  from  his  own  inexperience  in  the  conduct  of  affairs,  or  from  the 
secret  opposition  of  the  Spanish  nobility,  who  universally  dreaded  the  success 
of  an  institution  that  might  rob  them  of  the  industrious  and  useful  hands  which 
cultivated  their  estates,  his  progress  in  engaging  husbandmen  and  laborers  was 
extremely  slow,  and  he  could  not  prevail  on  more  than  two  hundred  to  accom 
pany  him  to  Cumana. 

"Nothing,  however,  could  damp  his  zeal.  With  this  slender  train,  hardly 
sufficient  to  take  possession  of  such  a  Inrge  territory,  and  altogether  unequal  to 
any  effectual  attempt  toward  civilizing  its  inhabitants,  he  set  sail.  The  first 
place  at  which  he  touched  was  the  Island  of  Puerto  Rico.  There  he  received 
an  account  of  a  new  obstacle  to  the  execution  of  his  scheme,  more  insuperable 
than  any  he  had  hitherto  encountered.  When  he  left  America,  in  the  year  one 
thousand  five  hundred  and  sixteen,  the  Spaniards  had  little  intercourse  with 
any  part  of  the  continent  except  the  countries  adjacent  to  the  Gulf  of  Darien. 
But,  as  every  species  of  internal  industry  began  to  stagnate  in  Hispaniola  when, 
by  the  rapid  decrease  of  the  natives,  the  Spaniards  were  deprived  of  those  hands 
with  which  they  had  hitherto  carried  on  their  operations,  this  prompted  them 
to  try  various  expedients  for  supplying  that  loss.  Considerable  numbers  of 
negroes  were  imported,  but,  on  account  of  their  exorbitant  price,  many  of  the 
planters  could  not  afford  to  purchase  them.  In  order  to  procure  slaves  at  an 
easier  rate,  some  of  the  Spaniards  in  Hispaniola  fitted  out  vessels  to  cruise 
along  the  coast  of  the  continent.  In  places  where  they  found  themselves  in 
ferior  in  strength  they  traded  with  the  natives,  and  gave  European  toys  in 
exchange  for  the  plates  of  gold  worn  by  them  as  ornaments ;  but  wherever 
they  could  surprise  or  overpower  the  Indians,  they  carried  them  off  by  force 
and  sold  them  as  slaves.1  In  those  predatory  excursions  such  atrocious  acts 
of  violence  and  cruelty  had  been  committed  that  the  Spanish  name  was  held 
in  detestation  all  over  the  continent.  Whenever  any  ships  appeared,  the  inha 
bitants  either  fled  to  the  woods,  or  rushed  down  to  the  shore  in  arms  to  repel 
those  hated  disturbers  of  their  tranquillity.  They  forced  some  parties  of  the 
Spaniards  to  retreat  with  precipitation  ;  they  cut  off  others,  and,  in  the  violence 
of  their  resentment  against  the  whole  nation,  they  murdered  two  Dominican 
missionaries,  whose  zeal  had  prompted  them  to  s,ettle  in  the  province  of  Cu- 
mana.a  This  outrage  against  persons  revered  for  their  sanctity  excited  such 
indignation  among  the  people  of  Hispaniola,  who,  notwithstanding  all  their 
licentious  and  cruel  proceedings,  were  possessed  with  a  wonderful  zeal  for 
religion  and  a  superstitious  respect  for  its  ministers,  that  they  determined  to 
inflict  exemplary  punishment,  not  only  upon  the  perpetrators  of  that  crime, 
but  upon  the  whole  race.  With  this  view  they  gave  the  command  of  five  ships 
and  three  hundred  men  to  Diego  Ocampo,  with  orders  to  lay  waste  the  country 
of  Cumana  with  fire  and  sword,  and  to  transport  all  the  inhabitants  as  slaves 
to  Hispaniola.  This  armament  Las  Casas  found  at  Puerto  Rico,  in  its  way  to 
the  continent;  and,  as  Ocnrnpo  refused  to  defer  his  voyage,  he  immediately 
perceived  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  attempt  the  execution  of  his  pacific 
plan  in  a  country  destined  to  be  the  seat  of  war  and  desolation.3 


Hen-era,  dec.  3,  lib.  ii.  c.  3.  a  Oviedo,  Hist.,  lib.  xix.  p.  8. 

»  Herrera,  dec.  2,  lib.  ix.  c.  8,  9. 
2X 


754  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

"In  orcbr  to  provide  against  the  effects  of  this  unfortunate  incident,  he  set 
sail  directly  for  St.  Domingo,  (April  12,)  leaving  his  followers  cantoned  out 
among  the  planters  of  Puerto  Rico.  From  many  concurring  causes,  the  re 
ception  which  Las  Casas  met  with  in  Hispaniola  was  very  unfavorable.  In 
his  negotiations  for  the  relief  of  the  Indians,  he  had  censured  the  conduct  of 
his  countrymen  settled  there  with  such  honest  severity  as  rendered  him  uni 
versally  odious  to  them.  They  considered  their  ruin  as  the  inevitable  conse 
quence  of  his  success.  They  were  now  elated  with  hope  of  receiving  a  large 
recruit  of  slaves  from  Cumana,  which  must  be  relinquished  if  Las  Casas  were 
assisted  in  settling  his  projected  colony  there.  Figueroa,  in  consequence  of 
the  instructions  he  had  received  in  Spain,  had  made  an  experiment  concerning 
the  capacity  of  the  Indians  that  was  represented  as  decisive  against  the  sys 
tem  of  Las  Casas.  He  collected  in  Hispaniola  a  good  number  of  the  natives, 
and  settled  them  in  two  villages,  leaving  them  at  perfect  liberty  and  with  the 
uncontrolled  direction  of  their  own  actions.  But  that  people,  accustomed  to  a 
mode  of  life  extremely  different  from  that  which  takes  place  wherever  civiliza 
tion  has  made  any  considerable  progress,  were  incapable  of  assuming  new 
habits  at  once.  Dejected  with  their  own  misfortunes,  as  well  as  those  of  their 
country,  they  exerted  so  little  industry  in.  cultivating  the  ground,  appeared  so 
devoid  of  solicitude  or  foresight  in  providing  for  their  own  wants,  and  were 
such  strangers  to  arrangement  in  conducting  their  affairs,  that  the  Spaniards 
pronounced  them  incapable  of  being  formed  to  live  like  men  in  social  life,  and 
considered  them  as  children,  who  should  be  kept  under  the  perpetual  tutelage 
of-persons  superior  to  themselves  in  wisdom  and  sagacity.1 

"Notwithstanding  all  those  circumstances,  which  alienated  the  persons  in 
Hispaniola  to  whom  Las  Casas  applied  from  himself  and  from  his  measures, 
he,  by  his  activity  and  perseverance,  by  some  concessions  and  many  threats, 
obtained  at  length  a  small  body  of  troops  to  protect  him:  and  his  colony  at  their 
first  landing.  But  upon  his  return  to  Puerto  Rico  he  found  that  the  diseases 
of  the  climate  had  been  fatal  to  several  of  his  people,  and  that  others,  having 
got  employment  in  that  island,  refused  to  follow  him.  With  the  handful  that 
remained,  he  set  sail  and  landed  in  Cumana.  Ocainpo  had  executed  his  com 
mission  in  that  province  with  such  barbarous  rage,  having  massacred  many  of 
the  inhabitants,  sent  others  in  chains  to  Hispaniola,  and  forced  the  rest  to  fly 
for  shelter  to  the  woods,  that  the  people  of  a  small  colony,  which  he  had 
planted  at  a  place  which  he  named  Toledo,  were  ready  to  perish  for  want  in  a 
desolated  country.  There,  however,  Las  Casas  was  obliged  to  fix  his  residence, 
though  deserted  both  by  the  troops  appointed  to  protect  him  and  by  those 
under  the  command  of  Ocampo,  who  foresaw  and  dreaded  the  calamities  to 
which  he  must  be  exposed  in  that  wretched  station.  He  made  the  best  pro 
vision  in  his  power  for  the  safety  and  subsistence  of  his  followers;  but,  as  his 
utmost  efforts  availed  little  toward  securing  either  the  one  or  the  other,  he  re 
turned  to  Hispaniola,  in  order  to  solicit  more  effectual  aid  for  the  preservation 
of  men  who,  from  confidence  in  him,  had  ventured  into  a  post  of  so  much 
danger.  Soon  after  his  departure,  the  natives,  having  discovered  the  feeble 
and  defenceless  state  of  the  Spaniards,  assembled  secretly,  attacked  them  with 


Herrera,  dec^,  lib.  x.  c.  5. 


NOTES.  755 

the  fury  natural  to  men  exasperated  by  many  injuries,  cut  off  a  good  number, 
and  compelled  the  rest  to  fly  in  the  utmost  consternation  to  the  island  of  Cu- 
bngua.  The  small  colony  settled  there  on  account  of  the  pearl-fishery,  catch 
ing  the  panic  with  which  their  countrymen  had  been  seized,  abandoned  the 
island,  and  not  a  Spaniard  remained  in  any  part  of  the  continent,  or  adjacent 
islands,  from  the  Gulf  of  Paria  to  the  borders  of  Darien.  Astonished  at  such 
a  succession  of  disasters,  Las  Casas  was  ashamed  to  show  his  face  after  this 
fatal  termination  of  all  his  splendid  schemes.  He  shut  himself  up  in  the  con 
vent  of  the  Dominicans  at  St.  Domingo,  and  soon  after  assumed  the  habit  of 
that  order.1 

"  Though  the  expulsion  of  the  colony  from  Cumana  happened  in  the  year 
one  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty-one,  I  have  chosen  to  trace  the  progress 
of  Las  Casas's  negotiations  from  the  first  rise  to  their  final  issue  without  in 
terruption.  His  system  was  the  object  of  long  and  attentive  discussion;  and 
though  his  efforts  in  behalf  of  the  oppressed  Americans,  partly  from  his  own 
rashness  and  imprudence,  and  partly  from  the  malevolent  opposition  of  bis 
adversaries,  were  not  attended  with  that  success  which  he  promised  with  too 
sanguine  confidence,  great  praise  is  due  to  his*  humane  activity,  which  gave 
rise  to  various  regulations  that  were  of  some  benefit  to  that  unhappy  people." 
— History  of  America,  book  iii. 

"  Cortes,  astonished  and  enraged  at  their  obstinacy,  (the  Tlascalans,)  was 
going  to  overturn  their  altars  and  cast  down  their  idols  with  the  same  violent 
hand  as  at  Tempoalla,  if  Father  Bartholomew  de  Oluiedo,  chaplain  to  the  ex 
pedition,  had  not  checked  his  inconsiderate  impetuosity.  He  represented  the 
imprudence  of  such  an  attempt  in  a  large  city  newly  reconciled  and  filled  with 
people  no  less  superstitious  than  warlike ;  he  declared  that  the  proceeding  at 
Tempoalla  had  always  appeared  to  him  precipitate  and  unjust;  that  religion 
was  not  to  be  propagated  by  the  sword  or  infidels  to  be  converted  by  violence; 
that  other  weapons  were  to  be  employed  in  this  ministry :  patient  instruction 
must  enlighten  the  understanding,  and  pious  example  captivate  the  heart, 
before  men  could  be  induced  to  abandon  error  and  embrace  the  truth.2  .... 
At  a  time  when  the  rights  of  conscience  were  little  understood  in  the  Christian 
world  and  the  idea  of  toleration  unknown,  one  is  astonished  to  find  a  Spanish 
monk  of  the  sixteenth  century  among  the  first  advocates  against  persecution 
and  in  behalf  of  religious  liberty.  The  remonstrances  of  an  ecclesiastic  no 
less  respectable  for  wisdom  than  virtue  had  their  proper  weight  with  Cortes." 
— Ibid.,  book  iv. 

Having  shown  that  the  depopulation  of  America  could  not  be  attributed  to 
the  policy  of  the  Spanish  government,  Robertson  adds  the  remarks  which  we 
have  cited  in  the  text,  and  which  declare  that  destruction  still  less  imputable 
to  any  intolerant  measures  of  the  Catholic  missionaries.  He  says  in  another 
place,  "When  the  zeal  of  Philip  II.  established  the  inquisition  in  America  in 
the  year  1570,  the  Indians  were  exempted  from  the  jurisdiction  of  that  severe 
tribunal,  and  still  continue  under  the  inspection  of  their  diocesans." — llid^ 
book  viii. 


1  H'-rrera,  dec.  2,  lib.  x.  c.  5;  dec.  3,  lib.  ii.  c.  3,  4,  5;  Oviedo,  Hist.,  lib.  xix.  c.  5; 
lara.  c.  77 ;  Davila  Pudilla,  lib.  i.  c.  97 ;  Remisal,  Hint.  Gen.,  lib.  xi.  c.  22,  23. 
a  R.  Di.-i/.,  P.  Ixxvii.  p  14     .-.  Ixxxiii.  p.  fil. 


756  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

If  we  examine  attentively  and  impartially  all  the  facts  mentioned  by  the 
Presbyterian  writer, — if  at  the  same  time  we  consider  the  number  of  hospitals 
established  by  the  American  Indians,  the  admirable  missions  of  Paraguay,  <&c. — 
we  cannot  resist  the  conviction  "that  there  never  was  a  fouler  calumny  than 
that  which  attributes  to  Christianity  the  destruction  of  the  aboriginal  people 
of  the  New  World. 

The  Irish  Massacre. 

The  Irish  massacre,  in  1641,  was  the  result  of  national  much  more  than  of 
religious  animosities.  Oppressed  for  a  long  time  by  the  English,  robbed  of 
their  possessions,  thwarted  in  their  manners,  customs,  and  religion,  reduced 
almost  to  the  condition  of  slaves  by  haughty  and  tyrannical  masters,  the  Irish 
were  at  length  driven  to  despair,  and  resolved  upon  acts  of  vengeance.  They 
were  not,  however,  the  aggressors  in  this  horrible  tragedy;  they  were  objects  of 
violence  themselves  before  they  inflicted  it  upon  others.  Millon,  in  his  Re- 
cherches  sur  Vlrlande,  appended  to  his  translation  of  Arthur  Young,  mentions 
some  interesting  facts  which  it  may  be  useful  to  lay  before  the  reader. 

Some  of  the  Irish  having  ta^ken  up  arms  in  consequence  of  the  oppressive 
system  which  weighed  upon  their  unhappy  country,  a  military  force  was 
ordered  to  march  against  them  and  to  exterminate  them.  "'The  officers  and 
soldiers/  says  Castlehaven,  'without  discriminating  rebels  from  subjects, 
killed  indiscriminately  in  many  places  men,  women,  and  children;  which 
exasperated  the  rebels,  and  induced  them  to  commit  in  turn  the  same  cruelties 
upon  the  English.'  It  is  evident,  from  the  assertion  of  Lord  Castlehaven,  that 
the  English  were  the  aggressors  by  order  of  their  commanders,  and  that  the 
crime  of  the  Irish  was  their  having  followed  so  barbarous  an  example.' 

"'I  cannot  believe/  adds  Castlehaven,  'that  there  were  at  that  time  in  Ire 
land,  without  the  walls  of  the  towns,  a  tenth  part  of  the  British  subjects  whom 
Temple  and  others  mention  to  have  been  killed  by  the  Irish.  It  is  evident 
that  he  repeats  two  or  three  times,  in  different  places,  the  names  of  persons 
and  the  same  circumstances,  and  that  he  puts  down  some  hundreds  as  having 
been  massacred  at  that  time  who  lived  for  several  years  afterward.  It  is  there 
fore  right  that,  notwithstanding  the  unfounded  calumnies  which  some  have 
circulated  against  the  Irish,  I  should  do  justice  to  their  nation,  and  declare  that 
it  was  never  the  intention  of  their  chiefs  to  authorize  the  cruelties  which  were 
practised  among  them.' 

"  The  example  of  the  Scotch  in  a  great  degree  caused  the  Irish  Catholics  to 
rebel,  who  were  already  dissatisfied  at  seeing  themselves  on  the  eve  of  either 
renouncing  their  religion  or  quitting  their  country.  A  petition  to  this  effect, 
signed  by  many  thousand  Protestants  of  Ireland  and  presented  to  the  English 
parliament,  justified  their  fears.  It  had  been  already  boasted  of  in  public  that 
before  the  end  of  the  year  there  would  not  be  a  single  Papist  in. Ireland;  this 
produced  its  effect  in  England.  The  king  having  by  a  forced  condescension 
surrendered  his  Irish  affairs  to  the  parliament,  that  tribunal  made  an  ordinanco 
on  the  8th  December  which  promised  the  entire  extirpation  of  the  Irish.  It 
was  decreed  that  Popery  would  not  be  any  longer  suffered  in  either  Ireland  or 
any  other  of  his  majesty's  states.  This  parliament  likewise  granted,  in  Feb 

1  MacGeoghogan,  p.  574. 


NOTES.  757 


ruary  following,  to  English  adventurers,  in  consideration  of  a  certain  sura  of 
money,  two  millions  five  hundred  thousand  acres  of  profitable  lands  in  Ireland, 
without  including  bogs,  woods,  or  barren  mountains,  and  this  at  a  time  when 
the  number  of  landed  proprietors  implicated  in  the  insurrection  was  exceed 
ingly  small.  To  satisfy  the  engagements  entered  into  with  the  English,  as 
above,  many  honest  men  who  never  conspired  against  the  king  or  state  were  to 
be  dispossessed,  Ac. 

"The  Irish,  particularly  those  of  Ulster,  had  not  forgotten  the  unjust  con 
fiscation  of  MX  whole  counties  within  the  forty  years  immediately  preceding. 
They  looked  upon  the  new  possessors  as  unjust  possessors  of  the  property  of 
others,  and  .  .  .  the  grief  of  these  old  proprietors  was  changed  into  revenge; 
they  seized  upon  the  houses,  the  flocks,  and  the  furniture  of  the  new-comers, 
whose  fine  and  commodious  habitations,  erected  on  the  lands  of  the  Irish, 
were  destroyed  either  by  force  or  by  the  flames.1 

"Such  were  the  first  hostilities  committed  by  the  Irish  against  the  English. 
No  blood  had  yet  been  spilled.  The  English  wore  the  first  aggressors,  and, 
their  example  having  been  too  closely  followed  by  the  Catholics  of  Ulster,  the 
disorder  soon  became  general  throughout  the  kingdom.  It  was  a  national 
quarrel  between  the  Irish  Catholics  and  the  English  Protestants,  which  led, 
in  1641,  to  a  dreadful  scene  of  bloodshed.  MacGeoghegnn  asserts  that  six 
times  as  many  Catholics  as  Protestants  were  killed  on  this  occasion  : — 1.  Because 
the  former  were  scattered  through  the  country  and  consequently  more  exposed 
to  the  rage  of  a  licentious  soldiery,  while  the  latter  were  for  the  most  part 
entrenched  in  fortified  towns  and  castles,  which  protected  them  against  the 
violence  of  a  maddened  populace.  Those  who  resided  in  the  country  retired 
upon  the  first  alarm  to  the  cities  and  other  places  of  security,  where  they 
remained  during  the  war ;  some  passed  over  to  England  or  Scotland ;  so  that 
very  few  perished,  with  the  exception  of  those  who  had  been  overtaken  by  the 
first  fury  of  the  rebels.  The  country-people  were  put  to  the  sword  by  the 
English  soldiery  without  distinction  of  age  or  sex.  2.  The  number  of  Catho 
lics  who  suffered  death  from  the  Cromwellians  on  the  charge  of  participating 
in  the  massacre  was  so  small  that  they  could  not  have  possibly  put  to  death 
so  great  a  number  of  Protestants.2 

"  So  soon  as  the  war  had  ended,  courts  of  justice  were  held  to  convict  the 
murderers  of  the  Protestants.  The  whole  who  were  convicted  amounted  to  one 
hundred  and  forty  Catholics,  who  were  chiefly  of  the  lower  classes ;  though, 
their  enemies  being  the  judges,  witnesses  were  suborned  to  prosecute,  and 
several  among  those  found  guilty  declared  themselves  innocent  of  the  crimes 
for  which  they  were  sentenced  to  suffer.  If  similar  investigations  had  taken 
place  against  the  Protestants,  and  witnesses  from  among  the  Catholics  ad 
mitted  against  them,  nine  parliamentarians  out  of  every  ten  would  have 
been  inevitably  convicted  (before  a  fair  tribunal)  of  murder  upon  the 
Catholics."3 

Thus  do  we  find  that  those  sanguinary  results  which  have  been  charged 


•  MacGeogbeghan,  p.  575,  Ac.  *  Il.id.,  p.  576. 

•  Millou,  Reclierdiet  sur  VIrlande.    See  MacGeogheghan,  toe.  cit. 

64 


758  GENIUS    OF    CHRISTIANITY. 

upon  a  religion  of  peace  and  humanity  were  produced  by  the  passions  of  men, 
by  their  animosities  and  interests,  often  quite  foreign  to  the  question  of  reli 
gion.  What  would  philosophy  say  if  it  were  accused  nowadays  of  having 
erected  the  scaffolds  of  Robespierre?  Was  it  not  in  the  name  of  philosophy 
that  so  many  innocent  victims  were  slaughtered,  as  the  name  of  religion  has 
been  abused  for  the  perpetration  of  crime  ?  How  many  acts  of  cruelty  and  in 
tolerance  may  be  objected  to  those  very  Protestants  who  boast  of  being  alone 
in  practising  the  philosophy  of  Christianity  !  The  penal  statutes  against  the 
Irish  Catholics,  called  Laws  of  Discovery,  equal  in  oppression  and  surpass  in 
immorality  all  the  legislation  with  which  Catholic  countries  have  ever  been 
reproached.  By  these  laws, 

1.  All  Roman  Catholics  were  completely  disarmed. 

2.  They  were  declared  incompetent  to  acquire  lands. 

3.  Entails  were  made  void,  and  divided  equally  among  the  children. 

4.  If  a  child  abjured  the  Catholic  faith,  he  inherited  the  paternal  estate, 
though  the  youngest  of  the  family. 

5.  If  the  son  abjured  his  religion,  the  father  lost  all  control  over  his  pro 
perty,  receiving  only  a  pension  from  his  estate,  which  fell  to  the  son. 

6.  No  Catholic  could  take  a  lease  for  more  than  thirty-one  years. 

7.  Unless  two- thirds  of  the  yearly  value  were  reserved,  an  informant  could 
obtain  the  benefit  of  the  lease. 

8.  A  priest  who  celebrated  mass   was  transported,  and,  if  he  returned,  was 
hung. 

9.  If  a  Catholic  owned  a  horse  worth  over  five  pounds  sterling,  it  was  con 
fiscated  to  the  benefit  of  the  informer. 

10.  According  to  a  regulation  of  Lord  Hardwick,  Catholics  were  declared 
incapable  of  lending  money  on  mortgage.1 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  this  law  was  not  passed  till  five  or  six  years 
after  the  death  of  King  William,— that  is,  when  the  disturbances  in  Ireland 
had  ceased,  and  England  had  reached  its  climax  of  enlightenment,  civilization, 
and  prosperity.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  in  those  days  of  excitement, 
when  the  best  men  are  sometimes  led  too  far,  the  true  members  of  the  Catholic 
Church  approved  the  excesses  of  the  party  that  bore  their  name.  The  massacre 
of  St.  Bartholomew  was  a  subject  of  tears  even  at  the  Court  of  Medici  and  in 
the  chamber  of  Charles  IX. 

"  I  have  been  informed,"  says  Brantome,  "  that  at  the  massacre  of  St.  Bar 
tholomew,  Queen  Isabella,  not  being  aware  of  what  was  going  on,  retired  to 
her  chamber  as  usual,  and  heard  nothing  of  the  event  until  the  next  morning. 
On  learning  it,  she  exclaimed,  *  Alas !  is  my  husband  aware  of  this  ?' 
'  Yes,  madam/  it  was  answered  her,  '  he  directs  the  whole  affair !'  '  Oh ! 
how  is  that?'  she  rejoined.  'What  counsellors  could  have  inspired  him  with 
such  a  design  ?  0,  my  God,  I  beseech  thee  to  forgive  him ;  for,  if  thou  dost 
not  take  pity  on  him,  I  fear  much  that  this  error  will  not  be  pardoned  him ;' 
and,  immediately  taking  her  book  of  devotions,  she  began  to  pray  God  with 
tears  in  her  eyes."2 

1  Travels  of  Arthur  Young.  »  Memoires,  tome  ii. 


NOTES.  759 

NOTE  VV,  (p.  632.) 

"The  summit  of  Mount  St.  Gothard,"  says  Ramond,1  "is  a  granite  level, 
bare,  and  surrounded  with  rocks  of  moderate  height  and  very  irregular  form, 
which  bound  the  view  on  every  side  and  confine  it  within  the  most  frightful 
solitude.  Three  small  lakes,  and  the  gloomy  asylum  of  the  capuchin  monks, 
are  the  only  objects  that  break  the  monotony  of  this  desert  region,  which  pre 
sents  not  the  slightest  appearance  of  vegetation.  The  profound  silence  which 
reigns  there  is  something  new  and  surprising  to  those  who  come  from  the 
plains  below.  Not  the  least  murmur  is  to  be  heard  in  the  place.  The  wind  in 
its  course  meets  with  no  foliage;  but,  when  violent,  it  makes  a  plaintive  sound 
along  the  pointed  rocks.  In  vain  would  the  traveller  hope,  by  ascending  these 
cliffs,  to  obtain  a  view  of  some  inhabited  country.  Below  is  seen  but  a  confu 
sion  of  rocks  and  torrents,  while  in  the  distance  are  discerned  only  barren 
peaks  covered  with  eternal  snows,  piercing  the  clouds  which  float  over  the 
valleys  and  often  conceal  them  under  an  impenetrable  veil.  Nothing  beyond 
this  reaches  the  eye,  except  a  dark-blue  sky,  which,  sinking  far  below  the 
horizon,  completes  the  picture  on  all  sides,  and  appears  like  an  immense  sea 
enveloping  this  mass  of  mountains. 

"  The  poor  cnpuchins  who  reside  at  the  asylum  are  during  nine  months  of 
the  year  buried  under  the  snow,  which  often  accumulates,  in  one  night,  as 
high  as  the  roof  of  their  house  and  closes  every  entrance  into  the  convent. 
In  this  case,  they  form  an  egress  from  the  upper  windows,  which  serve  as  doors. 
It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  they  must  frequently  suffer  from  hunger  and  cold, 
and  that,  if  any  cenobites  are  entitled  to  assistance,  they  are  assuredly  of  the 
number."2 

Military  hospitals  trace  their  origin  to  the  Benedictine  monks.  Every  con 
vent  of  that  order  supported  a  veteran  soldier,  and  afforded  him  a  retreat  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life.  By  uniting  these  different  benefactions  in  one, 
Louis  XIV.  established  the  HGtel  den  f»valide8.3  Thus  has  the  religion  of 
peace  opened  an  asylum  also  for  our  old  warriors. 


NOTE  WW,  (p.  667.) 

It  is  very  difficult  to  present  an  exact  account  of  the  colleges  and  hospitals, 
owing  to  the  incompleteness  of  statistical  and  geographical  works.  Some  give 
the  population  of  a  state,  without  mentioning  the  number  of  cities;  others 
mention  the  number  of  parishes,  omitting  that  of  cities.  The  maps  are  covered 
with  the  names  of  towns,  castles,  and  villages.  The  histories  of  particular 
provinces  generally  disregard  statistical  information,  telling  us  only  of  the 
ancient  wars  of  barons  and  of  municipal  rights.  Ecclesiastical  historians,  also, 
are  too  circumscribed  in  their  subjects,  and  dwell  but  little  on  facts  of  a  geue- 

1  Traduct.  des  Luttres  de  Ooxe  sur  la  Suisse. 

•  Such  is  the  dictate  of  humanity,  which,  however,  seems  to  have  been  little  under* 
•tood  by  the  radical  government  of  Switzerland,  when,  a  few  years  ago,  it  robbed  the 
heroic  monks  of  Mount  St.  Bernard  of  their  revenues.  T. 

»  A  magnificent  institution,  among  the  principal  monuments  of  Paris,  where  veteian 
and  infirm  soldiers  are  provided  with  every  comfort.  Fee  Part  3,  b.  1,  ch.  6.  T. 


760  GENIUS   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

ral  interest.     The  following  are  the  results  which  we  have  been  able  to  gathei 
from  our  imperfect  sources  of  information  : — * 


Extract  from  the  Ecclesiastical  portion  of  M.  de  Beaufort's  Statistics. 

France.— 18  archbishoprics,  117  bishoprics,   34,498  parishes,  366,000  eccle 
siastics,  36  academies,  24  universities. 

Austria,  (Hered.) — 3  archbishoprics,    15  bishoprics,    6  universities,    6  col- 
leges. 

Tuscany. — 3  archbishoprics,  2  bishoprics,  2  universities. 

Russia. — 30  archbishoprics  and  bishoprics,  (Greek,)   18,319  parishes,   68,000 
ecclesiastics,  4  universities. 

Spain. — 8    archbishoprics,     51    bishoprics,    19,683    parishes,     27    univer 
sities. 

England. — 2  archbishoprics,  25  bishoprics,  9684  parishes. 

Ireland. — 4  archbishoprics,  19  bishoprics,  2293  parishes. 

Scotland. — 13  synods,  98  presbyteries,  938  parishes,  4  universities. 

Prussia. — 1  Catholic  bishop,  6  universities. 

Portugal. — 1  patriarch,     5  archbishoprics,    19    bishoprics,    3343   parishes, 
2  universities! 

Naples. — 23  archbishoprics,   145  bishoprics,  1  university,  and  several  col 
leges. 

Sicily. — 3  archbishoprics,  10  bishoprics,  4  universities. 

Sardinia. — 3  archbishoprics,  26  bishoprics,  3  universities. 

Papal  States. — 3   archbishoprics,  5  bishoprics,  8  universities,  ana  several 
colleges. 

Sweden. — 1    archbishopric,    14  bishoprics,    2538  parishes,    3   universities, 
10  colleges. 

Denmark. — 12  bishoprics,  2  universities. 

Poland. — 2  archbishoprics,  6  bishoprics,  4  universities. 

Venice. — 1  patriarch,  4  archbishoprics,  31  bishoprics,  1  university. 

Holland. — 6  universities. 

Switzerland. — 4  bishoprics,  1  university. 

Palatinate  of  Bavaria. — 1  archbishopric,  4  bishoprics,  2  universities,  1  aca 
demy  of  sciences. 

Saxony. — 3  universities,  5  presbyterian  colleges,  1  academy  of  sciences. 

Hanover. — 750  parishes,  1  university. 

Wirtemberg. — Lutheran  Consistory,    14  abbeys,    1  university,  and   several 
colleges* 

Hesse-Cassel. — 2  universities,  1  academy  of  sciences. 

The  word  college  in  this  enumeration  is  used  in  rather  a  vague  sense. 


i  The  statistics  here  given  are  far  from  being  correct  at  the  present  day ;  but  the  vast 
increase  which  has  taken  place  in  the  number  of  educational  and  charitable  institutions 
»on  iborates  the  remarks  of  the  author.  T. 


NOTES.  761 

From  the  work  of  Helyot  we  have  collected  the  following  summary  of  the 
principal  hospitals  in  Europe  :  — 

Religious  of  S  .  Anthony  Viennoit. 

In  France  ......................................................................... 

Italy  ................................................................................ 

Germany  .............................  ••  ............................................       4 

Hospitals  unknown 

Canoni.  Regular,  of  Roncevaux. 

Roncevaux  ............................................................    .......... 

Ostie  ...................  ..........................................................         ! 

Several  unknown. 

Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 


Rome 


2 
Bergerac  ...............  ........................................................... 

Troycs  ..............................................................................       1 

Several  unknown.  ^ 

Religious  called  Porte-Croix,  Monasteries  with  Hospitals. 

Italy  ................................................................................   20° 

France  ..............................................................................       7 

Germany  .......................................................................... 

Bohemia  ...........................................................................     1& 

Canons  and  Canonesses  of  St.  James-of-  the-  Sword. 

Spain  ..............................................................................     20 

Religious    Women,  Hospitalers  of  the  Order  of  St.  Augustin. 

HOtel-Dieu,  at  Paris  ............................................................       J 


Saint- Louis.. 


Moulins 

Brothers  of  Charity  of  St.  John-of-God. 

Spain  and  Italy 1S 

France 24 

Religious  Women,  Hospitalers  of  Charity  of  Our  Lady. 

France 12 

Religious  Women,  Hospitalers  of  Loche. 

France 18 

Italy 12 

Religious  Women,  Hospitalers  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem. 

France 

369 
64* 


762  GENIUS   OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

Brought  forward 358 

Daughters  of  Charity,  founded  by  St.  Vincent  of  Paul. 

France,  Poland,  and  the  Netherlands , 286 

Sisters  Hospitalers  of  St.  Martha. 

France : 4 

Canonesses  Hospitalers. 

France 2 

Fillee-Dieu 2 

Sisters  Hospitalers. 

France 9 

Third  Order  of  St.  Francis. 

France 5 

Gray  Sisters * 23 

Brugelettes  and  Brothers  Infirmarians. 

Spain,  Portugal,  and  Flanders 14 

Sisters  Hospitalers  of  St.  Thomas  of  Villanova. 

France 14 

Sisters  of  St.  Joseph. 

France 3 

Sisters  of  Miramion. 

Paris 3 

Total  of  principal  hospitals 729 

It  is  obvious  that  Helyot  refers  only  to  the  principal  establishments  served 
by  the  different  religious  orders,  as  no  capital  city  is  mentioned  in  this  enume 
ration,  except  Paris,  though  it  is  certain  that  others  contain  from  twenty  to 
thirty  hospitals.  These  central  houses  have  their  branches,  which  are  indi 
cated  in  most  authors  only  by  etceteras. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  state  with  certainty  the  number  of  colleges  in 
Europe,  as  they  are  not  mentioned  by  writers.  We  may  observe  that  the  reli 
gious  of  St.  Basil,  in  Spain,  have  at  least  four  in  each  province, — that  all  the 
Benedictine  congregations  applied  themselves  to  the  instruction  of  youth, — 
that  the  Jesuit  provinces  embraced  all  Europe, — that  the  universities  had  a 
great  number  of  schools  and  colleges  dependent  on  them, — and  that  we  have 
undoubtedly  made  a  very  low  estimate  in  computing  the  number  of  scholars 
under  Christian  instruction  at  three  hundred  thousand. 


NOTES. 


763 


By  an  examination  of  the  different  geographies,  particularly  that  of  Guthrie, 
we  reckon  the  number  of  cities  in  Europe  at  3294,  assigning  one  hospital  to 
each:— 

Cities. 
,     20 


Norway , 

Denmark 31 

Sweden 75 

Russia 83 

Scotland 103 

England 552 

Ireland 39 

Spain 208 

Portugal 51 

Piedmont 37 

Italian  Republic 43 

San  Marino 1 

Venetian  States  and  Parma....     23 

Ligurian  Republic 15 

Republic  of. 2 


Cities. 

Tuscany 22 

Papal  States 36 

Naples 60 

Sicily 17 

Corsica  and  other  islands 21 

France,  with  its  new  territory..  960 

Prussia 30 

Poland 40 

Hungary 67 

Transylvania 8 

Gallicia 16 

Swiss  Republic 91 

Germany 643 


Total. 


3294 


THE 


A 


26280