Chapter XXI
OF THE INDIVIDUAL--OF THE FEELING OF INDIVIDUAL INDEPENDENCE ACCORDING TO M. GUIZOT.
THE individual is the first and simplest element of society. If the individual is not well constituted, if he is ill understood and ill appreciated, there will always be an obstacle to the progress of real civilization. First of all, we must observe, that we speak here only of the individual, of man as he is in himself, apart from the numerous relations which surround him when we come to consider him as a member of society. But let it not be imagined from this, that I wish to consider him in a state of absolute isolation, to carry him to the desert, to reduce him to the savage state, and analyze the individuality as it appears to us in a few wandering hordes, a monstrous exception, which is only the result of the degradation of our nature. Equally useless would it be to revive the theory of Rousseau, that pure Utopianism which can only lead to error and extravagance. We may separately examine the pieces of a machine, for the better understanding of its particular construction; but we must take care not to forget the purpose for which they are intended, and not lose sight of the whole, of which they form a part. Without that, the judgment we should form of them would certainly be erroneous. The most wonderful and sublime picture would be only a ridiculous monstrosity, if its groups and figures were considered in a state of isolation from its other parts; in this way, the prodigies of Michael Angelo and Raffael might be taken for the dreams of a madman. Man is not alone in the world, nor is he born to live alone. Besides what is he in himself, he is a part of the great scheme of the Universe. Besides the destiny which belongs to him in the vast plan of creation, he is raised, by the bounty of his Maker, to another sphere, above all earthly thoughts. Good philosophy requires that we should forget nothing of all this. It now remains for us to consider the individual and individuality.
In considering man, we may abstract from his quality of citizen,--an abstraction which, far from leading to any extravagant paradoxes, is likely to make us thoroughly understand a remarkable peculiarity of European civilization, one of the distinctive characteristics, which will be alone sufficient to enable us to avoid confounding it with others. All will readily understand that there is a distinction to be made between the man and the citizen, and that these two aspects lead to very different considerations; but it is more difficult to say how far the limits of this distinction should extend; to what extent the feeling of independence should be admitted; what is the sphere which ought to be assigned to purely individual development; in fine, whatever is peculiar to our civilization on this point. We must justly estimate the difference which we find herein between our state of society and that of others; we must point out its source, and its result; we must carefully weigh its real influence on the advance of civilization. This task is difficult; I repeat it,--for we have here various questions, great and important, it is true, but delicate and profound, and very easily mistaken,--it is not without much trouble that we can fix our eyes with certainty on these vague, indeterminate, and floating objects, which are connected together by no perceptible ties.
We here meet with the famous personal independence, which, according to M. Guizot, was brought by the barbarians from the North, and played so important a part, that we ought to look upon it as one of the chief and most productive principles of European civilization. This celebrated publicist, analyzing the elements of this civilization, and pointing out the share which the Roman empire and the Church had therein, in his opinion, finds a remarkable principle of productiveness in the feeling of individuality, which the Germans brought with them, and inoculated into the manners of Europe. It will not be useless to discuss the opinion of M. Guizot on this important and delicate matter. By thus explaining the state of the question, we shall remove the important errors of some persons, errors produced by the authority of this writer, whose talent and eloquence have unfortunately given plausibility and semblance of truth to what is in reality only a paradox. The first care we ought to take, in combating the opinions of this writer, is not to attribute to him what he has not really said; besides, as the matter we are treating of is liable to many mistakes, we shall do well to transcribe the words of M. Guizot at length. "What we require to know," he says, "is the general condition of society among the barbarians. Now it is very difficult, now-a-days, to give an account of it. We can understand, without too much trouble, the municipal system of Rome, and the Christian Church; their influence has continued down to our times; we find traces of them in many institutions and existing facts. We have a thousand means of recognising and explaining them. The manners, the social condition of the barbarians, have entirely perished; we are compelled to divine them, by the most ancient historical documents, or by an effort of imagination."
What has been preserved to us of the manners of the barbarians is, indeed, little; this is an assertion which I will not deny. I will not dispute with M. Guizot about the authority which ought to belong to facts which require to be filled up by an effort of the imagination, and which compel us to have recourse to the dangerous expedient of divining. As for the rest, I am aware of the nature of these questions; and the reflections which I have just made, as well as the terms which I have used, prove that I do not think it possible to proceed with rule and compass in such an examination. Nevertheless, I have thought it proper to warn the reader on this point, and combat the delusion into which he might be led by a doctrine which, when fully examined, is, I repeat it, only a brilliant paradox. "There is a feeling, a fact," continues M. Guizot, "which it is above all necessary to understand well, in order to represent to ourselves with truth what a barbarian was: this is, the pleasure of individual independence--the pleasure of playing amid the chances of the world and of life, with power and liberty; the joys of activity without labor; the taste for an adventurous destiny, full of surprises, vicissitudes, and perils. Such was the ruling feeling of the barbarian state, the moral necessity which put these masses of men in motion. To-day, in the regular society in which we live, it is difficult to represent to one's self this feeling, with all the influence which it exercised over the barbarians of the fourth and fifth centuries. There is only one work, in my opinion, in which this character of barbarism is described with all its force, viz. The History of the Conquest of England by the Normans, of M. Thierry--the only book where the motives, the inclinations, the impulses which actuate man in a social state bordering on barbarism, are felt and described with a truth really Homeric. Nowhere do we see so clearly what a barbarian was, and what was his life. We also find something of this, although in a very inferior degree, in my opinion, in a manner much less simple, much less true, in the romances of Mr. Cooper on the American savages. There is in the life of the savages of America, in the relations and feelings which exist in those forests, something which reminds one, to a certain extent, of the manners of the ancient Germans. No doubt these pictures are a little ideal, a little poetical; the unfavorable side of barbarian life and manners is not displayed in all its crudity. I do not speak merely of the evils which these manners produce in the individual social condition of the barbarian himself. In this passionate love of personal independence, there was something more rude and coarse than one would imagine from the work of M. Thierry; there was a degree of brutality, of indolence, of apathy, which is not always faithfully described in his pictures. Nevertheless, when one examines the thing to the bottom, in spite of brutality, coarseness, and this stupid egotism, the taste for individual independence is a noble moral feeling, which draws its power from the moral nature of man: it is the pleasure of feeling himself a man--the sentiment of personality, of spontaneous action in his free development. Gentlemen, it was by the German barbarians that this feeling was introduced into the civilization of Europe; it was unknown to the Roman world, unknown to the Christian Church, unknown to almost all the ancient civilizations:--when you find liberty in the ancient civilizations, it is political liberty, the liberty of the citizen. It is not with his personal liberty that the man is prepossessed, but with his liberty as a citizen. He belongs to an association--he is devoted to an association--he is ready to sacrifice himself for an association. It was the same with the Christian Church: there prevailed a feeling of great attachment to the Christian corporation--of devotion to its laws--a strong desire of extending its empire; the religious feeling produced a reaction on the man himself--on his soul--an internal struggle to subdue his own will, and make it submit to the demands of his faith. But the feeling of personal independence, the taste for liberty showing itself at any hazard, with hardly any other object than its own satisfaction--this feeling, I repeat, was unknown to the Roman and Christian society. It was brought in by the barbarians, and placed in the cradle of modern civilization. It has played so great a part, it has produced such noble results, that it is impossible not to bring it to light as one of the fundamental elements thereof." (Histoire Générale de la Civilisation en Europe, leçon 2.) This feeling of personal independence, exclusively attributed to a nation--this vague, undefinable feeling--a singular mixture of nobleness and brutality, of barbarism and civilization--is in some degree poetical, and is very likely to seduce the fancy; but, unfortunately, there is in the contrast, intended to increase the effect of the picture, something extraordinary, I will even say contradictory, which excites the suspicion of cool reason that there is some hidden error which compels it to be on its guard. If it be true that this phenomenon ever existed, what was its origin? Will it be said that it was the result of climate? But how can it be imagined that the snows of the north protected what was not found in the ardent south? How comes it that the feeling of personal independence was wanting precisely in those southern countries of Europe, where the feeling of political independence was developed with so much force? and would it not be a strange thing, not to say an absurdity, if these different climates had divided these two kinds of liberty between them, like an inheritance? It will be said, perhaps, that this feeling arose from the social state. But in that case, it cannot be made the characteristic mark of one nation: it must be said, in general terms, that the feeling belonged to all the nations who were in the same social condition as the Germans. Besides, even according to this hypothesis, how could that which was peculiar to barbarism have been a germ, a fruitful principle of civilization? This feeling, which must have been effaced by civilization, could not even preserve itself in the midst thereof, much less contribute to its development. If its perpetuation in some form was absolutely necessary, why did not the same thing take place in the bosom of other civilizations? Surely the Germans were not the only people who passed from barbarism to civilization. But I do not pretend to say that the barbarians of the north did not present some remarkable peculiarity in this point of view; and I do not deny that we find in European civilization a feeling of personality, if I may so speak, unknown to other civilizations. But what I venture to affirm is, that it is little philosophical to have recourse to mysteries and enigmas to explain the individuality of the Germans, and that it is useless to seek in their barbarism the cause of the superiority which European civilization possesses in this respect. To form a clear idea of this question, which is as complicated as it is important, it is first of all necessary to specify, in the best way we can, the real nature of the barbarian individuality. In a pamphlet which I published some time ago, called Observations Sociales, Politiques, et Economiques, sur les Biens du Clergé, I have incidentally touched upon this individuality, and attempted to give clear ideas on this point. As I have not changed my opinion since that time, but, on the contrary, as it has been confirmed, I will transcribe what I then said, as follows: "What was this feeling? Was it peculiar to those nations? Was it the result of the influence of climate, of a social position? Was it perchance a feeling formed in all places and at all times, but which is here modified by particular circumstances? What was its force, its tendency? How far was it just or unjust, noble or degrading, profitable or injurious? What benefits did it confer on society; what evils? How were these evils combated, by whom, by what means, and with what result? These questions are numerous, but they are not so complicated as they appear at first sight; when once the fundamental idea shall be cleared up, the others will be understood without difficulty, and the theory, when simplified, will immediately be confirmed and supported by history. There is a strong, active, an indestructible feeling in the human heart which urges men to self-preservation, to avoid evils, and to attain to their well-being and happiness. Whether you call it self-love, instinct of preservation, desire of happiness or of perfection, egotism, individuality, or whatever name you give to it, this feeling exists; we have it within us. We cannot doubt of its existence; it accompanies us at every step, in all our actions, from the time when we first see the light till we descend into the tomb. This feeling, if you will observe its origin, its nature, and its object, is nothing but a great law of all beings applied to man; a law which, being a guarantee for the preservation and perfecting of individuals, admirably contributes to the harmony of the universe. It is clear that such a feeling must naturally incline us to hate oppression, and to suffer with impatience what tends to limit and fetter the use of our faculties. The cause is easily found; all this gives us uneasiness, to which our nature is repugnant; even the tenderest infant bears with impatience the tie that fastens him in his cradle; he is uneasy, he is disturbed, he cries.
"On the other hand, the individual, when he is not totally devoid of knowledge of himself, when his intellectual faculties are at all developed, will feel another sentiment arise in his mind which has nothing in common with the instinct of self-preservation with which all beings are animated, a sentiment which belongs exclusively to intelligence; I mean, the feeling of dignity, of value of ourselves, of that fire which, enkindled in our hearts in our earliest years, is nourished, extended, and supported by the aliment afforded to it by time, and acquires that immense power, that expansion which makes us so restless, active, and agitated during all periods of our life. The subjection of one man to another wounds this feeling of dignity; for even supposing it to be reconciled with all possible freedom and mildness, with the most perfect respect for the person subjected, this subjection reveals a weakness or a necessity which compels him in some degree to limit the free use of his faculties. Such is the second origin of the feeling of personal independence. It follows from what I have just said, that man always bears within himself a certain love of independence, that this feeling is necessarily common to all times and countries, for we have found its roots in the two most natural feelings of man--viz. the desire of well-being and the consciousness of his own dignity. It is evident that these feelings may be modified and varied indefinitely, on account of the infinity of situations in which the individual may be placed, morally and physically. Without leaving the sphere which is marked out for them by their very essence, these feelings may vary as to strength or weakness on the most extensive scale; they may be moral or immoral, just or unjust, noble or vile, advantageous or injurious. Consequently they may contribute to the individual the greatest variety of inclinations, of habits, of manners; and thereby give very different features to the physiognomy of nations, according to the particular and characteristic manner in which they affect the individual. These notions being once cleared up by a real knowledge of the constitution of the heart of man, we see how all questions which relate to the feeling of individuality must be resolved; we also see that it is useless to have recourse to mysterious language or poetical explanations, for in all this there is nothing that can be submitted to a rigorous analysis. The ideas which man forms of his own well-being and dignity, the means which he employs to promote the one and preserve the other, these are what will settle the degrees of energy, will determine the nature and signalize the tendency of all these feelings; that is to say, all will depend on the physical and moral state of society and the individual. Now, supposing all other circumstances to be equal, give a man true ideas of his own well-being and dignity, such as reason and above all the Christian religion teach, and you will form a good citizen; give false, exaggerated, absurd ideas, such as are entertained by perverted schools and promulgated by agitators at all times and in all countries, and you spread the fruitful seeds of disturbance and disorder.
"In order to complete the clearing up of the important point which we have undertaken to explain, we must apply this doctrine to the particular fact which now occupies us. If we fix our attention on the nations who invaded and overturned the Roman empire, confining ourselves to the facts which history has preserved of them, to the conjectures which are authorized by the circumstances in which they were placed, and to the general data which modern science has been able to collect from the immediate observation of the different tribes of America, we shall be able to form an idea of what was the state of society and of the individual among the invading barbarians. In their native countries, among their mountains, in their forests covered with frost and snow, they had their family ties, their relationships, their religion, traditions, customs, manners, attachment to their hereditary soil, their love of national independence, their enthusiasm for the great deeds of their ancestors, and for the glory acquired in battle; in fine, their desire of perpetuating in their children a race strong, valiant, and free; they had their distinctions of family, their division into tribes, their priests, chiefs, and government. Without discussing the character of their forms of government, and laying aside all that might be said of their monarchy, their public assemblies, and other similar points, questions which are foreign to our subject, and which besides are always in some degree hypothetical and imaginary, I shall content myself with making a remark which none of my readers will deny, viz. that among them the organization of society was such as might have been expected from rude and superstitious ideas, gross habits, and ferocious manners; that is to say, that their social condition did not rise above the level which had naturally been marked out for it by two imperious necessities: first, that complete anarchy should not prevail in their forests; and second, that in war they should have some one to lead their confused hordes. Born in rigorous climates, crowding on each other by their rapid increase, and on that account obtaining with difficulty even the means of subsistence, these nations saw before their eyes the abundance and the luxuries of ample and well-cultivated regions; they were at the same time urged on by extreme want, and strongly excited by the presence of plunder. There was nothing to oppose them but the feeble legions of an effeminate and decaying civilization; their own bodies were strong, their minds full of courage and audacity; their numbers augmented their boldness; they left their native soil without pain; a spirit of adventure and enterprise developed itself in their minds, and they threw themselves on the Empire like a torrent which falls from the mountains, and inundates the neighboring plains. However imperfect was their social condition, and however rude were its ties, it sufficed, nevertheless, in their native soil, and amid their ancient manners; if the barbarians had remained in their forests, it may be said that that form of government, which answered its purpose in its way, would have been perpetuated; for it was born of necessity, it was adapted to circumstances, it was rooted in their habits, sanctioned by time, and connected with traditions and recollections of every kind. But these ties were too weak to be transported without being broken. These forms of government were, as we have just seen, so suited to the state of barbarism, and consequently so circumscribed and limited, that they could not be applied without difficulty to the new situation in which these nations found themselves almost suddenly placed. Let us imagine these savage children of the forest precipitated on the south; their fierce chiefs precede them, and they are followed by crowds of women and children; they take with them their flocks and rude baggage; they cut to pieces numerous legions on their way; they form intrenchments, cross ditches, scale ramparts, ravage the country, destroy forests, burn populous cities, and take with them immense numbers of slaves captured on the way. They overturn every thing that opposes their fury, and drive before them multitudes who flee to avoid fire and sword. In a short time see these same men, elated with victory, enriched by immense booty, inured by so many battles, fires, sackings, and massacres, transported, as if by enchantment, into a new climate, under another sky, and swimming in abundance, in pleasure, in new enjoyments of every kind. A confused mixture of idolatry and Christianity, of truth and falsehood, is become their religion; their principal chiefs are dead in battle; families are confounded in disorder, races mixed, old manners and customs altered and lost. These nations, in fine, are spread over immense countries, in the midst of other nations, differing in language, ideas, manners, and usages; imagine, if you can, this disorder, this confusion, this chaos, and tell me whether the ties which formed the society of these nations are not destroyed and broken into a thousand pieces, and whether you do not see barbarian and civilized society disappear together, and all antiquity vanish without any thing new taking its place? And at this moment, fix your eyes upon the gloomy child of the North, when he feels all the ties that bound him to society suddenly loosened, when all the chains that restrained his ferocity break; when he finds himself alone, isolated, in a position so new, so singular, so extraordinary, with an obscure recollection of his late country and without affection for that which he has just occupied; without respect for law, fear of man, or attachment to custom. Do you not see him, in his impetuous ferocity, indulge without limit his habits of violence, wandering, plunder, and massacre? He confides in his strong arm and activity of foot, and led by a heart full of fire and courage, by an imagination excited by the view of so many different countries and by the hazards of so many travels and combats, he rashly undertakes all enterprises, rejects all subjection, throws off all restraint, and delights in the dangers of fresh struggles and adventures. Do you not find here the mysterious individuality, the feeling of personal independence, in all its philosophical reality and all the truth which is assigned to it by history? This brutal individuality, this fierce feeling of independence, which was not reconcileable with the well-being or with the true dignity of the individual, contained a principle of eternal war and a continually wandering mode of life, and must necessarily produce the degradation of man and the complete dissolution of society. Far from containing the germ of civilization, it was this that was best adapted to reduce Europe to the savage state; it stifled society in its cradle; it destroyed every attempt made to reorganize it, and completed the annihilation of all that remained of the ancient civilization."
The observations which have just been made may be more or less well founded, more or less happy, but at least they do not present the inexplicable inconsistency, not to say contradiction, of allying barbarism and brutality with civilization and refinement; they do not give the name of an eminent and fruitful principle of European civilization to that which a little further on is pointed out as one of the strongest obstacles to the progress of social organization. As M. Guizot, on this last point, agrees with the opinion which I have just stated, and shows the incoherence of his own doctrines, the reader will allow me to quote his own words. "It is clear," he says, "that if men have no ideas extending beyond their own existence, if their intellectual horizon is limited to themselves, if they give themselves up to the caprices of their own passions and wills, if they have not among them a certain number of common notions and feelings, around which they rally; it is clear, I say, that no society can be possible among them; that such individual, when he enters into any association, will be a principle of disturbance and dissolution. Whenever individuality almost absolutely prevails, or man only considers himself, or his ideas do not extend beyond himself, or he obeys only his own passions, society, I mean one with any thing of extent or permanency, becomes almost impossible. Now such was the moral condition of the conquerors of Europe at the period of which we speak. I have pointed out, in the last lecture, that we owe the energetic feeling of individual liberty and humanity to the Germans. Now, in a state of extreme rudeness and ignorance, this feeling is egotism in all its brutality, in all its unsociability. From the fifth to the eighth century, such was the case among the Germans. They consulted only their own interests, their own passions, their own wills; how could this accord with the social state? It was attempted to make them enter it; they attempted it themselves; they soon left it from some sudden act, some sally of passion or misunderstanding. Every moment we see society attempted to be formed; every moment we see it broken by the act of man, by the want of the moral conditions necessary for its subsistence. Such, gentlemen, were the two prevailing causes of the state of barbarism. As long as they lasted, barbarism continued." (Histoire Générale de la Civilisation en Europe, leçon 3.)
With respect to his theory of individuality, M. Guizot has met with the common fate of men of great talents. They are forcibly struck by a singular phenomenon, they conceive an ardent desire of finding its cause, and they fall into frequent errors, led away by a secret tendency always to point out a new, unexpected, astonishing origin. In his vast and penetrating view of European civilization, in his parallel between this and the most distinguished ones of antiquity, he discovered a very remarkable difference between the individuals of the former and of the latter. He saw in the man of modern Europe, something nobler, more independent than in the Greek or Roman; it was necessary to point out the origin of this difference. Now this was not an easy task, considering the peculiar situation in which the philosophical historian found himself. From the first glance which he took at the elements of European civilization, the Church presented herself to him as one of the most powerful and the most influential agents on the organization of society; and he saw issue from her the impulse which was most capable of leading the world to a great and happy future. He had already expressly acknowledged this, and had paid homage to the truth in magnificent language; in order to explain this phenomenon, should he again have recourse to Christianity, to the Church? This would have been conceding to her the whole of the great work of civilization; and M. Guizot was desirous, at all hazards, of giving her coadjutors. Therefore, fixing his eyes upon the barbarian hordes, he expects to discover in the swarthy brows, the savage countenances, and the menacing looks of these children of the forest, a type, somewhat rude but still very just, of the noble independence, the elevation, and dignity which the European bears in his features.
After having explained the mysterious personality of the Germans, and shown that, far from being an element of civilization, it was a source of disorder and barbarism; it is besides necessary to examine the difference which exists between the civilization of Europe and other civilizations, with respect to the feeling of dignity; it is necessary to determine with precision what modifications have been undergone by a feeling, which, considered by itself, is, as we have seen, common to all men. In the first place, there is no foundation for this assertion of M. Guizot, that the feeling of personal independence, the taste for liberty, displaying itself at all hazards, with scarcely any other object than its own satisfaction, was unknown to Roman society. It is clear that in such a comparison, it is not meant to allude to the feeling of independence in the savage state, in the state of barbarism; for as well might it be said that civilized nations could not have the distinctive character of barbarism. But laying aside that circumstance of ferocity, we will say that the feeling was very active, not only among the Romans, but also among the other most celebrated nations of antiquity. "When you find in ancient civilization," says M. Guizot, "liberty, it is political liberty, the liberty of the citizen. It is not with his personal liberty that the man is prepossessed, it is with his liberty as a citizen; he belongs to an association, he is devoted to an association, he is ready to sacrifice himself for an association." I will not deny that this spirit of sacrifice for the benefit of an association did exist among ancient nations; I acknowledge also that it was accompanied by remarkable peculiarities, which I intend to explain further on; yet it may be doubted whether the taste for liberty, with scarcely any other object than its own satisfaction, was not more active with ancient nations than with us. Indeed, what was the object of the Phœnicians, the Greeks of the Archipelago and of Asia Minor, the Carthaginians, when they undertook those voyages which, for such remote times, were as bold and perilous as those of our most intrepid sailors? Was it, indeed, to sacrifice themselves for an association that they sought new territories with so much ardour, in order to amass there money, gold, and all kinds of articles of value? Were they not led by the desire of acquiring to gratify themselves? Where, then, is the association? Where do you find it here? Do you see any thing but the individual, with his passions and tastes, and his ardour in satisfying them? And the Greeks--those Greeks so enervated, so voluptuous, so spoiled by pleasures, had they not the most lively feeling of personal independence, the most ardent desire of living with perfect freedom, with no other object but to gratify themselves? Their poets singing of nectar and of love; their free courtesans receiving the homage of the most illustrious citizens, and making sages forget their philosophical moderation and gravity; and the people celebrating their festivals amid the most fearful dissoluteness; did they also only sacrifice on the altars of association? Had they not the desire of gratifying themselves? With respect to the Romans, perhaps it would not be so easy to demonstrate this, if we had to speak of what are called the glorious times of the Republic; but we have to deal with the Romans of the empire, with those who lived at the time of the irruption of the barbarians; with those Romans, greedy of pleasures, and devoured by that thirst for excess of which history has preserved such shameful pictures. Their superb palaces, their magnificent villas, their delicious baths, their splendid festive halls, their tables loaded with riches, their effeminate dresses, their voluptuous dissipation; do they not show us individuals who, without thinking of the association to which they belonged, only thought of gratifying their own passions and caprices; lived in the greatest luxury, with every delicacy and all imaginable splendour; had no care but to enjoy society, to lull themselves asleep in pleasure, to gratify all their passions, and give way to a burning love of their own satisfactions and amusements?
It is not easy, then, to imagine why M. Guizot exclusively attributes to the barbarians the pleasure of feeling themselves men, the feeling of personality, of human spontaneousness in its free development. Can we believe that such sentiments were unknown to the victors of Marathon and Platæa, to those nations who have immortalized their names by so many monuments? When, in the fine arts, in the sciences, in eloquence, in poetry, the noblest traits of genius shone forth on all sides, had they not among them the pleasure of feeling themselves men, the feeling and the power of the free development of all their faculties? and in a society where glory was so passionately loved, as we see it was among the Romans, in a society which shows us men like Cicero and Virgil, and which produced a Tacitus, who still, after nineteen centuries, makes every generous heart thrill with emotion, was there no pleasure in feeling themselves men, no pride in appreciating their own dignity? Was there no feeling of the spontaneousness of man in his own free development? How can we imagine that the barbarians of the north surpassed the Greeks and Romans in this respect? Why, then, these paradoxes, this confusion of ideas? Of what avail are these brilliant expressions meaning nothing? Of what use are these observations, of a false delicacy, where the mind at first sight discovers vagueness and inexactitude; and where it finds, after a complete examination, nothing but incoherency and revery?
XXII. HOW THE INDIVIDUAL WAS ABSORBED BY ANCIENT SOCIETY
IF we profoundly study this question, without suffering ourselves to be led into error and extravagance, by the desire of passing for deep observers; if we call to our aid a just and cool philosophy, supported by the facts of history, we shall see that the principal difference between the ancient civilizations and our own with respect to the individual is, that, in antiquity, man, considered as man, was not properly esteemed. Ancient nations did not want either the feeling of personal independence, or the pleasure of feeling themselves men; the fault was not in the heart, but in the head. What they wanted was the comprehension of the dignity of man; the high idea which Christianity has given us of ourselves, while, at the same time, with admirable wisdom, it has shown us our infirmities. What ancient societies wanted, what all those, where Christianity does not prevail, have wanted, and will continue to want, is the respect and the consideration which surround every individual, every man, inasmuch as he is a man. Among the Greeks the Greeks are every thing; strangers, barbarians, are nothing: in Rome, the title of Roman citizen makes the man; he who wants this is nothing. In Christian countries, the infant who is born deformed, or deprived of some member, excites compassion, and becomes an object of the tenderest solicitude; it is enough that he is man, and unfortunate. Among the ancients, this human being was regarded as useless and contemptible; in certain cities, as for example at Lacedæmon, it was forbidden to nourish him, and, by command of the magistrates charged with the regulation of births, horrible to relate! he was thrown into a ditch. He was a human being; but what matter? He was a human being who would be of no use; and society, without compassion, did not wish to undertake the charge of his support. If you read Plato and Aristotle, you will see the horrible doctrine which they professed on the subject of abortion and infanticide; you will see the means which these philosophers imagined, in order to prevent the excess of population; and you will be sensible of the immense progress which society has made, under the influence of Christianity, in all that relates to man. Are not the public games, those horrible scenes where hundreds of men were slaughtered to amuse an inhuman multitude, an eloquent testimony to the little value attached to man, when he was sacrificed with so much barbarism for reasons so frivolous?
The right of the strongest was exercised among the ancients in a horrible manner; and this is one of the causes to which must be attributed the state of annihilation, so to speak, in which we see the individual with respect to society. Society was strong, the individual was weak; society absorbed the individual, and arrogated to itself all imaginable rights over him; and if ever he made opposition to society, he was sure to be crushed by it with an iron hand. When we read the explanation which M. Guizot gives us of this peculiarity of ancient civilizations, we might suppose that there existed among them a patriotism unknown to us; a patriotism which, carried to exaggeration, and stripped of the feeling of personal independence, produced a kind of annihilation of the individual in presence of society. If he had reflected deeply on the matter, M. Guizot would have seen that the difference is not in the feelings of antiquity, but in the immense fundamental revolution which has taken place in ideas; hence he would easily have concluded, that the difference observed in their feelings must have been owing to the differences in the ideas themselves. Indeed, it is not strange that the individual, seeing the little esteem in which he was held, and the unlimited power which society arrogated to itself over his independence and his life, (for it went so far as to grind him to powder, when he opposed it,) on his side formed an exaggerated idea of society and the public authority, so as to annihilate himself in his own heart before this fearful colossus. Far from considering himself as a member of an association the object of which was the safety and happiness of every individual, the benefits of which required from him some sacrifices in return, he regarded himself as a thing devoted to this association, and compelled, without hesitation, to offer himself as a holocaust on its altars. Such is the condition of man; when a power acts upon him, for a long time, unlimitedly, his indignation is excited against it, and he rejects it with violence; or else he humbles, he debases, he annihilates himself before the strong influence which binds and prostrates him. Let us see if this be not the contrast which ancient societies constantly afford us; the blindest submission and annihilation on the one hand, and, on the other, the spirit of insubordination, of resistance, showing itself in terrible explosions. It is thus, and thus only, that it is possible to understand how societies, whose normal condition was confusion and agitation, present us with such astonishing examples as Leonidas with his three hundred Spartans perishing at Thermopylæ, Sævola thrusting his hand into the fire, Regulus returning to Carthage to suffer and die, and Marcus Curtius, all armed, leaping into the chasm which had opened in the midst of Rome. All these phenomena, which at first sight appear inexplicable, are explained when we compare them with what has taken place in the revolutions of modern times. Terrible revolutions have thrown some nations into confusion; the struggle of ideas and interests, inflaming their passions, has made them forget their true social relations, during intervals of greater or less duration. What has happened? At the same time that unlimited freedom was proclaimed, and the rights of individuals were incessantly extolled, there arose in the midst of society a cruel power, which, concentrating in its own hands all public authority, inflicted on them the severest blows. At such periods, when the formidable maxim of the ancients, the salus populi, that pretext for so many frightful attempts was in full force, there arose, on the other hand, that mad and ferocious patriotism which superficial men admire in the citizens of ancient republics.
Some writers have lavished eulogiums on the ancients, and, above all, on the Romans. It seemed as if, to gratify their ardent wishes, modern civilization must be moulded according to the ancient. They made absurd attempts; they attacked the existing social system with unexampled violence; they labored to destroy, or at least to stifle, Christian ideas concerning the individual and society, and they sought their inspiration from the shades of the ancient Romans. It is remarkable that, during the short time that the attempt lasted, there were seen, as in ancient Rome, admirable traits of strength, of valor, of patriotism, in fearful contrast with cruelties and crimes without example. In the midst of a great and generous nation there appeared again, to affright the human race, the bloody spectres of Marius and Sylla; so true it is that man is everywhere the same, and that the same order of ideas in the end produces the same order of events. Let the Christian ideas disappear, let old ones regain their force, and you will see that the modern world will resemble the ancient one. Happily for humanity, this is impossible. All the attempts hitherto made to produce such a result have been necessarily of short continuance, and such will be the case in future. But the bloody page which these criminal attempts have left in history offers an abundant subject for reflection to the philosopher who desires to become thoroughly acquainted with the intimate and delicate relations between ideas and facts. There he will see fully exhibited the vast scheme of social organization, and he will be able to appreciate at its just value the beneficial or injurious influence of the various religious and the different philosophical systems.
The periods of revolutions, that is to say, those stormy times when governments are swallowed up one after another like edifices built upon a volcanic soil, have all this distinctive character, the tyranny of the interests of public authority over private interests. Never is this power feebler, or less lasting; but never is it more violent, more mad. Every thing is sacrificed to its safety or its vengeance; the shade of its enemies pursues it and makes it continually tremble; its own conscience torments it and leaves it no repose; the weakness of its organization, its instable position, warn it at every step of its approaching fall, and in its impotent despair it makes the convulsive efforts of one dying in agony. What, then, in its eyes are the lives of citizens, if they excite the slightest, the most remote suspicion? If the blood of thousands of victims could procure for it a moment of security, and add a few days to its existence, "Perish my enemies," it says; "this is required for the safety of the state, that is, for mine!" Why this frenzy, this cruelty? It is because the ancient government, having been overturned by force, and the new having been enthroned in the same way, the idea of right has disappeared from the sphere of power. Legitimacy does not protect it, even its novelty betrays its little value; every thing forebodes its short existence. Stripped of the reason and justice which it is obliged to invoke in its own support, it seeks for both in the very necessity of power, a social necessity, which is always visible, and it proclaims that the safety of the people is the supreme care. Then the property and lives of individuals are nothing; they are annihilated in the presence of the bloody spectre which arises in the midst of society; armed with force, and surrounded by guards and scaffolds, it says, "I am the public power; to me is confided the safety of the people; it is I who watch over the interests of society."
Now, do you know what is the result of this absolute want of respect for the individual, of this complete annihilation of man in presence of the alarming power which claims to represent society? It is that the feeling of association reappears in different directions; no longer a feeling directed by reason, foresight, and beneficence, but a blind, instinctive feeling, which urges man not to remain alone, without defence, in the midst of a society which is converted into a field of battle and a vast conspiracy; men then unite either to sustain power, when, influenced by the whirlwind of revolution, they are identified with it, and regard it as their only rampart, or to overturn it, if, some motive having urged them into the opposite ranks, they see their most terrible enemy in the existing power, and a sword continually suspended over their heads. These men belong to an association, are devoted to an association, are ready to sacrifice themselves for it, for they cannot live alone; they know, they comprehend, at least instinctively, that the individual is nothing; for as the restraints that maintain social order have been broken, the individual no longer has a tranquil sphere where he can live in peace and independence, confident that a power founded on legitimacy and guided by reason and justice watches over the preservation of public order and the respect due to individual rights. Then timid men are alarmed and humbled, and begin to represent that first scene of servitude where the oppressed is seen to kiss the hand of the oppressor, and the victim to reverence the executioner. Daring men resist and contend, or rather, conspiring in the dark, they prepare terrible explosions. No one then belongs to himself; the individual is absorbed on all sides, either by the force which oppresses or by that which conspires. The tutelary divinity of individuals is justice; when justice vanishes, they are no more than imperceptible grains of dust carried away by the wind, or drops of water in the stormy waves of ocean. Imagine to yourself societies where this passing frenzy does not prevail, it is true, but which are yet devoid of true ideas on the rights and duties of individuals, and of those of public authority; societies where there are some wandering, uncertain, obscure, imperfect notions thereon, stifled by a thousand prejudices and errors; societies under which, nevertheless, public authority is organized under one form or another, and has become consolidated, thanks to the force of habit, and the absence of all other government better calculated to satisfy urgent necessities; you will then have an idea of the ancient societies, we should rather say, societies without Christianity, and you will understand the annihilation of the individual before the force of public power, either under an Asiatic despotism or the turbulent democracy of the ancient republics. And what you will then see will be precisely what you have observed in modern societies at times of revolution, only with this difference, that in these the evil is transitory and noisy, like the ravages of the tempest, while among the ancients it was the normal state, like the vitiated atmosphere which injures and corrupts all that breathe it.
Let us examine the cause of these two opposite phenomena, the lofty patriotism of the Greeks and Romans, and the state of prostration and political degradation in which other nations lay, and in which those still lie who are not under the influence of Christianity; what is the cause of this individual abnegation which is found at the bottom of two feelings so contrary? and why do we not find among any of those nations that individual development which is observed in Europe, and which with us is connected with a reasonable patriotism, from which the feeling of a legitimate personal independence is not excluded? It is because in antiquity man did not know himself, or what he was; it is because his true relations with society were viewed through a thousand prejudices and errors, and consequently were very ill understood. This will show that admiration for the patriotism, disinterestedness, and heroic self-denial of the ancients has been sometimes carried too far, and that these qualities, far from revealing in the men of antiquity a greater perfection of the individual, a superior elevation of mind to that of the men of modern times, rather indicate ideas less elevated and feelings less independent than our own. Perhaps some blind admirers of the ancients will be astonished at these assertions. Let them consider the women of India throwing themselves on the funeral-pile after the death of their husbands, and slaves putting themselves to death because they could not survive their masters, and they will see that personal self-denial is not an infallible sign of elevation of mind. Sometimes man does not understand his own dignity; he considers himself devoted to another being, absorbed by him, and then he regards his own existence only as a secondary thing, which has no object but to minister to the existence of another. We do not wish to underrate the merit which rightly belongs to the ancients; we do not wish to lower their heroism, as far as it is just and laudable, any more than we wish to attribute to the moderns an egotistical individuality, which prevents their sacrificing themselves for their country: our only object is to assign to every thing its place, by dissipating prejudices which are excusable up to a certain point, but do lamentable mischief by falsifying the principal features of ancient and modern history.
This annihilation of the individual among the ancients arose also from the weakness and imperfection of his moral development, and from his want of a rule for his own guidance, which compelled society to interfere in all that concerned him, as if public reason was called upon to supply the defect of private reason. If we pay attention, we shall observe that in countries where political liberty was the most cherished, civil liberty was almost unknown. While the citizens flattered themselves that they were very free, because they took part in the public deliberations, they wanted that liberty which is most important to man, that which we now call civil liberty. We may form an idea of the thoughts and manners of the ancients on this point, by reading one of their most celebrated writers, Aristotle. In the eyes of this philosopher, the only title which renders a man worthy of the name of citizen, seems to be the participation in the government of the republic; and these ideas, apparently very democratic and calculated to extend the rights of the most numerous class, far from proceeding, as one would suppose, from an exaggeration of the dignity of man, was connected in his mind with a profound contempt for man himself. His system was to reserve all honor and consideration for a very limited number; the classes of citizens who were thus condemned to degradation and nullity were all laborers, artisans, and tradesmen. (Pol. l. vii. c. 9, 12; l. viii. c. 1, 2; l. iii. c. 1.) This theory supposed, as may be seen, very curious ideas on individuals and society, and is an additional confirmation of what I have said respecting the eccentricities, not to say monstrosities, which we see in the ancient republics. Let us never forget that one of the principal causes of the evil was the want of an intimate knowledge of man; it was the little value which was placed upon his dignity as man; the individual, deprived of guides to direct him, could not conciliate esteem; in a word, there was wanting the light of Christianity, which was alone capable of illuminating the chaos.
The feeling of the dignity of man is deeply engraven on the heart of modern society; we find everywhere, written in striking characters, this truth, that man, by virtue of his title of man, is respectable and worthy of high consideration; hence it is that all the schools of modern times that have foolishly undertaken to exalt the individual, at the imminent risk of producing fearful perturbations in society, have adopted as the constant theme of their instructions, this dignity and nobility of man. They thus distinguish themselves in the most decided manner from the democrats of antiquity; the latter acted in a narrow sphere, without departing from a certain order of things, without looking beyond the limits of their own country; in the spirit of modern democrats, on the contrary, we find a tendency to invade all branches, an ardent propagandism which embraces the whole world. They never invoke mean ideas; man, his reason, his imprescriptible rights, these are their perpetual theme. Ask them what is their design, and they will tell you that they desire to level all things, to avenge the sacred cause of humanity. This exaggeration of ideas, the pretext and motive for so many crimes, shows us a valuable fact, viz. the immense progress which Christianity has given to ideas with relation to the dignity of our nature. When they have to mislead societies which owe their civilization to Christianity, they find no better means than to invoke the dignity of human nature. The Christian religion, the enemy of all that is criminal, could not consent to see society overturned, under the pretence of defending and raising the dignity of man; this is the reason why a great number of the most ardent democrats have indulged in insults and sarcasms against religion. On the other hand, as history loudly proclaims that all our knowledge and feeling of what is true, just, and reasonable on this point, is due to the Christian religion, it has been recently attempted to make a monstrous alliance between Christian ideas and the most extravagant of democratic theories. A celebrated man has undertaken this enterprise; but true Christianity, that is, Catholicity, rejects these adulterous alliances; it ceases to acknowledge its most eminent apologists when they have quitted the path of eternal truth. De Lamennais now wanders in the darkness of error, embracing a deceitful shadow of Christianity; and the voice of the supreme Pastor of the Church has warned the faithful against being dazzled by the illusion of a name illustrious by so many titles.[16]
Chapter XXIII
THE PROGRESS OF INDIVIDUALITY UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF CATHOLICITY.
IF we give a just and legitimate meaning to the word individuality, taking the feeling of personal independence in an acceptation which is not repugnant to the perfection of the individual, and does not oppose the constitutive principles of all society; moreover, if we seek the various causes which have influenced the development of this feeling, without speaking of that which we have already pointed out as one of the most important, viz. the true notion of man, and his connections with his fellows, we shall find many of them which are quite worthy of attention in Catholicity. M. Guizot was greatly deceived when, putting the faithful of the Church in the same rank with the ancient Romans, he asserted that both were equally wanting in the feeling of personal independence. He describes the faithful as absorbed by the association of the Church, entirely devoted to her, ready to sacrifice themselves for her; so that, according to him, it was the interests of the association which induced them to act. There is an error here; but as this error has originated in a truth, it is our duty to distinguish the ideas and the facts with much attention.
There is no doubt that from the cradle of Christianity the faithful have had an extreme attachment to the Church, and it was always well understood among them, that they could not leave the communion of the Church without ceasing to be numbered among the true disciples of Jesus Christ. It is equally undeniable that, in the words of M. Guizot, "There prevailed in the Christian Church a feeling of strong attachment to the Christian corporation, of devotion to its laws, and an ardent desire to extend its empire;" but it is not true that the origin and source of all these feelings was the spirit of association alone, to the exclusion of all development of real individuality. The Christian belonged to an association, but that association was regarded by him as a means of obtaining eternal happiness, as the ship in which he was embarked, amid the tempests of the world, to arrive safe in the port of eternity: and although he believed it impossible to be saved out of the Church, he did not understand from that that he was devoted to the Church, but to God. The Roman was ready to sacrifice himself for his country; the Christian, for his faith. When the Roman died, he died for his country; the faithful did not die for the Church, but for God. If we open the monuments of Church history, and read the acts of the martyrs, we shall then see what passed in that terrible moment, when the Christian, fully arousing himself, showed in the presence of the instruments of torture, burning piles, and the most horrible punishments, the true principle which acted on his mind. The judge asks his name; he declares it, and adds, "I am a Christian." He is asked to sacrifice to the gods. "We only sacrifice to one God, the Creator of heaven and earth." He is reproached with the disgrace of following a man who has been nailed to the cross; for him the ignominy of the cross is a glory, and he loudly proclaims that the Crucified is his Saviour and his God. He is threatened with tortures; he despises them, for they are passing, and rejoices in being able to suffer something for his Master. The cross of punishment is already prepared, the pile is lighted before his eyes, the executioner raises the fatal axe to strike off his head; what does it matter to him? all this is but for a moment, and after that moment comes a new life of ineffable and endless happiness. We thus see what influenced his heart; it was the love of his God and the interest of his eternal happiness. Consequently, it is utterly false that the Christian, like men of the ancient republics, destroyed his individuality in the association to which he belonged, allowing himself to be absorbed in that association like a drop of water in the immensity of ocean. The Christian belonged to an association which gave him the rule of his faith and conduct; he regarded that association as founded and directed by God himself; but his mind and his heart were raised to God, and when following the voice of the Church, he believed that he was engaged with his own individual affair, which was nothing less than his eternal happiness. This distinction is quite necessary in an affair which has relations so various and delicate that the slightest confusion may produce considerable errors. Here a hidden fact reveals itself to us, which is infinitely precious, and throws much light upon the development and perfecting of the individual in Christian civilization. It is absolutely necessary that there should be a social order to which the individual must submit; but it is also proper that he should not be absorbed by society to such an extent that he cannot be conceived but as forming part of it, and remains deprived of his own sphere of action. If this were the case, never would true civilization be completely developed; as it consists in the simultaneous perfecting of the individual and of society, it is necessary, for its existence, that both should have a well determined sphere, where their peculiar and respective movements may not check and embarrass each other.
After these reflections, to which I especially call the attention of all thinking men, I will point out a thing which has, perhaps, not yet been remarked; it is, that Christianity has eminently contributed to create that individual sphere in which man, without breaking the ties which connect him with society, is free to develop all his peculiar faculties. From the mouth of an Apostle went forth that generous expression which strictly limits political power: "We ought to obey God rather than man." (Acts v. 29.) "Obedire oportet Deo magis quam hominibus." The Apostle thereby proclaims that the individual should cease to acknowledge power, when power exacts from him what he believes to be contrary to his conscience. It was among Christians that this great example was witnessed for the first time; individuals of all countries, of all ages, of both sexes, of all conditions, braving the anger of authority, and all the fury of popular passions, rather than pronounce a single word contrary to the principles which they professed in the sanctuary of conscience; and this, not with arms in their hands, in the midst of popular commotions, where their impetuous passions are excited, which communicate to the mind temporary energy, but in the solitude and obscurity of dungeons, amid the fearful calmness of the tribunals, that is, in that situation where man, alone and isolated, cannot show force and dignity without revealing the elevation of his ideas, the nobleness of his feelings, the unalterable firmness of his conscience, and the greatness of his soul. Christianity engraved this truth deeply on the heart of man, that individuals have duties to perform, even when the whole world is aroused against them; that they have an immense destiny to fulfil, and that it is entirely their own affair, the responsibility of which rests upon their own free will. This important truth, unceasingly inculcated by Christianity at all times, to both sexes, to all conditions, must have powerfully contributed to excite in man an active and ardent feeling of personality. This feeling, with all its sublimity, combining with the other inspirations of Christianity, all full of dignity and grandeur, has raised the human mind from the dust, where ignorance and rude superstitions, and systems of violence, which oppressed it on all sides, had placed and retained it. How strange and surprising to the ears of Pagans must have been those energetic words of Justin, which nevertheless expressed the disposition of mind of the majority of the faithful, when, in his Apology, addressed to Antoninus Pius, he said, "As we have not placed our hopes on present things, we contemn those who kill us, death being, moreover, a thing which cannot be avoided."
This full and entire self-consciousness, this heroic contempt of death, this calm spirit of a man who, supported by the testimony of intimate feeling, sets at defiance all the powers of earth, must have tended the more to enlarge the mind, as they did not emanate from that cold stoical impassibility, the constant effort of which was to struggle against the nature of things without any solid motive. The Christian feeling had its origin in a sublime freedom from all that is earthly, in a profound conviction of the holiness of duty, and in that undeniable maxim, that man, in spite of all the obstacles which the world places in his way, should walk with a firm step towards the destiny which is marked out for him by his Creator. These ideas and feelings together communicated to the soul a strong and vigorous temper, which, without reaching in any thing the savage harshness of the ancients, raised man to all his dignity, nobleness, and grandeur. It must be observed that these precious effects were not confined to a small number of privileged individuals, but that, in conformity with the genius of the Christian religion, they extended to all classes; for one of the noblest characters of that divine religion is the unlimited expansion which it gives to all that is good; it knows no distinction of persons, and makes its voice penetrate the obscurest places of society. It was not only to the elevated classes and philosophers, but to the generality of the faithful, that St. Cyprian, the light of Africa, addressed himself, when, summing up in a few words all the grandeur of man, he marked with a bold hand the sublime position where our soul ought to maintain itself with constancy. "Never," he says, "never will he who feels himself to be the child of God admire the words of man. He falls from his noblest state who can admire any thing but God." (De Spectaculis.) Sublime words, which make us boldly raise our heads, and fill our hearts with noble feelings; words which, diffusing themselves over all classes, like a fertilizing warmth, were capable of inspiring the humblest of men with what previously seemed exclusively reserved for the transports of the poet:
Os homini sublime dedit, cœlumque tueri Jussit, et erectos ad sidera tollere cultus.
The development of the moral life, the interior life, that life in which man, reflecting on himself, is accustomed to render a circumstantial account of all his actions, of the motives which actuate him, of the goodness or the wickedness of those motives, and the object to which they tend, is principally due to Christianity, to its unceasing influence on man in all his conditions, in all situations, in all moments of his life. Such a progress of the individual life in all that it has most intimate, most active, and most interesting for the heart of man, was incompatible with that absorption of the individual by society, with that blind self-denial, in which man forgot himself, to think only of the association of which he formed a part. This moral and interior life was unknown to the ancients, because they wanted principles for supporting, rules for guiding, and inspirations for exciting and nourishing it. Thus at Rome, where the political element tries its ascendency over minds, when enthusiasm becomes extinguished by the effect of intestine dissensions, when every generous feeling becomes stifled by the insupportable despotism which succeeds to the last agitations of the republic, we see baseness and corruption develop themselves with fearful rapidity. The activity of mind which before occupied itself in debates of the Forum and the glorious exploits of war, no longer finding food, gave itself up to sensual pleasures with an abandonment which we can hardly imagine now-a-days, in spite of the looseness of morals which we so justly deplore. Thus we see among the ancients only these two extremes, either the most exalted patriotism, or the complete prostration of the faculties of the soul, which abandons itself without reserve to the dictates of its irregular passions; there man was the slave either of his own passions, of another man, or of society.
Since the moral tie which united men to Catholic society has been broken, since religious belief has been weakened, in consequence of the individual independence which Protestantism has proclaimed in religious matters, it has unhappily become possible for us to conceive, by means of examples found in European civilization, what man still deprived of real knowledge of himself, his origin and destiny, must have been. We will indicate in another place the points of resemblance which are found between ancient and modern society in the countries where the influence of religious ideas is enfeebled. It is enough now to remark, that if Europe had completely lost Christianity, according to the insane desires of some men, a generation would not have passed away without there being revived among us the individual and society such as they were among the ancients, except the modifications which the difference of the material state of the two civilizations would necessarily produce.
The doctrine of free will, so loudly proclaimed by Catholicity, and sustained by her with such vigour, not only against the old Pagan teaching, but particularly against sectarians at all times, and especially against the founders of the pretended Reformation, has also contributed more than is imagined to develop and perfect the individual, to raise his ideas of independence, nobleness, and dignity. When man comes to consider himself as constrained by the irresistible force of destiny, and attached to a chain of events over which he has no control--when he comes to suppose that the operations of his mind, those active proofs of his freedom, are but vain illusions--he soon annihilates himself; he feels himself assimilated to the brute; he ceases to be the prince of living beings, the ruler of the earth; he is nothing more than a machine fixed in its place, which is compelled to perform its part in the great system of the universe. The social order ceases to exist; merit and demerit, praise and blame, reward and punishment, are only unmeaning words. If man enjoys or suffers, it is only in the same way as a shrub, which is sometimes breathed upon softly by the zephyrs, and sometimes blasted by the north wind. How different it is when man is conscious of his liberty! Then he is master of his destiny; good and evil, life and death, are before his eyes; he can choose, and nothing can violate the sanctuary of his conscience. There the soul is enthroned, there she is seated, full of dignity, and the whole world raging against her, the universe falling upon her fragile body, cannot force her will. The moral order is displayed before us in all its grandeur; we see good in all its beauty, and evil in all its deformity; the desire of doing well stimulates, and the fear of doing ill restrains us; the sight of the recompense which can be obtained by an effort of free will, and which appears at the end of the path of virtue, renders that path more sweet and peaceful, and communicates activity and energy to the soul. If man is free, there remains something great and terrible, even in his crime, in his punishment, and even in the despair of hell. What is man deprived of liberty and yet punished? What is the meaning of this absurd proposition, a chief dogma of the founders of Protestantism? This man is a weak and miserable victim, in whose torture a cruel omnipotence delights; a God who has created him in order to see him suffer; a tyrant with infinite power, that is, the most dreadful of monsters. But if man is free, when he suffers, he suffers because he has deserved it; and if we contemplate him in the midst of despair, plunged into an ocean of horrors, his brow furrowed by the just lightnings of the Eternal, we seem to hear him still pronounce those terrible words with a haughty bearing and proud look, non serviam, I will not obey.
In man, as in the universe, all is wonderfully united; all the faculties of man have delicate and intimate relations with each other, and the movement of one chord in the soul makes all the others vibrate. It is necessary to call attention to this reciprocal dependence of all our faculties on each other, in order to anticipate an objection which may be made. We shall be told, all that has been said only proves that Catholicity has developed the individual in a mystical sense. No, the observations which I have made show something more than this; they prove that we owe to Catholicity the clear idea and lively feeling of moral order in all its greatness and beauty; they prove that we owe her the real strength of what we call conscience, and that if the individual believes himself to be called to a mighty destiny, confided to his own free will, and the care of which belongs entirely to him, it is to Catholicity he owes that belief; they prove that Catholicity has given man the true knowledge which he has of himself, the appreciation of his dignity, the respect which is paid to him as man; they prove that she has developed in our souls the germs of the noblest and most generous feelings; for she has raised our thoughts by the loftiest conceptions, dilated our hearts by the assurance of a liberty which nothing can take away, by the promise of an infinite reward, eternal happiness, while she leaves in our hands life and death, and makes us in a certain manner the arbiters of our own destiny. In all this there is more than mere mysticism; it is nothing less than the development of the entire man; nothing less than the true, the only noble, just, and reasonable individuality; nothing less than the collected powerful impulses which urge the individual towards perfection in every sense; it is nothing less than the first, the most indispensable, the most fruitful element of real civilization.
Chapter XXIV
OF THE FAMILY.--MONOGAMY.--INDISSOLUBILITY OF THE CONJUGAL TIE.
WE have seen what the individual owes to Catholicity; let us now see what the family owes her. It is clear that the individual, being the first element of the family, if it is Catholicity which has tended to perfect him, the improvement of the family will thus have been very much her work; but without insisting on this inference, I wish to consider the conjugal tie in itself, for which purpose it is necessary to call attention to woman. I will not repeat here what she was among the Romans, and what she is still among the nations who are not Christians; history, and still more the literature of Greece and Rome, afford us sad or rather shameful proofs on this subject; and all the nations of the earth offer us too many evidences of the truth and exactness of the observation of Buchanan, viz. that wherever Christianity does not prevail, there is a tendency to the degradation of woman. Perhaps on this point Protestantism will be unwilling to give way to Catholicity; it will assert that in all that affects woman the Reformation has in no degree prejudiced the civilization of Europe. We will not now inquire what evils Protestantism has occasioned in this respect; this question will be discussed in another part of the work; but it cannot be doubted, that when Protestantism appeared, the Catholic religion had already completed its task as far as woman is concerned. No one, indeed, is ignorant that the respect and consideration which are given to women, and the influence which they exercise on society, date further back than the first part of the 16th century. Hence it follows that Catholicity cannot have had Protestantism as a coadjutor; it acted entirely alone in this point, one of the most important of all true civilization; and if it is generally acknowledged that Christianity has placed woman in the rank which properly belongs to her, and which is most conducive to the good of the family and of society, this is a homage paid to Catholicity; for at the time when woman was raised from abjection, when it was attempted to restore her to the rank of companion of man, as worthy of him, those dissenting sects that also called themselves Christians did not exist, and there was no other Christianity than the Catholic Church.
It has been already remarked in the course of this work, that when I give titles and honours to Catholicity, I avoid having recourse to vague generalities, and endeavour to support my assertions by facts. The reader will naturally expect me to do the same here, and to point out to him what are the means which Catholicity has employed to give respect and dignity to woman; he shall not be deceived in his expectation. First, and before descending to details, we must observe that the grand ideas of Christianity with respect to humanity must have contributed, in an extraordinary manner, to the improvement of the lot of woman. These ideas, which applied without any difference to woman as well as to man, were an energetic protest against the state of degradation in which one-half of the human race was placed. The Christian doctrine made the existing prejudices against woman vanish for ever; it made her equal to man by unity of origin and destiny, and in the participation of the heavenly gifts; it enrolled her in the universal brotherhood of man, with his fellows and with Jesus Christ; it considered her as the child of God, the coheiress of Jesus Christ; as the companion of man, and no longer as a slave and the vile instrument of pleasure. Henceforth that philosophy which had attempted to degrade her, was silenced; that unblushing literature which treated women with so much insolence found a check in the Christian precepts, and a reprimand no less eloquent than severe in the dignified manner in which all the ecclesiastical writers, in imitation of the Scriptures, expressed themselves on woman. Yet, in spite of the beneficent influence which the Christian doctrines must have exercised by themselves, the desired end would not have been completely attained, had not the Church undertaken, with the warmest energy, to accomplish a work the most necessary, the most indispensable for the good organization of the family and society, I mean the reformation of marriage. The Christian doctrine on this point is very simple: one with one exclusively, and for ever. But the doctrine would have been powerless, if the Church had not undertaken to apply it, and if she had not carried on this task with invincible firmness; for the passions, above all those of man, rebel against such a doctrine; and they would undoubtedly have trodden it under foot, if they had not met with an insurmountable barrier, which did not leave them the most distant hope of triumph. Can Protestantism, which applauded with such senseless joy the scandal of Henry VIII., and accommodated itself so basely to the desires of the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, boast of having contributed to strengthen that barrier? What a surprising difference! During many centuries, amid circumstances the most various, and sometimes the most terrible, the Catholic Church struggles with intrepidity against the passions of potentates, to maintain unsullied the sanctity of marriage. Neither promises nor threats could move Rome; no means could obtain from her any thing contrary to the instructions of her Divine Master: Protestantism, at the first shock, or rather at the first shadow of the slightest embarrassment, at the mere fear of displeasing a prince who certainly was not very powerful, yields, humbles itself, consents to polygamy, betrays its own conscience, opens a wide door to the passions, and gives up to them the sanctity of marriage, the first pledge for the good of the family, the foundation-stone of true civilization.
Protestant society on this point, wiser than the miscalled reformers who attempted to guide it, with admirable good sense repudiated the consequences of the conduct of its chiefs; although it did not preserve the doctrines of Catholicity, it at least followed the salutary impulse which it had received from them, and polygamy was not established in Europe. But history records facts which show the weakness of the pretended reformation, and the vivifying power of Catholicity. It tells us to whom it is owing that the law of marriage, that palladium of society, was not falsified, perverted, destroyed, amid the barbarous ages, amid the most fearful corruption, violence, and ferocity, which prevailed everywhere, as well at the time when invading nations passed pell-mell over Europe, as in that of feudality, and when the power of kings had already been preponderant,--history will tell what tutelary force prevented the torrent of sensuality from overflowing with all its violence, with all its caprices, from bringing about the most profound disorganization, from corrupting the character of European civilization, and precipitating it into that fearful abyss in which the nations of Asia have been for so many centuries.
Prejudiced writers have carefully searched the annals of ecclesiastical history for the differences between popes and kings, and have taken occasion therein to reproach the Court of Rome with its intolerant obstinacy respecting the sanctity of marriage; if the spirit of party had not blinded them, they would have understood that, if this intolerant obstinacy had been relaxed for a moment, if the Roman Pontiff had given way one step before the impetuosity of the passions, this first step once made, the descent into the abyss would have been rapid; they would have admired the spirit of truth, the deep conviction, the lively faith with which that august see is animated; no consideration, no fear, has been able to silence her, when she had occasion to remind all, and especially kings and potentates, of this commandment: "They shall be two in one flesh; man shall not separate what God has joined." By showing themselves inflexible on this point, even at the risk of the anger of kings, not only have the popes performed the sacred duty which was imposed on them by their august character as chiefs of Christianity, but they have executed a political chef d'œuvre, and greatly contributed to the repose and well-being of nations. "For," says Voltaire, "the marriages of princes in Europe decide the destiny of nations; and never has there been a court entirely devoted to debauchery, without producing revolutions and rebellions." (Essai sur l'Histoire générale, t. iii. c. 101.)
This correct remark of Voltaire will suffice to vindicate the pope, together with Catholicity, from the calumnies of their wretched detractors: it becomes still more valuable, and acquires an immense importance, if it is extended beyond the limits of the political order to the social. The imagination is affrighted at the thought of what would have happened, if these barbarous kings, in whom the splendor of the purple ill disguised the sons of the forest, if those haughty seigneurs, fortified in their castles, clothed in mail, and surrounded by their timid vassals, had not found a check in the authority of the Church; if at the first glance at a new beauty, if at the first passion which, when enkindled in their hearts, would have inspired them with a disgust for their legitimate spouses, they had not had the always-present recollection of an inflexible authority. They could, it is true, load a bishop with vexations; they could silence him with threats or promises; they might control the votes of a particular Council by violence, by intrigue, by subornation; but, in the distance, the power of the Vatican, the shadow of the Sovereign Pontiff, appeared to them like an alarming vision; they then lost all hope; all struggles became useless; the most violent endeavors would never have given them the victory; the most astute intrigues, the most humble entreaties, would have obtained the same reply: "One with one only, and for ever."
If we read but the history of the middle ages, of that immense scene of violence, where the barbarian, striving to break the bonds which civilization attempted to impose on him, appears so vividly; if we recollect that the Church was obliged to keep guard incessantly and vigilantly, not only to prevent the ties of a marriage from being broken, but even to preserve virgins (and even those who were dedicated to God) from violence; we shall clearly see that, if she had not opposed herself, as a wall of brass, to the torrent of sensuality, the palaces of kings and the castles of seigneurs would have speedily become their seraglios and harems. What would have happened in the other classes? They would have followed the same course; and the women of Europe would have remained in the state of degradation in which the Mussulman women still are. As I have mentioned the followers of Mohammed, I will reply in passing to those who pretend to explain monogamy and polygamy by climate alone. Christians and Mohammedans have been for a long time under the same sky, and their religions have been established, by the vicissitudes of the two races, sometimes in cold and sometimes in mild and temperate climates; and yet we have not seen the religions accommodate themselves to the climates; but rather, the climates have been, as it were, forced to bend to the religions. European nations owe eternal gratitude to Catholicity, which has preserved monogamy for them, one of the causes which undoubtedly have contributed the most to the good organization of the family, and the exaltation of woman. What would now be the condition of Europe, what respect would woman now enjoy, if Luther, the founder of Protestantism, had succeeded in inspiring society with the indifference which he shows on this point in his commentary on Genesis? "As to whether we may have several wives," says Luther, "the authority of the patriarchs leaves us completely free." He afterwards adds that "it is a thing neither permitted nor prohibited, and that he does not decide any thing thereupon." Unhappy Europe! if a man, who had whole nations as followers, had uttered such words some centuries earlier, at the time when civilization had not yet received an impulse strong enough to make it take a decided line on the most important points, in spite of false doctrines. Unhappy Europe! if at the time when Luther wrote, manners had not been already formed, if the good organization given to the family by Catholicity had not been too deeply rooted to be torn up by the hand of man. Certainly the scandal of the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel would not then have remained an isolated example, and the culpable compliance of the Lutheran doctors would have produced bitter fruits. What would that vacillating faith, that uncertainty, that cowardice with which the Protestant Church was seen to tremble at the mere demand of such a prince as the Landgrave, have availed, to control the fierce impetuosity of barbarous and corrupted nations? How would a struggle, lasting for ages, have been sustained by those who, at the first menace of battle, gave way, and were routed before the shock?
Besides monogamy, it may be said that there is nothing more important than the indissolubility of marriage. Those who, departing from the doctrine of the Church, think that it is useful in certain cases to allow divorce, so as to dissolve the conjugal tie, and permit each of the parties to marry again, still will not deny that they regard divorce as a dangerous remedy, which the legislator only avails himself of with regret, and only on account of crime or faithlessness; they will see, also, that a great number of divorces would produce very great evils, and that in order to prevent these in countries where the civil laws allow the abuse of divorce, it is necessary to surround this permission with all imaginable precaution; they will consequently grant that the most efficacious manner of preventing corruption of manners, of guarantying the tranquillity of families, and of opposing a firm barrier to the torrent of evils which is ready to inundate society, is to establish the indissolubility of marriage as a moral principle, to base it upon motives which exercise a powerful ascendency over the heart, and to keep a constant restraint on the passions, to prevent them from slipping down so dangerous a declivity. It is clear that there is no work more worthy of being the object of the care and zeal of the true religion. Now, what religion but the Catholic has fulfilled this duty? What other religion has more perfectly accomplished so salutary and difficult a task? Certainly not Protestantism, for it did not even know how to penetrate the depth of the reasons which guided the conduct of the Church on this point. I have taken care to do justice in another place to the wisdom which Protestant society has displayed in not giving itself up entirely to the impulse which its chiefs wished to communicate to it. But it must not be supposed from this that Protestant doctrines have not had lamentable consequences in countries calling themselves reformed. Let us hear what a Protestant lady, Madame de Staël, says in her book on Germany, speaking of a country which she loves and admires: "Love," she says, "is a religion in Germany, but a poetical religion which tolerates very freely all that sensibility can excuse. It cannot be denied that in the Protestant provinces the facility of divorce is injurious to the sanctity of marriage. They change husbands as quietly as if they were arranging the incidents of a drama: the good nature of the man and woman prevents the mixture of any bitterness with their easy ruptures; and as there is among the Germans more imagination than real passion, the most curious events take place with singular tranquillity. Yet it is thus that manners and characters lose all consistency; the paradoxical spirit destroys the most sacred institutions, and there are no well established rules on any subject." (De l'Allemagne, p. 1, c. 3.) Misled by their hatred against the Roman Church, and excited by their rage for innovation in all things, the Protestants thought they had made a great reform in secularizing marriage, if I may so speak, and in rejecting the Catholic doctrine, which declared it a real sacrament. This is not the place to enter upon a dogmatical discussion of this matter; I shall content myself with observing, that by depriving marriage of the august seal of a sacrament, Protestantism showed that it had little knowledge of the human heart. To consider marriage, not as a simple civil contract, but as a real sacrament, was to place it under the august shade of religion, and to raise it above the stormy atmosphere of the passions; and who can doubt that this was absolutely necessary to restrain the most active, capricious, and violent passion of the heart of man? The civil laws are insufficient to produce such an effect. Motives are required, which, being drawn from a higher source, exert a more efficacious influence. The Protestant doctrine overturned the power of the Church with respect to marriage, and gave up matters of this kind exclusively to the civil power. Some one will perhaps think that the increase of the secular power on this point could not but serve the cause of civilization, and that to drive the ecclesiastical authority from this ground was a magnificent triumph gained over exploded prejudices, a valuable victory over unjust usurpation. Deluded man! If your mind possessed any lofty thought, if your heart felt the vibration of those harmonious chords which display the passions of man with so much delicacy and exactness, and teach the best means of directing them, you would see, you would feel, that to place marriage under the mantle of religion, and to withdraw it as much as possible from profane interference, was to purify, to embellish, and to surround it with the most enchanting beauty; for thus is that precious treasure, which is blasted by a look, and tarnished by the slightest breath, inviolably preserved. Would you not wish to have the nuptial bed veiled and strictly guarded by religion?
XXV. OF THE PASSION OF LOVE
But it will be said to Catholics, "Do you not see that your doctrines are too hard and rigorous? They do not consider the weakness and inconstancy of the human heart, and require sacrifices above its strength. Is it not cruel to attempt to subject the most tender affections, the most delicate feelings, to the rigor of a principle? Cruel doctrine, which endeavors to hold together, bound to each other by a fatal tie, those who no longer love, who feel a mutual disgust, who perhaps hate each other with a profound hatred! When you answer these two beings who long to be separated, who would rather die than remain united, with an eternal Never, showing them the divine seal which was placed upon their union at the solemn moment, do you not forget all the rules of prudence? Is not this to provoke despair? Protestantism, accommodating itself to our infirmity, accedes more easily to the demands, sometimes of caprice, but often also of weakness; its indulgence is a thousand times preferable to your rigor." This requires an answer; it is necessary to remove the delusion which produces these arguments, too apt, unhappily, to mislead the judgment, because they begin by seducing the heart. In the first place, it is an exaggeration to say that the Catholic system reduces unhappy couples to the extremity of despair. There are cases in which prudence requires that they should separate, and then neither the doctrines nor the practice of the Catholic Church oppose the separation. It is true that this does not dissolve the conjugal tie, and that neither of the parties can marry again. But it cannot be said that one of them is subject to tyranny; they are not compelled to live together, consequently they do not suffer the intolerable torment of remaining united when they abhor each other. Very well, we shall be told, the separation being pronounced, the parties are freed from the punishment of living together; but they cannot contract new ties, consequently they are forbidden to gratify another passion which, perhaps, their heart conceals, and which may have been the cause of the disgust or the hatred whence arose the unhappiness or discord of their first union. Why not consider the marriage as altogether dissolved? Why should not the parties become entirely free? Permit them to obey the feelings of their hearts, which, newly fixed on another object, already foresee happier days. Here, no doubt, the answer seems difficult, and the force of the difficulty becomes urgent; but, nevertheless, it is here that Catholicity obtains the most signal triumph; it is here it clearly shows how profound is its knowledge of the heart of man, how prudent its doctrines, and how wise and provident its conduct. Its rigor, which seems excessive, is only necessary severity; this conduct, far from meriting the reproach of cruelty, is a guarantee for the repose and well-being of man. But it is a thing which it is difficult to understand at first sight; thus we are compelled to develop this matter by entering into a profound examination of the principles which justify by the light of reason the conduct pursued by the Catholic Church; let us examine this conduct, not only in respect to marriage, but in all that relates to the direction of the heart of man.
In the direction of the passions there are two systems, the one of compliance, the other of resistance. In the first of these they are yielded to as they advance; an invincible obstacle is never opposed to them; they are never left without hope. A line is traced around them which, it is true, prevents them from exceeding a certain boundary; but they are given to understand that if they come to place their foot upon this limit, it will retire a little further; so that the compliance is in proportion to the energy and obstinacy of their demands. In the second system, a line is equally marked out to the passions which they cannot pass; but it is a line fixed, immovable, and everywhere guarded by a wall of brass. In vain do they attempt to pass it; they have not even the shadow of hope; the principle which resists them will never change, will never consent to any kind of compromise. Therefore, no resource remains but to take that course which is always open to man, that of sin. The first system allows the fire to break out, to prevent an explosion; the second hinders the beginning of it, in the fear of being compelled to arrest its progress. In the first, the passions are feared and regulated at their birth, and hopes of restraining them when they have grown up are entertained; in the second, it is thought that, if it is difficult to restrain them when they are feeble, it will be still more so when they are strengthened. In the one, they act on the supposition that the passions are weakened by indulgence; in the other, it is believed that gratification, far from satiating, only renders them every day more devouring.
It may be said, generally speaking, that Catholicity follows the second of these systems; that is to say, with respect to the passions, her constant rule is to check them at the first step, to deprive them of all hope from the first, and to stifle them, if possible, in their cradle. It must be observed, that we speak here of the severity with respect to the passions themselves, not with respect to man, who is their prey; it is very consistent to give no truce to passion, and to be indulgent towards the person under its influence; to be inexorable towards the offence, and to treat the offender with extreme mildness. With respect to marriage, this system has been acted on by Catholicity with astonishing firmness; Protestantism has taken the opposite course. Both are agreed on this point, that divorce, followed by the dissolution of the conjugal tie, is a very great evil; but there is this difference between them, that the Catholic system does not leave even the hope of a conjuncture in which this dissolution will be permitted; it forbids it absolutely, without any restriction; it declares it impossible: the Protestant system, on the contrary, consents to it in certain cases. Protestantism does not possess the divine seal which guaranties the perpetuity of marriage, and renders it sacred and inviolable; Catholicity does possess this seal, impresses it on the mysterious tie, and from that moment marriage remains under the shadow of an august symbol. Which of the two religions is the most prudent in this point? Which acts with the most wisdom? To answer this question, let us lay aside the dogmatical reasons, and the intrinsical morality of the human actions which form the subject of the laws which we are now examining; and let us see which of the two systems is the most conducive to the difficult task of managing and directing the passions. After having considered the nature of the human heart, and consulted the experience of every day, it may be affirmed that the best way to repress a passion is to leave it without hope; to comply with it, to allow it continual indulgences, is to excite it more and more; it is to play with fire amid a heap of combustibles, by allowing the flame to be lit, from time to time, in the vain confidence of being always able to put out the conflagration. Let us take a rapid glance at the most violent passions of the heart of man, and observe what is their ordinary course, according to the system which is pursued in their regard. Look at the gambler, who is ruled by an indefinable restlessness, which is made up of an insatiable cupidity and an unbounded prodigality, at the same time. The most enormous fortune will not satisfy him; and yet he risks all, without hesitation, to the hazard of a moment. The man who still dreams of immense treasures amid the most fearful misery, restlessly pursues an object which resembles gold, but which is not it, for the possession thereof does not satisfy him. His heart can only exist amid uncertainty, chances, and perils. Suspended between hope and fear, he seems to be pleased with the rapid succession of lively emotions which unceasingly agitate and torment him. What remedy will cure this malady--this devouring fever? Will you recommend to him a system of compliance? will you tell him to gamble, but only to a certain amount, at certain times, and in certain places? What will you gain by this? Nothing at all. If these means were good for any thing, there would be no gambler in the world who would not be cured of his passion; for there is no one who has not often marked out for himself these limits, and often said to himself, "You shall only play till such an hour, in such a place, and to such an amount." What is the effect of these palliations--of these impotent precautions--on the unhappy gambler? That he miserably deceives himself. The passion consents, only in order to gain strength, and the better to secure the victory: thus it gains ground; it constantly enlarges its sphere; and leads its victim again into the same, or into greater excesses. Do you wish to make a radical cure? If there be a remedy, it must be to abstain completely; a remedy which may appear difficult at first, but will be found the easiest in practice. When the passion finds itself deprived of all hope, it will begin to diminish, and in the end will disappear. No man of experience will raise the least doubt as to the truth of what I have said; every one will agree with me, that the only way to destroy the formidable passion of gambling is to deprive it at once of all food, to leave it without hope.
Let us pass to another example, more analogous to the subject which I intend to explain. Let us suppose a man under the influence of love. Do you believe that the best way to cure his passion will be to give him opportunities, even though very rare, of seeing the object of his passion? Do you think that it will be salutary to authorize him to continue, while you forbid him to multiply, these dangerous interviews? Will such a precaution quench the flame which burns in his heart? You may be sure that it will not. The limits will even augment its force. If you allow it any food, even with the most parsimonious hand, if you permit it the least success, you see it constantly increase, until it upset every thing that opposes it. But take away all hope, send the lover on a long journey, or place before him an impediment which precludes the probability, or even the possibility, of success; then, except in very rare cases, you will obtain at first distraction, and then forgetfulness. Is not this the daily teaching of experience? Is it not the remedy which necessity every day suggests to the fathers of families? The passions resemble fire. They are extinguished by a large quantity of water; but a few drops only render them more ardent. Let us raise our thoughts still higher; let us observe the passions acting in a wider field, in more extended regions. Whence comes it that so many strong passions are awakened at times of public disturbance? It is, because then they all hope to be gratified; it is, because the highest ranks, the oldest and most powerful institutions, having been overturned, and replaced by others, which were hitherto imperceptible, all the passions see a road open before them, amid the tempest and confusion; the barriers apparently insurmountable, the sight of which prevented their existence, or strangled them in the cradle, do not exist; as all is then unprotected and defenceless, it is only required to have boldness and intrepidity enough to stand amid the ruins of all that was old.
Regarding things in the abstract, there is nothing more strikingly absurd than hereditary monarchy, the succession secured to a family which may at any time place on the throne a child, a fool, or a wretch: and yet in practice there is nothing more wise, prudent, and provident. This has been taught by the long experience of ages, it has been shown by reason, and proved by the sad warnings of those nations who have tried elective monarchy. Now, what is the cause of this? It is what we are endeavoring to explain. Hereditary monarchy precludes all the hopes of irregular ambition; without that, society always contains a germ of trouble, a principle of revolt, which is nourished by those who conceive a hope of one day obtaining the command. In quiet times, and under an hereditary monarchy, a subject, however rich, however distinguished he may be for his talent or his valour, cannot, without madness, hope to be king; and such a thought never enters his head. But change the circumstances,--admit, I will not say, the probability, but the possibility of such an event, and you will see that there will immediately be ardent candidates.
It would be easy to develop this doctrine more at length, and apply it to all the passions of man; but enough has been said to show that the first thing to be done when you have to subdue a passion, is to oppose to it an insurmountable barrier, which it can have no hope of passing. Then the passion rages for a little time, it rebels against the obstacle that resists it; but when it finds that to be immovable, it recedes, it is cast down, and, like the waves of the sea, it falls back murmuring to the level which has been marked out for it.
There is a passion in the heart of man, a passion which exerts a powerful influence on the destinies of his life, and too often, by its deceitful illusions, forms a long chain of sadness and misfortune. This passion, which has for its necessary object the preservation of the human race, is found, in some form, in all the beings of nature; but, inasmuch as it resides in the soul of an intelligent being, it assumes a peculiar character in man. In brutes, it is only an instinct, limited to the preservation of the species; in man, the instinct becomes a passion; and that passion, enlivened by the fire of imagination, rendered subtile by the powers of the mind, inconstant and capricious, because it is guided by a free will, which can indulge in as many whims as there are different impressions for the senses and the heart, is changed into a vague, fickle feeling, which is never contented, and which nothing can satisfy. Sometimes it is the restlessness of a man in a fever; sometimes the frenzy of a madman; sometimes a dream, which ravishes the soul into regions of bliss; sometimes the anguish and the convulsions of agony. Who can describe the variety of forms under which this deceitful passion presents itself? Who can tell the number of snares which it lays for the steps of unhappy mortals? Observe it at its birth, follow it in its career, up to the moment when it dies out like an expiring lamp. Hardly has the down appeared on the face of man, when there arises in his heart a mysterious feeling, which fills him with trouble and uneasiness, without his being aware of the cause. A pleasing melancholy glides into his heart, thoughts before unknown enter his mind, seductive images pervade his imagination, a secret attraction acts on his soul, unusual gravity appears in his features, all his inclinations take a new direction. The games of childhood no longer please him; every thing shows a new life, less innocent, less tranquil; the tempest does not yet rage, the sky is not darkened, but clouds, tinged with fire, are the sad presage of what is to come. When he becomes adolescent, that which was hitherto a feeling, vague, mysterious, incomprehensible, even to himself, becomes, from that time, more decided; objects are seen more clearly, they appear in their real nature; the passion sees, and seizes on them. But do not imagine that it becomes more constant on that account. It is as vain, as changeable, as capricious as the multitude of objects which by turns present themselves to it. It is constantly deluded, it pursues fleeting shadows, seeks a satisfaction which it never finds, and awaits a happiness which it never attains. With an excited imagination, a burning heart, with his whole soul transported, and all his faculties subdued, the ardent young man is surrounded by a brilliant chain of illusions; he communicates these to all that environs him; he gives greater splendor to the light of heaven, he clothes the earth with richer verdure and more brilliant coloring, he sheds on all the reflection of his own enchantment.
In manhood, when the thoughts are more grave and fixed, when the heart is more constant, the will more firm, and resolutions more lasting; when the conduct which governs the destinies of life is subjected to rule, and, as it were, confirmed in its faith, this mysterious passion continues to agitate the heart of man, and it torments him with unceasing disquietude. We only observe that the passion is become stronger and more energetic, owing to the development of the physical organization; the pride which inspires man with independence of life, the feeling of greater strength, and the abundance of new powers, render him more decided, bold, and violent; while the warnings and lessons of experience have made him more provident and crafty. We no longer see the candor of his earlier years. He now knows how to calculate; he is able to approach his object by covert ways, and to choose the surest means. Woe to the man who does not provide in time against such an enemy! His existence will be consumed by a fever of agitation; amid disquietudes and torments, if he does not die in the flower of his age, he will grow old still ruled by this fatal passion; it will accompany him to the tomb, surrounding him, in his last days, with those repulsive and hideous forms which are exhibited in a countenance furrowed by years, and in eyes which are already veiled by the shades of death.
What plan should be adopted to restrain this passion, to confine it within just limits, and prevent its bringing misfortune to individuals, disorder to families, and confusion to society? The invariable rule of Catholicity, in the morality which she teaches, as well as in the institutions which she establishes, is repression; Catholicism does not allow a desire she declares to be culpable in the eyes of God; even a look, when accompanied by an impure thought. Why this severity? For two reasons; on account of the intrinsic morality which there is in this prohibition; and also, because there is profound wisdom in stifling the evil at its birth. It is certainly easier to prevent a man's consenting to evil desires, than it is to hinder his gratifying them when he has allowed them to enter his inflamed heart. There is profound reason in securing tranquillity to the soul, by not allowing it to remain, like Tantalus, with the water at his burning lips. "Quid vis videre, quod non licet habere?" Why do you wish to see that which you are forbidden to possess? is the wise observation of the author of the admirable Imitation of Christ; thus summing up, in a few words, all the prudence which is contained in the holy severity of the Christian doctrine.
The ties of marriage, by assigning a legitimate object to the passions, still do not dry up the source of agitation and the capricious restlessness which the heart conceals. Possession cloys and disgusts, beauty fades and decays, the illusions vanish, and the charms disappear; man, in the presence of a reality which is far from reaching the beauty of the dreams inspired by his ardent imagination, feels new desires arise in his heart; tired with what he possesses, he entertains new illusions; he seeks elsewhere the ideal happiness which he thought he had found, and quits the unpleasing reality which thus deceives his brightest hopes.
Give, then, the reins to the passions of man; allow him in any way to entertain the illusion that he can make himself any new ties; permit him to believe that he is not attached for ever, and without recall, to the companion of his life; and you will see that disgust will soon take possession of him, that discord will be more violent and striking, that the ties will begin to wear out before they are contracted, and will break at the first shock. Proclaim, on the contrary, a law which makes no exception of poor or rich, weak or powerful, vassals or kings, which makes no allowance for difference of situation, of character, health, or any of those numberless motives which, in the hands of passions, and especially those of powerful men, are easily changed into pretexts; proclaim that this law is from heaven, show a divine seal on the marriage tie, tell the murmuring passions that if they will gratify themselves they must do so by immorality; tell them that the power which is charged with the preservation of this divine law will never make criminal compliances, that it will never dispense with the infraction of the divine law, and that the crime will never be without remorse; you will then see the passions become calm and resigned; the law will be diffused and strengthened, will take root in customs; you will have secured the good order and tranquillity of families for ever, and society will be indebted to you for an immense benefit. Now this is exactly what Catholicity has done, by efforts which lasted for ages; it is what Protestantism would have destroyed, if Europe had generally followed its doctrine and example, if the people had not been wiser than their deceitful guides.
Protestants and false philosophers, examining the doctrines and institutions of the Catholic Church through their prejudices and animosity, have not understood the admirable power of the two characteristics impressed at all times and in all places on the ideas and works of Catholicity, viz. unity and fixity; unity in doctrines, and fixity in conduct. Catholicity points out an object, and wishes us to pursue it straight forward. It is a reproach to philosophers and Protestants, that after having declaimed against unity of doctrine, they also declaimed against fixity of conduct. If they had reflected on man, they would have understood that this fixity is the secret of guiding and ruling him, and, when desirable of restraining his passions, of exalting his mind when necessary, and of rendering him capable of great sacrifices and heroic actions. There is nothing worse for man than uncertainty and indecision; nothing that weakens and tends more to make him useless. Indecision is to the will what skepticism is to the mind. Give a man a definite object, and if he will devote himself to it, he will attain it. Let him hesitate between two different ways, without a fixed rule to guide his conduct; let him be ignorant of his intention; let him not know whither he is going, and you will see his energy relax, his strength diminish, and he will stop. Do you know by what secret great minds govern the world? Do you know what renders them capable of heroic actions? And how all those who surround them are rendered so? It is that they have a fixed object, both for themselves and for others; it is that they see that object clearly, desire it ardently, strive after it directly, with firm hope and lively faith, without allowing any hesitation in themselves or in others. Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon, and the other heroes of ancient and modern times, no doubt exercised a fascinating influence by the ascendency of their genius; but the secret of this ascendency, the secret of their power, and of that force of impulse by which they surmounted all, was the unity of thought, the fixity of plan, which produced in them that invincible, irresistible character which gave them an immense superiority over other men. Thus Alexander passed the Granicus, undertook and completed his wonderful conquest of Asia; thus Cæsar passed the Rubicon, put Pompey to flight, triumphed at Pharsalia, and made himself master of the world; thus did Napoleon disperse those who parleyed about the fate of France, conquered his enemies at Marengo, obtained the crown of Charlemagne, alarmed and astonished the world by the victories of Austerlitz and Jena.
Without unity there is no order, without fixity there is no stability; and in the moral as in the physical world, without order and stability nothing prospers. Protestantism, which has pretended to advance the individual and society by destroying religious unity, has introduced into creeds and institutions the multiplicity and fickleness of private judgment; it has everywhere spread confusion and disorder, and has altered the nature of European civilization by inoculating it with a disastrous principle which has caused and will continue to cause lamentable evils. And let it not be supposed, that Catholicity, on account of the unity of her doctrines and the fixity of her conduct, is opposed to the progress of ages. There is nothing to prevent that which is one from advancing, and there may be movement in a system which has some fixed points. The universe whose grandeur astonishes us, whose prodigies fill us with admiration, whose beauty and variety enchant us, is united, is ruled by laws constant and fixed. Behold some of the reasons which justify the strictness of Catholicity, behold why she has not been able to comply with the demands of a passion which, once let loose, has no boundary or barrier, introduces trouble into hearts, disorder into families, takes away the dignity of manners, dishonors the modesty of women, and lowers them from the noble rank of the companions of men. I do not deny that Catholicity is strict on this point; but she could not give up this strictness without renouncing at the same time the sublime functions of the depository of sound morality, the vigilant sentinel which guards the destinies of humanity.[17]
XXVI. VIRGINITY IN ITS SOCIAL ASPECT
We have seen, in the fifteenth chapter, with what jealousy Catholicity endeavors to veil the secrets of modesty; with what perseverance she imposes the restraint of morality on the most impetuous passion of the human heart. She shows us all the importance which belongs to the contrary virtue, by crowning with peerless splendor the total abstinence from sensual pleasure, viz. virginity. Frivolous minds, and principally those who are inspired by a voluptuous heart, do not understand how much Catholicity has thus contributed to the elevation of woman; but such will not be the case with reflecting men who are capable of seeing that all that tends to raise to the highest degree of delicacy the feeling of modesty, all that fortifies morality, all that contributes to make a considerable number of women models of the most heroic virtue, equally tends to place women above the atmosphere of gross passion. Woman then ceases to be presented to the eyes of man as the mere instrument of pleasure; none of the attractions with which nature has endowed her are lost or diminished, and she has no longer to dread becoming an object of contempt and disgust, after having been the unhappy victim of profligacy.
The Catholic Church is profoundly acquainted with these truths; and while she watched over the sanctity of the conjugal tie, while she created in the bosom of the family this admirable dignity of the matron, she covered with a mysterious veil the countenance of the Christian virgin, and she carefully guarded the spouses of the Lord in the seclusion of the sanctuary. It was reserved for Luther, the gross profaner of Catharine de Boré, to act in defiance of the profound and delicate wisdom of the Church on this point. After the apostate monk had violated the sacred seal set by religion on the nuptial bed, his was the unchaste hand to tear away the sacred veil of virgins consecrated to God: it was worthy of his hard heart to excite the cupidity of princes, to induce them to seize upon the possessions of these defenceless virgins, and expel them from their abodes. See him everywhere excite the flame of sensuality, and break through all control. What will become of virgins devoted to the sanctuary? Like timid doves, will they not fall into the snares of the libertine? Is this the way to increase the respect paid to the female sex? Is this the way to increase the feeling of modesty and to advance humanity? Was this the way in which Luther gave a generous impulse to future generations, perfected the human mind, and gave vigor and splendor to refinement and civilization? What man with a tender and sensitive heart can endure the shameless declamation of Luther, especially if he has read the Cyprians, the Ambroses, the Jeromes, and the other shining lights of the Catholic Church, on the sublime honor of the Christian virgin? Who, then, will object to see, during ages when the most savage barbarism prevailed, those secluded dwellings where the spouses of the Lord secured themselves from the dangers of the world, incessantly employed in raising their hands to heaven, to draw down upon the earth the dews of divine mercy? In times and countries the most civilized, how sad is the contrast between the asylums of the purest and loftiest virtue, and the ocean of dissipation and profligacy! Were these abodes a remnant of ignorance, a monument of fanaticism, which the coryphæi of Protestantism did well to sweep from the earth? If this be so, let us protest against all that is noble and disinterested; let us stifle in our hearts all enthusiasm for virtue; let every thing be reduced to the grossest sensuality; let the painter throw away his pencil, the poet his lyre; let us forget our greatness and our dignity; let us degrade ourselves, saying, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!"
No; true civilization can never forgive Protestantism for this immoral and impious work; true civilization can never forgive it for having violated the sanctuary of modesty and innocence, for having employed all its efforts to destroy respect for virginity; thus treading under foot a doctrine professed by all the human race. It did not respect what was venerated by the Greeks in the priestesses of Ceres, by the Romans in their vestals, by the Gauls in their druidesses, by the Germans in their prophetesses. It has carried the want of respect for modesty farther than was ever done by the dissolute nations of Asia, and the barbarians of the new world. It is certainly a disgrace for Europe to have attacked what was respected in all parts of the world, to have treated as a mistaken prejudice the universal belief of the human race, sanctioned, moreover, by Christianity. What invasion of barbarians was equal to this attack of Protestantism on all that ought to be most inviolable among men? It has set the fatal example in modern revolutions of the crimes which have been committed.
When we see, in warlike rage, the barbarity of the conquerors remove all restraint from a licentious soldiery, and let them loose against the abodes of virgins consecrated to God, there is nothing but what may be conceived. But when these holy institutions are persecuted by system, when the passions of the populace are excited against them, by grossly assailing their origin and object, this is more than brutal and inhuman. It is a thing which cannot be described, when those who act in this way boast of being Reformers, followers of the pure Gospel, and proclaim themselves the disciples of Him who, in His sublime councils, has pointed out virginity as one of the noblest virtues that can adorn the Christian's crown. Now, who is ignorant that this was one of the works to which Protestantism devoted itself with the greatest ardor?
Woman without modesty will be an incentive to sensuality, but will never attract the soul by the mysterious feeling which is called love. It is very remarkable, that although the most urgent desire of the heart of woman is to please, yet as soon as she forgets modesty she becomes displeasing and disgusting. Thus it is wisely ordained that what wounds her heart the most sharply, becomes the punishment of her fault. Hence, every thing that maintains in woman the delicate feeling of modesty, elevates her, adorns her, gives her greater ascendency over the heart of man, and creates for her a distinguished place in the domestic as well as in the social order. These truths were not understood by Protestantism when it condemned virginity. It is true this virtue is not a necessary condition of modesty, but it is its beau idéal and type of perfection; and certainly we cannot destroy this model, by denying its beauty, by condemning its imitation as injurious, without doing great injury to modesty itself, which, continually struggling against the most powerful passion of the heart of man, cannot be preserved in all its purity, unless it be accompanied by the greatest precautions. Like a flower of infinite delicacy, of ravishing colours, of the sweetest perfume, it can scarcely support the slightest breath of wind; its beauty is destroyed with extreme facility, and its perfume readily evaporates.
But you will perhaps urge against virginity the injury which it does to population; you will consider the offerings which are made on the altar by this virtue as so much taken from the multiplication of the human race. Fortunately the observations of the most distinguished political economists have destroyed this delusion, originated by Protestantism, and supported by the incredulous philosophy of the 18th century. Facts have shown, in a convincing manner, two truths of equal importance in vindicating Catholic doctrines and institutions; 1, that the happiness of nations is not necessarily in proportion to the increase of their population; 2, that the augmentation and diminution of the population depend on many concurrent causes; that religious celibacy, if it be among them, has an insignificant influence.
A false religion and an illegitimate and egotistical philosophy have attempted to assimilate the secrets of this increase of the human race to that of other living beings. All idea of religion has been taken away; they have seen in humanity only a vast field where nothing was to be left sterile. Thus they have prepared the way for the doctrine which considers individuals as machines from which all possible profit should be drawn. No more was thought of charity, or the sublime instructions of religion with respect to the dignity and destinies of man; thus industry has become cruel, and the organization of labor, established on a basis purely material, increases the present, but fearfully menaces the future well-being of the rich.
How profound are the designs of Providence! The nation which has carried these fatal principles to the fullest extent now finds itself overcharged with men and products. Frightful misery devours her most numerous classes, and all the ability of her rulers will not be able to avoid the rock she is running on, urged by the power of the elements to which she has abandoned herself. The eminent professors of Oxford who, it seems, begin to see the radical vices of Protestantism, would find here a rich subject for meditation, if they would examine how far the pretended reformers of the 16th century have contributed, in preparing the critical situation in which England finds herself, in spite of her immense progress.
In the physical world all is disposed by number, weight, and measure; the laws of the universe show infinite calculation--infinite geometry; but let us not imagine that we can express all by our imperfect signs, and include every thing in our limited combinations; let us, above all, avoid the foolish error of assimilating too much the moral and the physical world--of applying indiscriminately to the first what only belongs to the second, and of upsetting by our pride the mysterious harmony of the creation. Man is not born simply for multiplication of his species; this is not the only part which he is intended to perform in the great machine of the universe; he is a being according to the image and likeness of God--a being who has his proper destiny--a destiny superior to all that surrounds him on earth. Do not debase him, do not level him with the earth, by inspiring him with earthly thoughts alone; do not oppress his heart, by depriving him of noble and elevated sentiments--by leaving him no taste for any but material enjoyments. If religious thoughts lead him to an austere life--if the inclination to sacrifice the pleasures of this life on the altar of the God whom he adores takes possession of his heart--why should you hinder him? What right have you to despise a feeling which certainly requires greater strength of mind than is necessary for abandoning one's self to pleasure?
These considerations, which affect both sexes, have still greater force when they are applied to the female. With her lively imagination, her feeling heart, and ardent mind, she has greater need than man of serious inspiration, of grave, solemn thoughts, to counterbalance the activity with which she flies from object to object, receiving with extreme facility impressions of every thing she touches, and, like a magnetic agent, communicating them in her turn to all that surrounds her. Allow, then, a portion of that sex to devote itself to a life of contemplation and austerity; allow young girls and matrons to have always before their eyes a model of all the virtues--a sublime type of their noblest ornament, which is modesty. This will certainly not be without utility. Be assured, these virgins are not taken away from their families, nor from society--both will recover with usury what you imagine they have lost.
In fact, who can measure the salutary influence which the sacred ceremonies with which the Catholic Church celebrates the consecration of a virgin to God, must have exercised on female morals! Who can calculate the holy thoughts, the chaste inspirations which have gone forth from those silent abodes of modesty, erected sometimes in solitary places, and sometimes in crowded cities! Do you not believe that the virgin whose heart begins to be agitated by an ardent passion, that the matron who has allowed dangerous feelings to enter her soul, have not often found their passions restrained by the remembrance of a sister, a relative, a friend, who, in one of these silent abodes, raises her pure heart to Heaven, offering as a holocaust to the Divine Son of the blessed Virgin all the enchantments of youth and beauty? All this cannot be calculated, it is true; but this, at least, is certain, that no thought of levity, no inclination to sensuality has arisen therefrom. All this cannot be estimated; but can we estimate the salutary influence exercised by the morning dew upon plants? can we estimate the vivifying effect of light upon nature? and can we understand how the water which filters through the bowels of the earth fertilizes it by producing fruits and flowers?
There is, then, an infinity of causes of which we cannot deny the existence and the power, but which it is nevertheless impossible to submit to rigorous examination. The cause of the impotence of every work exclusively emanating from the mind of man is, that his mind is incapable of embracing the ensemble of the relations which exist in facts of this kind; it is impossible for him to appreciate properly the indirect influences--sometimes hidden, sometimes imperceptible--which act there with an infinite delicacy. This is the reason why time dispels so many illusions, belies so many prognostics, proves the weakness of what was reckoned strong, and the strength of what was considered weak. Indeed, time brings to light a thousand relations, the existence of which was not suspected, and puts into action a thousand causes which were either unknown or despised: the results advance in their development, appearing every day in a more evident manner, until at length we find ourselves in such a situation that we can no longer shut our eyes to the evidence of facts, or any longer evade their force.
One of the greatest mistakes made by the opponents of Catholicity is this. They can only see things under one aspect; they do not understand how a force can act otherwise than in a straight line; they do not see that the moral world, as well as the physical, is composed of relations infinitely varied, and of indirect influences, sometimes acting with more force than if they were direct. All form a system correlative and harmonious, the parts of which it is necessary to avoid separating, more than is absolutely needful for becoming acquainted with the hidden and delicate ties which connect the whole. It is necessary, moreover, to allow for the action of time, that indispensable element in all complete development, in every lasting work.
I trust I shall be pardoned for this short digression, necessary for the inculcation of the great truths which have not been sufficiently attended to in examining the great institutions founded by Catholicity. Philosophy is now compelled to withdraw propositions advanced too boldly, and to modify principles applied too generally. It would have avoided this trouble and mortification by being cautious and circumspect in its investigations. In league with Protestantism, it declared deadly war against the great Catholic institutions; it loudly appealed against moral and religious centralization. And now a unanimous shout is raised from all quarters of the world in favour of the principle of unity. The instinct of nations seeks for it; philosophers examine the secrets of science to discover it. Vain efforts! No other foundation can be established than that which is already laid; duration depends upon solidity.
Chapter XXVII
OF CHIVALRY AND BARBARIAN MANNERS, IN THEIR INFLUENCE ON THE CONDITION OF WOMEN.
An indefatigable zeal for the sanctity of marriage, and an anxious solicitude to carry the principle of modesty to the highest degree of delicacy, are the two rules which have guided Catholicity in her efforts for the elevation of woman. These are the two great means she has employed in attaining her object, and hence comes the influence and importance of women in Europe. M. Guizot is, therefore, wrong in saying that "it is to the development, to the necessary preponderance of domestic manners in the feudal system, that this change, this improvement in their condition is chiefly owing." I will not discuss the greater or less influence of the feudal system on the development of European manners. Undoubtedly when the feudal lord "shall have his wife, his children, and scarcely any others in his house, they alone will form his permanent society; they alone will share his interests, his destiny. It is impossible for domestic influence not to acquire great power." (Leçon 4.) But if the lord, returning to his castle, found one wife there, and not many, to what was that owing? Who forbade him to abuse his power by turning his house into a harem? Who bridled his passions and prevented his making victims of his timid vassals? Surely these were the doctrines and morals introduced into Europe, and deeply rooted there by the Catholic Church; it was the strict laws which she imposed as a barrier to the invasions of the passions; therefore, even if we suppose that feudality did produce this good, it is still owing to the Catholic Church.
That which has no doubt tended to exaggerate the influence of feudality in all that raises and ennobles women, is a fact that appears very evidently at that period, and is dazzling at first sight. This is the brilliant spirit of chivalry, which, rising out of the bosom of the feudal system, and rapidly diffusing itself, produced the most heroic actions, gave birth to a literature rich in imagination and feeling, and contributed in great measure to soften and humanize the savage manners of the feudal lords. This period is particularly distinguished for the spirit of gallantry; not the gallantry which consists generally in the tender relations of the two sexes, but a greatly exaggerated gallantry on the part of man, combining, in a remarkable way, the most heroic courage with the most lively faith and the most ardent religion. God and his lady; such is the constant thought of the knight; this absorbs all his faculties, occupies all his time, and fills up all his existence. As long as he can obtain a victory over the infidels, and is supported by the hope of offering at the feet of his lady the trophies of his triumph, no sacrifice costs him any thing, no journey fatigues, no danger affrights, no enterprise discourages him. His excited imagination transports him into a world of fancy; his heart is on fire; he undertakes all, he finishes all; and the man who has just fought like a lion on the plains of Spain, or of Palestine, melts like wax at the name of the idol of his heart; then he turns his eyes amorously towards his country, and is intoxicated with the idea that one day, sighing under the castle of his beloved, he may obtain a pledge of her affection, or a promise of love. Woe to any one who is bold enough to dispute his treasure, or indiscreet enough to fix his eyes on those battlements. The lioness who has been robbed of her cubs is not more terrible, the forest torn to pieces by the hurricane is not more agitated than his heart; nothing can stop his vengeance, he must destroy his rival or die. In examining this mixture of mildness and ferocity, of religion and passion, which, no doubt, has been exaggerated by the fancies of chroniclers and troubadours, but which must have had a real type, we shall observe that it was very natural at that time, and that it is not so contradictory as it appears at first sight. Indeed, nothing was more natural than violent passions among men whose ancestors, not long before, had come from the forests of the north to pitch their bloody tents on the site of ruined cities; nothing was more natural than that there should be no other judge than strength of arm among men whose only profession was war, and who lived in an embryo society, where there was no public law strong enough to restrain private passions. Nothing, too, was more natural to those men than a lively sense of religion, for religion was the only power which they acknowledged; she had enchanted their imaginations by the splendour and magnificence of her temples, by the majesty and pomp of her worship. She had filled them with astonishment, by placing before their eyes the most sublime virtue, by addressing them in language as lofty as it was sweet and insinuating; language, no doubt, imperfectly understood by them, but which, nevertheless, convinced them of the holiness and divinity of the Christian mysteries and precepts, inspired them with respect and admiration, and also exercising a powerful influence on their minds, enkindled enthusiasm and produced heroism. Thus we see that all that was good in this exalted sentiment emanated from religion; if we take away faith, we shall find nothing but the barbarian, who knew no other law than his spear, and no other rule of conduct than the inspirations of his fiery soul.
The more we penetrate into the spirit of chivalry and examine in particular the feelings which it professed towards women, the more we shall see that, instead of raising them, it supposes them already raised and surrounded by respect. Chivalry does not give a new place to women; it finds them already honoured and respected; and indeed, if it were not so, how could it imagine a gallantry so exaggerated, so fantastical? But if we imagine to ourselves the beauty of a virgin covered by the veil of Christian modesty; if we imagine this charm increased by illusion, we shall then understand the madness of the knight. If we imagine, at the same time, the virtuous matron, the companion of man, the mother of a family, the only woman in whom were concentrated all the affections of husband and children, the Christian wife, we shall understand why the knight was intoxicated at the mere idea of obtaining so much happiness, why his love was more than a sensual feeling, it was a respect, a veneration, a worship.
It has been attempted to find the origin of this kind of worship in the manners of the Germans; on the strength of some expressions of Tacitus, the social amelioration of woman's lot has been attributed to the respect with which the barbarians surrounded her. M. Guizot rejects this assertion, and justly combats it by observing that what Tacitus tells us of the Germans was not exclusively applicable to them, since "phrases similar to those of Tacitus, and sentiments and customs analogous to those of the ancient Germans, are met with in the statements of many observers of savage or barbarous nations." Yet in spite of this wise remark, the same opinion has been maintained: it is necessary, then, to combat it again.
The passage of Tacitus is this: "Inesse quin etiam sanctum aliquid et providum putant, nec aut consilia eorum aspernantur, aut responsa negligunt. Vidimus sub Divo Vespasiano Velledam diu apud plerosque numinis loco habitare." (De Mor. Germ.) "They go so far as to think that there is in women something holy and prophetical; they do not despise their counsels, and they listen to their predictions. In the time of the divine Vespasian, we have seen the greater part of them for a long time regard Velleda as a goddess." It seems to me that it is mistaking the passage of Tacitus, to extend its meaning to domestic manners, and to see in it a trait of married life. If we attend to the historian's words, we shall see that such an explanation is far from his idea. His words only relate to the superstition which made the people attribute to some women the prophetic character. Even the example chosen by Tacitus serves to show the truth and justness of this observation. "Velleda," he says, "was regarded as a goddess." In another part of his works, Tacitus explains his idea by telling us, of this same Velleda, "that this girl of the nation of Bructeres enjoyed great power, owing to an ancient custom among the Germans, which made them look upon many women as prophetesses, and, in fine, with the progress of superstition, as real divinities." "Ea virgo nationis Bructeræ late imperitabat, vetere apud Germanos more quo plerasque fœminarum fatidicas et augescente superstitione arbitrantur deas." (Hist. 4.) The text which I have just quoted proves to demonstration that Tacitus speaks of superstition and not of family regulations, very different things; as it might easily happen that some women were regarded as divinities, while the rest of their sex only occupied a place in society inferior to that which belonged to them. At Athens, great importance was given to the priestesses of Ceres; at Rome to the Vestals, the Pythonesses; and the history of the Sibyls shows that it was not peculiar to the Germans to attribute the prophetical character to women. It is not for me now to explain the cause of these facts; it is enough for my purpose to state them; perhaps, on this point, physiology might throw light on the philosophy of history.
When Tacitus, in the same work, describes the severity of the manners of the Germans with respect to marriage, it is easy to observe that the order of superstition and the order of the family were among them very different. We have no longer here any thing of the sanctum et providum; we find only a jealous austerity in maintaining the line of duty; and we see woman, instead of being regarded as a goddess, given up to the vengeance of the husband, if she has been unfaithful. This curious passage proves that the power of man over woman was not much limited by the customs of the Germans. "Accisis crinibus," says Tacitus, "nudatam coram propinquis expellit domo maritus, ac per omnem vicum verbere agit." "After having cut off her hair, the husband drives her from his house in presence of her relations, and beats her with rods ignominiously through the village." Certainly this punishment gives us an idea of the infamy which was attached to adultery among the Germans; but it was little calculated to increase the respect entertained for them publicly; this would have been greater had they been stoned to death.
When we read in Tacitus the description of the social state of the Germans, we must not forget that some traits of their manners are purposely embellished by him, which is very natural for a writer of his sentiments. We must not forget that Tacitus was indignant and afflicted at the sight of the fearful corruption of manners at that time in Rome. He paints, it is true, in glowing colours, the sanctity of marriage among the Germans; but who does not see that, when doing so, he had before his eyes matrons who, according to Seneca, reckoned their years not by the succession of consuls, but by change of husbands, and women without a shadow of modesty, given up to the greatest profligacy? We can easily see to whom he alludes when he makes these severe remarks: "Nemo enim illic vitia ridet, nec corrumpere et corrumpi sæculum vocatur." "There vice is not laughed at, and corruption is not called the fashion." A strong expression, which describes the age, and explains to us the secret joy with which Tacitus cast in the face of Rome, so refined and so corrupted, the pure image of German manners. That which sharpened the raillery of Juvenal andenvenomed his bitter satires, excited the indignation of Tacitus, and drew from his grave philosophy these severe reprimands. Other information which we possess shows us that the pictures of Tacitus are embellished, and that the manners of this people were far from being as pure as he wishes to persuade us. Perhaps they may have been strict with respect to marriage; but it is certain that polygamy was not unknown among them. Cæsar, an eye-witness, relates, that the German king Ariovistus had two wives (De Bello Gallico, l. i.); and this was not a solitary instance, for Tacitus himself tells us that a few of them had several wives at once, not on account of sensuality, but for distinction. "Exceptis admodum paucis, qui non libidine, sed ob nobilitatem, pluribus nuptiis ambiuntur." This distinction, non libidine sed ob nobilitatem, is amusing; but it is clear that the kings and nobles, under one pretence or another, allowed themselves greater liberty than the severe historian would have approved of.
Who can tell what was the state of morality among those forests? If we may be allowed to conjecture by analogy, from the resemblance which may naturally be supposed to exist among the different nations of the North, what an idea might we conceive of it from certain customs of the Britons, who, in bodies of ten or twelve, had their wives in common; chiefly brothers with brothers, and fathers with sons; so that they were compelled to distinguish the families conventionally, by giving the children to him who had first married the woman! It is from Cæsar, an eye-witness, that we also learn this: "Uxores habent (Britanni) deni duodenique inter se communes, et maxime fratres cum fratribus et parentes cum liberis; sed si qui sunt ex his nati, eorum habentur liberi a quibus primum virgines quæque ductæ sunt." (De Bello Gallico, l. v.)
However this may have been, it is at least certain that the principle of monogamy was not so much respected among the Germans as people have been willing to suppose; an exception was made in favour of the nobles, that is, of the powerful; and that was enough to deprive the principle of all its force, and to prepare its ruin. In such a matter, to establish an exception to the law in favour of the powerful, is almost to abrogate it. It may be said, I admit, that the powerful will never want means of violating it; but it is one thing for the powerful to violate the law, and another for the law itself to retire before them, leaving the way open: in the first case, the employment of force does not destroy the law--the very shock which breaks it, makes its existence felt, and visibly shows the wrong and injustice; in the second case, the law prostitutes itself, if I may so speak; the passions have no need of force to open for themselves a passage, the law itself opens the door for them. From that time it remains degraded and disgraced; its own baseness has undermined the moral principle on which it was founded; and, owing to its own fault, it becomes itself the subject of animadversion to those who are still compelled to observe it. Thus the right of polygamy, once recognised among the Germans in favour of the great, must, with time, have become general among the other classes of the people; and it is very probable that this was the case when the conquest of more productive countries, the enjoyment of more genial climates, and some improvement in their social condition furnished them more abundantly with the means of gratifying their inclinations. An evil so great could only be withstood by the inflexible severity of the Catholic Church. Nobles and kings still had a strong inclination towards the privileges which we have seen their predecessors enjoying before they embraced the Christian religion. Thence it came that, in the first centuries after the irruption of the barbarians, the Church had so much trouble in restraining their violent inclinations. Would not those who have endeavored to find among the Germans so large a portion of the constitutive elements of modern civilization have shown more wisdom, if they had recognised, in the manners which we have been examining, one of the causes which made the struggles between the secular princes and the Church so frequent?
I do not see why we should seek in the forests of the barbarians for the origin of one of the finest attributes of our civilization, or why we should give to those nations virtues of which they showed so little evidence when they invaded the countries of the south.
Without monuments, without history--almost without any index as to their social condition--it is difficult, not to say impossible, to know any thing certain with respect to their manners; but I ask, what must have been their morality, in the midst of such ignorance, such superstition, and such barbarism?
The little that we know about these nations has been necessarily taken from the Roman historians; and unfortunately this is not one of the purest sources. It almost always happens that observers, especially when they are conquerors, only give some slight notions with regard to the political state of a people, and are almost silent as to their social and domestic condition. In order to form an idea of this part of the condition of a nation, it is necessary to mingle with them, and be intimate with them; now this is generally prevented by their different states of civilization, especially when the observers and the observed are exasperated against each other by long years of war and slaughter. Add to this, that, in such cases, the attention is particularly attracted by what favors or opposes the designs of the conquerors, who for the most part attach no great importance to moral subjects; this will show us how it is that nations who are observed in this way are only superficially known, and why such statements with respect to religion and manners are unworthy of much confidence.
The reader will judge whether these reflections are out of place in estimating the value of what the Romans have told us about the state of the barbarians. It is enough to fix our eyes on the scenes of blood and horror prevailing for centuries, which show us, on the one hand, the ambition of Rome, which, not content with the empire of the then known world, wished to extend its power over the most distant forests of the North; and, on the other, the indomitable spirit of barbarian independence, breaking in pieces the chains which were attempted to be imposed upon them, and destroying, by their bold incursions, the ramparts which the skill of the Roman generals labored to raise against them. See, then, what we ought to think of barbarian society, as described by Roman historians. What shall we think, if we consult the few traits which the barbarians themselves have left us, of their manners and maxims with respect to their social condition? It is always risking much to seek in barbarism for the origin of one of the most beautiful results of civilization, and to attribute to vague and superstitious feelings what, during centuries, forms the normal state of the most advanced nations. If these noble sentiments, which are represented to us as emanating from the barbarians, really existed among them, how did they avoid perishing in the midst of their migrations and revolutions? How did they alone remain, when every thing relating to the social condition of the barbarians disappeared?
These sentiments would not have been preserved in a stationary state, but we should have seen them stripped of their superstition and grossness, purified, ennobled, and made reasonable, just, salutary, chivalrous, and worthy of civilized nations. Such assertions have, from the first sight, the character of bold paradoxes. Certainly, when we have to explain great phenomena in the social order, it is rather more philosophical to seek for their origin in ideas which for a long time have exercised a powerful influence on society, in manners and institutions emanating from them, in laws, in fine, which have been recognised and respected for many centuries as established by Divine power.
Why, then, attempt to explain the respect in which women are held in Europe, by the superstitious veneration which barbarous nations offered in their forests to Velleda, Aurinia, and Gauna? Reason and good sense tell us that the real origin of this wonderful phenomenon is not to be found there, and that we must seek elsewhere for the causes which have contributed to produce it. History reveals to us these causes, and renders them palpable to us, by showing us facts which leave no doubt as to the source whence this powerful and salutary influence emanated. Before Christianity, woman, oppressed by the tyranny of man, was scarcely raised above the rank of slavery; her weakness condemned her to be the victim of the strong. The Christian religion, by its doctrines of fraternity in Jesus Christ, and equality before God, destroys the evil in its root, by teaching man that woman ought not to be his slave, but his companion. From that moment the amelioration of woman's lot was felt wherever Christianity was spread; and woman, as far as the degradation of ancient manners allowed, began to gather the fruit of a doctrine which was to make a complete change in her condition, by giving her a new existence. This is one of the principal causes of the amelioration of woman's lot: a sensible, palpable cause, which is easily shown without making any gratuitous supposition, a cause which is not founded on conjecture, but which appears evident on the first glance at the most notorious facts of history.
Moreover, Catholicity, by the severity of its morality, by the lofty protection which it affords to the delicate feeling of modesty, corrected and purified manners; thus it very much elevated woman, whose dignity is incompatible with corruption and licentiousness. In fine, Catholicity itself, or the Catholic Church, (and observe, I do not say Christianity,) by its firmness in establishing and preserving monogamy and the indissolubility of the marriage tie, restrained the caprices of man, and made him concentrate his affections on one wife, who could not be divorced. Thus woman passed from a state of slavery to that of the companion of man. The instrument of pleasure was changed into the mother of a family, respected by her children and servants. Thus was created in the family identity of interests; thus was guarantied the education of children, which produced the close intimacy which among us unites husband and wife, parents and children. The atrocious right of life and death was destroyed; the father had not even the right to inflict punishments too severe; and all this admirable system was strengthened by ties strong but mild, was based on the principles of sound morality, sustained by prevailing manners, guarantied and protected by the laws, fortified by reciprocal interests, sanctioned by time, and endeared by love. This is the truly satisfactory explanation of the enigma; this is the origin of the honor and dignity of woman in Europe; thence we have derived the organization of the family,--an inestimable benefit which Europeans possess without appreciating it, without being sufficiently acquainted with it, and watching over its preservation as they ought.
In treating of this important matter, I have purposely distinguished between Christianity and Catholicity, in order to avoid a confusion in words, which would have entailed a confusion in things. In reality, the true, the only Christianity is Catholicity; but, unfortunately, we cannot now employ these words indiscriminately, not only on account of Protestantism, but also on account of the monstrous philosophico-Christian nomenclature which ranks Christianity among philosophical sects, as if it were nothing more than a system imagined by man. As the principle of charity plays a great part wherever the religion of Jesus Christ is found, and as this principle is evident even to the eyes of the incredulous, philosophers who have wished to persevere in their incredulity without incurring the scandalous epithet of disciples of Voltaire, have adopted the words fraternity and humanity, to make them the theme of their instructions; they have consented to give to Christianity the chief glory of originating its sublime ideas and generous sentiments: thus they appear not to contradict the history of the past as the philosophy of the age gone by in its madness did; but they pretend to accommodate all to the present time, and prepare the way for a greater and happier future. For these philosophers Christianity is not a divine religion; by no means. With them it is an idea, fortunate, magnificent, and fruitful in grand results, but purely human; it is the result of long and painful human labors. Polytheism, Judaism, the philosophy of the East, of Egypt, of Greece, were all preparatory to that great work. Jesus Christ, according to them, only moulded into form an idea which was in embryo in the bosom of humanity. He fixed and developed it, and, by reducing it to practice, made the human race to take a step of great importance in the path of progress into which it has entered. But, He is always, in the eyes of these philosophers, nothing more than a philosopher of Judea, as Socrates was of Greece, and Seneca of Rome. Still we should rejoice that they grant to Him this human existence, and do not transform Him into a mythological being, by considering the Gospel narrative as a mere allegory.
Thus, at the present time, it is of the first importance to distinguish between Christianity and Catholicity, whenever we have to bring to light and present to the gratitude of mankind the unspeakable benefits for which they are indebted to the Christian religion. It is necessary to show that what has regenerated the world was not an idea thrown at hazard among all those who have struggled for preference and pre-eminence; but that it was a collection of truths sent from Heaven, transmitted to the human race by a God made Man, by means of a society formed and authorized by Himself, in order to perpetuate to the end of time the work which His word had established, which His miracles had sanctioned, and which He had sealed with His blood. It is consequently necessary to exhibit this society, that is, the Catholic Church, realizing in her laws and institutions the inspirations and instructions of her Divine Master, and accomplishing the lofty mission of leading men towards eternal happiness, while ameliorating their condition here below, and consoling them in this land of misfortune. In this way we form a correct idea of Christianity, if we may so speak, or rather we show it as it really is, not as men vainly represent it. And observe, that we ought never to fear for the truth, when the facts of history are fully and searchingly examined. If in the vast field into which our investigations lead us, we sometimes find ourselves in obscurity, walking for a long time in dark vaults which the rays of the sun do not visit, and where the soil under our feet threatens to swallow us up, let us fear nothing, let us advance with courage and confidence; amid the darkest windings we shall discover at a distance the light that shines upon the end of our journey; we shall see truth seated on the threshold, placidly smiling at our terrors and anxieties.
To philosophers, as well as to Protestants, we would say, if Christianity were not realized in a visible society, always in contact with man, and provided with the authority necessary for teaching and guiding him, it would be only a theory, like all others that have been and still are seen on the earth; consequently it would be either altogether sterile, or at least unable to produce any of those great works which endure unimpaired for ages. Now one of these is undoubtedly Christian marriage, and the family organization which has been its immediate consequence. It would have been vain to advance notions favorable to the dignity of woman and tending to improve her lot, if the sanctity of marriage had not been guarantied by a power generally acknowledged and revered. That power is continually struggling against the passions which labor to overcome it; what would have happened if they had had to contend with no other obstacle than a philosophic theory, or a religious idea without reality in society, and without power to obtain submission and obedience?
We have, then, no need of recurring to that extravagant philosophy which seeks for light in the midst of darkness, and which, on seeing order arise out of chaos, has conceived the singular notion of affirming that it was produced by it. If we find in the doctrines, in the laws of the Catholic Church the origin of the sanctity of marriage and the dignity of woman, why should we seek for it in the manners of brutal barbarians, who had no veil for modesty and the privacy of the nuptial couch? Let us hear Cæsar speaking of the Germans: "Nulla est occultatio, quod et promiscui in fluminibus perluuntur, et pellibus aut rhenorum tegumentis utuntur, magna corporis parte nuda." (De Bello Gall., l. vi.)
I have been obliged to oppose authority to authority; I was under the necessity of destroying the fantastical systems into which men have been seduced by an over love of subtilty, by the mania of finding extraordinary causes for phenomena, the origin of which may easily be discovered when we have recourse, in good faith and sincerity, to the concurring instructions of philosophy and history. It was highly necessary, in order to clear up one of the most delicate questions in the history of the human race, and to find the source of one of the most fruitful elements of European civilization. My task was nothing less than to explain the organization of families, that is, to fix one of the poles on which the axis of society turns.
Let Protestantism boast of having introduced divorce, of having deprived marriage of the beautiful and sublime character of a sacrament, of having withdrawn from the care and protection of the Church the most important act of human life; let it rejoice in having destroyed the sacred asylums of virgins consecrated to God; let it declaim against the most angelic and heroic virtue; let us, after having defended the doctrine and conduct of the Catholic Church at the tribunal of philosophy and history, conclude by appealing to the judgment, not indeed of high philosophy, but of good sense and feeling.[18]
XXVIII. OF THE PUBLIC CONSCIENCE IN GENERAL
When enumerating, in the twentieth chapter, the characteristics which mark European civilization, I pointed out, as one of them, "an admirable public conscience, rich in sublime maxims of morality, in rules of justice and equity, in sentiments of honor and dignity, a conscience which survives the shipwreck of private morality, and does not allow the open corruption to go so far as it did in ancient times." We must now explain more at length in what this public conscience consists, what is its origin, what are its results, showing at the same time what share Catholicity and Protestantism have had in its formation. This delicate and important question is, I will venture to say, untouched; at least I do not know that it has yet been attempted. Men constantly speak of the excellence of Christian morality, and on this point all the sects, all the schools of Europe are agreed; but they do not pay sufficient attention to the way in which that morality has become predominant, by first destroying Pagan corruption, then by maintaining itself for centuries in spite of the ravages of infidelity, so as to form an admirable public conscience; a benefit which we now enjoy without appreciating it as we ought, and without even thinking of it. In order fully to comprehend this matter, it is above all necessary to form a clear idea of what is meant by conscience. Conscience in the general, or rather ideological sense of the word, means the knowledge which each man has of his own acts. Thus we say that the soul is conscious of its thoughts, of the acts of its will, and of its sensations; so that the word conscience, taken in this sense, expresses a perception of what we do and feel. Applied to the moral order, this word signifies the judgment which we ourselves form of our actions as good or evil. Thus, when we are about to perform an action, conscience points it out to us as good or bad, and consequently lawful or unlawful; and it thus directs our conduct. The action being performed, it tells us whether we have done well or ill, it excuses or condemns us, it rewards us with peace of mind, or punishes us with remorse.
This explanation being given, we shall easily understand what is meant by public conscience; it is nothing but the judgment formed of their actions by the generality of men. It results from this that, like private conscience, the public conscience may be right or wrong, strict or relaxed; and that there must be differences on this point among societies of men, the same as there are among individuals; that is to say, that, as in the same society we find men whose consciences are more or less right or wrong, more or less strict or relaxed, we must also find societies superior to others in the justice of the judgment which they form on actions, and in the delicacy of their moral appreciation.
If we observe closely, we shall see that individual conscience is the result of widely different causes. It is an error to suppose that conscience resides solely in the intelligence; it is also rooted in the heart. It is a judgment, it is true; but we judge of things in a very different way according to the manner in which we feel them. Add to this, that the feelings have an immense influence on moral ideas and actions; the result is, that conscience is formed under the influence of all the causes which forcibly act on our hearts. Communicate to two children the same moral principles, by teaching them from the same book and under the same master; but suppose that one in his own family sees what he is taught constantly practised, while the other sees there nothing but indifference to it; suppose, moreover, that these two children grow up with the same moral and religious conviction, so that as far as the intellect is concerned there is no difference between them; nevertheless, do you believe that their judgment of the morality of actions will be the same? By no means; and why? Because the one has only convictions, while the other has also feelings. In the one, the doctrine enlightens the mind; while, in the other, example engraves it constantly on the heart. Thus what one regards with indifference, the other looks upon with horror; what the one does with negligence, the other performs with the greatest care; and the same subject that to one is of slight interest, is to the other of the highest importance.
Public conscience, which, in fact, is the sum of private consciences, is subject to the same influences as they are; so that mere instruction is not enough for it, and it requires the concurrence of other causes to act on the heart, as well as the mind. When we compare Christian with pagan society, we instantly see that the former must be infinitely superior to the latter on this point; not only on account of the purity of its morality, and the strength of the principles and motives sanctioning it, but also because it follows the wise course of continually inculcating this morality, and impressing it strongly on the mind by constant repetition. By this constant repetition of the same truths, Christianity has done what other religions never could do; none of them, indeed, have ever succeeded in organizing and putting into practice so important a system. But I have said enough on this point in the fourteenth chapter; it is useless to repeat it here; I pass on to some observations on the public conscience in Europe.
It cannot be denied that, generally speaking, reason and justice prevail in that public conscience. If you examine laws and actions, you will not find those shocking acts of injustice or those revolting immoralities which are to be met with among other nations. There are certainly evils, and very grave ones, but they are at least acknowledged, and called by their right names. We do not hear good called evil, or evil good; that is to say, society, in certain things, is like those persons of good principles and bad morals who are the first to acknowledge that their conduct is blamable, and that their words and deeds contradict each other. We often lament the corruption of morals, the profligacy of our large towns; but what is all the corruption and profligacy of modern society compared with the debauchery of the ancients? It certainly cannot be denied that there is a fearful extent of dissoluteness in some of the capitals of Europe. The records of the police, as well as those of the benevolent establishments where the fruits of crime are received, show shocking demoralization. In the highest classes dreadful ravages are caused by conjugal infidelity, and all sorts of dissipation and disorder; yet these excesses are very far from reaching the extent which they did among the best-governed nations of antiquity, the Greeks and Romans. So that our society, which we so bitterly lament, would have appeared to them a model of modesty and decorum. Need we call to mind the infamous vices then so common and so public, and which have scarcely a name among us now, whether it be because they are so rarely committed, or because the fear of public conscience forces them to hide themselves in the dark places, and, so to speak, in the bowels of the earth? Need we recall to mind the infamies which stain the writings of the ancients as often as they describe the manners of their times? Names illustrious in science and in arms have passed down to posterity with stains so black that we cannot consent to describe them. Now, how corrupt must have been the state of the other classes, when such degradation was attributed to men who, by their elevated positions or other circumstances, were the lights of society!
You talk of the avarice which is so prevalent now-a-days; but look at the usurers of antiquity who sucked the blood of the people everywhere; read the satirical poets, and you will see what was the state of manners on this point; consult, in fine, the annals of the Church, and you will see what pains she took to diminish the effects of this vice; read the history of ancient Rome, and you will find the cursed thirst for gold, and lenders without mercy, who, after having impudently robbed, carried in triumph the fruits of their rapine to live with scandalous ostentation, and buy votes again to raise them to command. No, in European civilization, among nations taught and elevated by Christianity, such evils would not be long tolerated. If we suppose administrative disorder, tyranny, and corruption of morals carried as far as you please, still public opinion would raise its voice and frown on the oppressors. Partial injustice may be committed, but rapine will never be formed into a shameless system, or be regarded as the rule of government. Rely upon it, the words justice, morality, humanity, which constantly resound in our midst, are not vain words; this language produces great results; it destroys immense evils. These ideas impregnate the atmosphere we breathe; they frequently restrain the arm of criminals, and resist with incredible force materialistic and utilitarian doctrines; they continue to exert an incalculable influence on society. We have among us a feeling of morality which mollifies and governs all; which is so powerful that vice is compelled to assume the appearance of virtue, and cover itself with many veils, in order to escape becoming the subject of public execration.
Modern society, it would seem, ought to have inherited the corruption of the old, since it was formed out of its ruins, at a time when its morals were most dissolute. We must observe, that the irruption of the barbarians, far from improving society, contributed, on the contrary, to make it worse; and this, not only on account of the corruption belonging to their fierce and brutal manners, but also on account of the disorder introduced among the nations they invaded, by violating laws, throwing their manners and customs into confusion, and destroying all authority. Whence it follows, that the improvement of public opinion among modern nations is a very singular fact; and that this progress can only be attributed to the influence of the active and energetic principle which has existed in the bosom of Europe for so many centuries.
Let us observe the conduct of the Church on this point--it is perhaps one of the most important facts in the history of the middle ages. Imagine an age when corruption and injustice most unblushingly raised their heads, and you will see that, however impure and disgusting the fact may be, the law is always pure; that is to say, that reason and justice always found some one to proclaim them, even when they appeared to be listened to by nobody. The state of ignorance was the darkest, licentious passions were uncontrolled; but the instructions and admonitions of the Church were never wanting; it is thus that, amidst the darkest night, the lighthouse shines from afar, to guide the mariners in safety.
When in reading the history of the Church we see on all sides assembled councils proclaiming the principles of the gospel morality, while at every step we meet with the most scandalous proceedings; when we constantly hear inculcated the laws which are so often trodden under foot, it is natural to ask, of what use was all this, and of what benefit were instructions thus unheeded? Let us not believe that these proclamations were useless, nor lose courage if we have to wait long for their fruits.
A principle which is proclaimed for a long time in society will in the end acquire influence; if it is true, and consequently contains an element of life, it will prevail in the end over all that opposes it, and will rule over all around it. Allow, then, the truth to speak--allow it to protest continually; this will prevent the prescription of vice. Thus vice will preserve its proper name; and you will prevent misguided men from deifying their passions, and placing them on their altars after having adored them in their hearts. Be confident that this protest will not be useless. Truth in the end will be victorious and triumphant; for the protests of truth are the voice of God condemning the usurpations of His creatures. This is what really happened; Christian morality, first contending with the corrupt manners of the empire, and afterwards with the brutality of the barbarians, had for centuries rude shocks to sustain; but at last it triumphed over all, and succeeded in governing legislation and public morals. We do not mean to say that it succeeded in raising law and morals to the degree of perfection which the purity of the gospel morality required, but at least it did away the most shocking injustice; it banished the most savage customs; it restrained the license of the most shameless manners; it everywhere gave vice its proper name; it painted it in its real colors, and prevented its being deified as impudently as it was among the ancients. In modern times, it has had to contend against the school which proclaims that private interest is the only principle of morals; it has not been able, it is true, to prevent this fatal doctrine from causing great evils, but at least it has sensibly diminished them. Unhappy for the world will be the day when men shall say without disguise, "My own advantage is my virtue; my honor is what is useful to myself; all is good or evil, according as it is pleasing or displeasing to me." Unhappy for the world will be the day when such language will no longer be repudiated by public conscience. The opportunity now presenting itself, and wishing to explain so important a matter as fully as possible, I will make some observations on an opinion of Montesquieu respecting the censors of Greece and Rome. This digression will not be foreign to the purpose.
Chapter XXIX
OF THE PRINCIPLE OF PUBLIC CONSCIENCE ACCORDING TO MONTESQUIEU--HONOR--VIRTUE.
Montesquieu has said that republics are preserved by virtue, and monarchies by honor. He observes, moreover, that honor renders the censors, who were required among the ancients, unnecessary among us. True it is, that in modern times there are no censors charged with watching over the public morals; but the cause of this is not as stated by this famous publicist. Among Christian nations, the ministers of religion are the natural censors of public morals. The plenitude of this office belongs to the Church, with this difference, that the censorial power of the ancients was purely civil, while that of the Church is a religious power, which has its origin and sanction in divine authority. The religion of Greece and Rome neither did, nor could, exercise this censorial power over morals. To be convinced of this, it is enough to read the passage from St. Augustine, quoted in the fourteenth chapter--a passage so interesting on this matter, that I will venture to ask the reader to peruse it again. This is the reason why we find among the Greeks and Romans censors who are not seen among Christian nations. These censors were an addition to the Pagan religion, the impotence of which they clearly showed--a religion which was mistress of society, and yet could not fulfil one of the first duties of all religions--that of watching over the public morals. What I assert is so perfectly true, that in proportion as the influence of religion and the ascendency of its ministers have been lowered among modern nations, the ancient censors have reappeared in some sort in the institution of police. When moral means are wanting, it is necessary to have recourse to physical ones; violence is substituted for persuasion, and instead of a zealous and charitable missionary, delinquents fall into the hands of the ministers of public justice.
Much has been already written of the system of Montesquieu, with respect to the principles on which the different forms of government are based; but perhaps sufficient attention has not been paid to the phenomenon which has served to mislead him. As this question is intimately connected with the point which I have just touched upon, in relation to the existence of the censorial authority, I shall explain myself at some length. In the time of Montesquieu, the Christian religion was not so fully understood as it now is with respect to its social importance; and although on this point the author of the Esprit des Lois has done homage to her, it is well to remember what were his antichristian prejudices during his youth, and also that this work is still far from rendering to the true religion what is due to her. The ideas of an irreligious philosophy which, some years later, misled so many fine intellects, had begun at that time to gain the ascendant, and Montesquieu had not sufficient strength of mind to make a decided opposition to the prejudices which threatened universal dominion. To this cause we must add another, which, although distinct from the last, yet had the same origin, viz. a prejudice in favor of all that was old, and a blind admiration for every thing Roman or Grecian. It seemed to the philosophers of that time, that social and political perfection had reached their greatest height among the ancients, that there was nothing to be added to or taken from it, and that even in religion the fables and festivals of antiquity were a thousand times preferable to the faith and worship of the Christian religion. In the eyes of the new philosophers, the heaven of the Apocalypse could not sustain a comparison with that of the Elysian fields; the majesty of Jehovah was inferior to that of Jupiter; all the loftiest Christian institutions were a legacy of ignorance and fanaticism; the most holy and beneficent institutions were the work of tortuous and interested views--the vehicle and expression of sordid interests; public authority was only an atrocious tyranny; and the only noble, just, and salutary institutions were those of Paganism. There every thing was wise, and evinced profound designs highly advantageous to society; the ancients alone had enjoyed social advantages, and had succeeded in organizing public authority, with guarantees for the liberty of citizens. Modern nations should bitterly lament not being able to mingle in the agitation of the forum, being deprived of such orators as Demosthenes and Cicero,--having no Olympic games, or contests of athletæ; in fine, they must always regret a religion which, although full of illusion and falsehood, gave to all nature a dramatic interest, gave life to fountains, rivers, cascades, and seas, peopled the fields, the meadows, and the woods with beautiful nymphs, gave to man gods as the companions of his hearth, and above all, knew how to render life pleasant and charming, by giving full scope to all the passions, and deifying them under the most enchanting forms.
How, in the midst of such prejudices, was it possible to discover the truth in modern institutions? Every thing was in the most deplorable state of confusion; all that was established was condemned without appeal, and every one who attempted to defend it was considered a fool or a knave. Religion and political constitutions, which seemed destined soon to disappear, could reckon on no other support than the prejudices or the interests of governments. Lamentable aberration of the human mind! What would these writers now say if they could arise from their tombs? And yet a century has not yet elapsed since the epoch when their school began to acquire its influence. They have, for a long time, ruled the world at their pleasure; and they have only shed torrents of blood, heaping lesson upon lesson, and deception upon deception, in the history of humanity.
But let us return to Montesquieu. This publicist, who was so much affected by the atmosphere in which he lived, and who had no small share in perverting the age, saw the facts which are here so apparent; he recognised the results of that public opinion which has been created among European nations by the influence of Christianity. But while observing the effects, he did not ascertain the real causes, and labored in every way to accommodate them to his own system. In comparing ancient with modern society, he discovered between them a remarkable difference in the conduct of men; he observed that we see accomplished among us the noblest and most heroic actions, while we avoid a great part of the vices which defile the ancients; but, on the other hand, Montesquieu, like others, could not help seeing that men among us have not always that high moral aim which ought to be the motive of their laudable conduct. Avarice, ambition, love of pleasure, and other passions, still reign in the world, and are easily discovered everywhere. Still these passions do not reach the excess they did among the ancients; there is a mysterious power which restrains them; before giving way to their impulses, they throw a cautious glance around them, and do not indulge in certain excesses unless they are sure of being able to do so in secret. They have great dread of being seen by man; they can only live in solitude and darkness. The author of the Esprit des Lois asked himself what is the cause of this phenomenon. Men, he said to himself, often act, not from moral virtue, but from respect for the judgment which other men will pass upon their actions; this is to act from honor. Now, this is the case in France and in the other monarchies of Europe; it must be, therefore, the distinctive characteristic of monarchical governments; it must be the base of that form of government, the distinction between a republic and despotism. Let us hear the author himself: "Dans quel governement," says he, "faut il des censeurs? Il en faut dans une république, où le principe du governement est la vertu. Ce ne sont pas seulement les crimes qui detruisent la vertu, mais encore les negligences, les fautes, une certaine tiédeur dans l'amour de la patrie, des exemples dangereux, des semences de corruption; ce qui ne choque point les lois, mais les élude; ce qui ne les détruit pas, mais les affaiblit. Tout cela doit être corrigé par les censeurs. * * * Dans les monarchies il ne faut point de censeurs, elles sont fondées sur l'honneur; et la nature de l'honneur est d'avoir pour censeur tout l'univers. Tout homme qui y manque est soumis aux reproches de ceux mêmes qui n'en ont point." (De l'Esprit des Lois, liv. v. chap. 19.) Such is the opinion of this publicist. But if we reflect on the matter, we shall see that he was wrong in transferring to politics, and explaining by simply political causes, a fact purely social. Montesquieu points out, as the distinguishing characteristic of monarchies, what is the general characteristic of all modern European society; he seems not to have understood why the institution of censors was not necessary in Europe, any more than he did the real reason why they were required among the ancients. Monarchical forms have not exclusively prevailed in Europe. Powerful republics have existed there; and there are still some not to be despised. Monarchy itself has undergone numerous modifications; it has been allied sometimes with democracy, sometimes with aristocracy; sometimes its power has been very limited, and sometimes it has been unbounded; and yet we always find this restraint which Montesquieu speaks of, and which he calls honor; that is, a powerful influence stimulating to good deeds and deterring from bad, and all this from respect for the judgments which other men will pass.
"Dans les monarchies," says Montesquieu, "il ne faut point de censeurs, elles sont fondées sur l'honneur; et la nature de l'honneur est d'avoir pour censeur tout l'univers;" remarkable words, which reveal to us the ideas of the writer, and at the same time show us the origin of his mistake. They will assist us in solving the enigma. In order to explain this point as fully as the importance of the subject requires, and with as much clearness as the multitude and intricacy of its relations demand, I shall endeavour to convey my ideas with as much precision as possible.
Respect for the judgment of others is a feeling innate in man; consequently it is in his nature to do or avoid many things on account of this judgment. All this is founded on the simple fact of self-love: this is nothing but love of our own good fame, the desire of appearing to advantage, and the fear of appearing to disadvantage, in the eyes of our fellows. These things are so simple and clear, that they do not require or even admit of proofs or comments. Honor is a stimulant more or less active, or a restraint more or less powerful, according to the degree of severity which we expect in the judgments of others. Thus it is that the miser, when among the generous, makes an effort to appear liberal; the prodigal restrains himself in the presence of the lovers of strict economy; in meetings where decorum generally reigns we see that even libertines control themselves, while men whose manners are usually correct allow themselves certain freedoms in licentious societies. Now the society in which we live is, as it were, one vast company. If we know that strict principles prevail there, if we hear everywhere proclaimed the rules of sound morality, if we think that the generality of the men with whom we live give the right name to every action, without allowing the irregularity of their conduct to falsify their judgment, we see ourselves surrounded on all sides by witnesses and judges who cannot be corrupted; and this checks us at every step when we wish to do evil, and urges us on when we wish to do good. It will be far otherwise if we have reason to expect indulgence from the society in which we move. In this case, and supposing us all to entertain the same convictions, vice will not appear to us so horrible, crime so detestable, or corruption so disgusting; our ideas with regard to the morality of our conduct will be very different, and in the end our actions will show the fatal influence of the atmosphere in which we live. It follows from this, that, in order to infuse into our hearts a feeling of honor strong enough to produce good, it is necessary that principles of sound morality should regulate society, and that they should be generally and fully believed. This being granted, social habits will be formed, which will regulate manners; and even if these habits do not succeed in hindering the corruption of a great number of individuals, they will, nevertheless, be sufficient to compel vice to adopt certain disguises, which, although hypocritical, will not fail to add to the decorum of manners. The salutary effects of these habits will still continue after the faith on which their moral principles are based has been considerably weakened, and society will still gather in abundance the beneficent fruits of the despised or forgotten tree. This is the history of the morality of modern nations: although lamentably corrupt, they are still not so bad as the ancients. They preserve in their legislation, and in their morals, a fund of morality and dignity which the ravages of irreligion have not been able to destroy. Public opinion never dies; every day it censures vice, and extols the beauty and advantages of virtue; it reigns over governments and nations, and exercises the powerful ascendency of an element which is found universally diffused.
"Outre l'Aréopage," says Montesquieu, "il y avait à Athènes des gardiens des mœurs et des gardiens des lois. A Lacédémone, tous les vieillards étaient censeurs. A Rome, deux magistrats particuliers avaient la censure. Comme le Senat veille sur le peuple, il faut que des censeurs aient les yeux sur le peuple et sur le Senat. Il faut qu'ils rétablissent dans la république tout ce qui a été corrompu, qu'ils notent la tiédeur, jugent les négligences, et corrigent les fautes, comme les lois punissent les crimes." (De l'Esprit des Lois, liv. v. chap. 7.) In describing the duties of the censors of antiquity, the author seems to state the functions of religious authority. To penetrate where the civil laws do not extend; to correct, and in some measure to chastise, what they leave unpunished; to exercise over society an influence more delicate and minute than that which belongs to legislation,--such are the objects of the censorial power; and who does not see that that power has been replaced by religious authority? and that if the former has been unnecessary among modern nations, it is owing to the existence of the latter, or to the influence which it has exercised for many centuries?
It cannot be denied that religious authority has for a long time gained a decided ascendency over men's minds and hearts; this fact is written in every page of the history of Europe. As to the results of that influence, so calumniated and ill understood, we meet with them every day,--we who see the principles of justice and sound morality still reigning over public conscience, in spite of the ravages which irreligion and immorality have committed among individuals.
The powerful influence of public conscience will be best explained by some examples. Let us suppose that the richest of nobles, or the most powerful of monarchs, indulged in the abominable excesses of a Tiberius, a Nero, or the other monsters who disgraced the imperial throne, what would happen? We will not predict; but we are confident that the universal shout of indignation and horror would be so loud, and the monster would be so crushed under the load of public execration, that it appears to us impossible for him to exist. It seems to us an anachronism, an impossibility at this time. Even if we admit that there might be men immoral enough to commit such enormities, sufficiently perverted in mind and heart to exhibit such depravity, we see that it would be an outrage against universal morals, and that such a spectacle could not stand for a moment in presence of public opinion. I could draw numberless contrasts, but I shall content myself with one, which, while it reminds us of a fine trait in ancient history, exhibits, with the virtue of a hero, the manners of the time and the melancholy condition of the public conscience. Let us suppose that a general of modern Europe captures by assault a town in which a distinguished lady, the wife of one of the principal leaders of the enemy, falls into the hands of the soldiers. The beautiful prisoner is brought to the general; what should be his conduct? Every one will immediately say, that she ought to be treated with the most delicate attention, that she ought to be immediately set at liberty and allowed to rejoin her husband. Such conduct appears to us so strictly obligatory, so much according to the order of things, and so conformable to our ideas and sentiments, that there certainly does not appear to us to be any peculiar merit in adopting it. We should say that the general had performed a strict and sacred duty, which he could not evade without covering himself with shame and ignominy. We certainly should not immortalize such an action in history; we should allow it to pass unnoticed in the ordinary course of events. Now, this is what Scipio did with respect to the wife of Mardonius at the taking of Carthagena; and ancient history records this generosity as an eternal monument of his virtues. This parallel explains better than any commentary the immense progress of morality and public conscience under the influence of Christianity. Now, such conduct, which among us is considered as simple, natural, and strictly obligatory, does not flow from the honor belonging to monarchies, as Montesquieu asserts, but from more lofty notions of human dignity, from a clearer knowledge of the true state of society, from a morality the purer and more powerful because it is established on eternal foundations. This, indeed, is found and felt everywhere, it governs the good and is respected even by the bad; this is what would stop the licentious man, who, in a case of this sort, would be inclined to indulge his cruelty or his other passions. The author of the Esprit des Lois would doubtless have perceived these truths if he had not been prejudiced by the favorite distinction established at the beginning of his work, and which throughout bound him to an inflexible system. We know what a preconceived system is--one that serves as the mould for a work. Like the bed of Procrustus, ideas and facts, right or wrong, are accommodated to the system; what is too much is taken away, and what is wanting is added. Thus Montesquieu finds in political motives, founded on the republican form of government, the reason for the power exercised over Roman women by their husbands. The cruel rights given to fathers over their children, the unlimited paternal power established by the Roman laws, also appeared to him to flow from political causes, as if it were not evident that these two regulations of the ancient Roman law were owing to causes purely domestic and social, altogether independent of the form of government.[19]
Chapter XXX
ON THE DIFFERENT INFLUENCE OF PROTESTANTISM AND CATHOLICITY ON THE PUBLIC CONSCIENCE.
We have defined the nature of public conscience; we have pointed out its origin and effects. It now remains to examine whether Protestantism has had any share in forming it, and whether it is fairly entitled to the glory of having been of any service to European civilization on this point. We have already shown that the origin of this public conscience is to be found in Christianity. Now Christianity may be considered under two aspects--as a doctrine, and as an institution intended to realize that doctrine; that is to say, Christian morality may be considered in itself, or as taught and inculcated by the Church. To form the public conscience, and make Christian morality regulate it, it was not enough to announce this doctrine; there was still required a society, not only to preserve it in all its purity, that it might be transmitted from generation to generation, but to preach it incessantly to man, and apply it continually to all the acts of life. We must observe that ideas, however powerful they may be, have only a precarious existence until they are realized, and become embodied, as it were, in an institution which, while it is animated, moved, and guided by them, serves them as a rampart against the attacks of other ideas and other interests. Man is formed of body and soul; the whole world is a collection of spiritual and corporeal beings--a system of moral and physical relations; thus it is that all ideas, even the greatest and the loftiest, begin to fall into oblivion when they have no outward expression--no organ by which they make themselves heard and respected. They are then confounded and overwhelmed amid the confusion of the world, and in the end disappear altogether. Therefore, all ideas that are to have a lasting influence on society, necessarily tend to create an institution to represent them, in which they may be personified; not satisfied with addressing themselves to the mind, and with descending to practice by indirect means, they seek to give form to matter, they present themselves to the eyes of humanity in a palpable manner. These observations, which I submit with confidence to the judgment of sensible men, contain a condemnation of the Protestant system. So far from the pretended Reformation being able to claim any part in the salutary events which we are explaining, we should rather say that, by its principles and conduct, it would have been an obstacle in their way, if, as was happily the case, Europe had not been of adult age in the sixteenth century, and consequently almost incapable of losing the doctrines, feelings, habits, and tendencies which the Catholic Church had communicated to it during an education of so many centuries. Indeed, the first thing that Protestantism did was to attack authority, not by a mere act of resistance, but by proclaiming resistance to be a real right, by establishing private judgment as a dogma. From that moment Christian morality remained without support, for there was no longer a society which could claim the right of explaining and teaching it; that is to say, it was reduced to the level of those ideas which, not being represented or supported by an institution, and not having any authorized organ to explain them, possessed no direct means of acting on society, and had no means of protection when attacked.
But I shall be told that Protestantism has preserved the institution which realizes this idea; for it has preserved its ministers, worship, and preaching--in a word, all that truth requires in dealing with man.
I will not deny that there is some truth in this, and I will repeat what I have not hesitated to affirm in the fourteenth chapter of this work, "That we ought to regard it as a great good, that the first Protestants, in spite of their desire to upset all the practices of the Church, have yet preserved that of preaching." I added in the same place: "It is not necessary to deny on this account the evils produced at certain times by the declamation of some ministers, either furious or fanatical; but as unity was broken, and as the people had been hurried into the perilous path of schism, we say that it must have been very conducive to the preservation of the most important ideas concerning God and man, and the fundamental maxims of morality, for such truths to be frequently explained to the people by men who had long studied them in the Holy Scriptures." I repeat here what I there said: preaching practised among Protestants must have had very good effects; but this only amounts to saying, that it did not do so much mischief as was to be feared from its own principles. On this point, they were like men of immoral opinions, who are not so bad as they would be, were their hearts in accordance with their minds: they had the good fortune to be inconsistent. Protestantism had proclaimed the abolition of authority, and the right of private judgment without limit; but in practice it did not quite act up to these doctrines. Thus, it devoted itself with ardor to what it called gospel preaching, and its ministers were called gospellers. So that, at the very time when they just established the principle that every individual had the free right of private judgment, and ought to be guided by reason or private inspiration alone, without listening to any external authority, Protestant ministers were seen spreading themselves everywhere, and claiming to be the legitimate organs of the divine word.
The better to understand the strange nature of such a doctrine, we must remember the maxims of Luther with respect to the priesthood. We know that this heresiarch, embarrassed by the hierarchy which constitutes the ministry of the Church, pretended to overturn it at one blow, by maintaining that all Christians are priests, and that, to exercise the sacred ministry, a simple appointment is necessary, which adds nothing essential or characteristic to the quality of priests, which is the universal patrimony of all Christians. It follows from this doctrine, that the Protestant preacher wanting a mission is not distinguished from other Christians by any characteristic; he cannot, consequently, speak to them with any authority; he is not allowed, like Jesus Christ, to speak quasi potestatem habens (as having authority); he is nothing more than an orator who addresses the people with no other right than what he derives from his education, knowledge, or eloquence.
This preaching without authority, which, in reality and according to the preacher's own principles, was only human, although it committed the glaring inconsistency of pretending to be divine, may, no doubt, have contributed something to the preservation of good moral principles when they were already everywhere established; but it would certainly have been unable to establish them in a society where they were unknown, especially if it had had to struggle with other principles directly opposed to it, and supported by ancient prejudices, by deeply rooted passions, and by strong interests.
Yes, we repeat it, this preaching would have been unable to introduce its principles into such a society; unable to preserve them in safety amid the most alarming revolutions and the most unexampled catastrophes; unable to impart them to barbarous nations, who, proud of their triumph, listened to no other voice than that of their ferocious instinct; unable to make the conquerors and the conquered bow before these principles, to mould the most different nations into one people, by stamping on their laws, institutions, and manners the same seal, in order to form from them that admirable society, that assemblage of nations, or rather that one great nation, which is called Europe. In a word, Protestantism, from its very constitution, would have been incapable of realizing what the Catholic Church has done.
Moreover, this attempted preaching preserved by Protestantism is, at bottom, an effort to imitate the Church that it may not remain unarmed in the presence of so redoubtable an adversary. It required a means of influencing the people,--a channel open to communicate, at the will of each usurper of religious authority, different interpretations of the Bible; this is the reason why, in spite of violent declamation against all that emanated from the chair of St. Peter, it preserved the valuable practice of preaching.
But the best way to feel the inferiority of Protestantism in regard to the knowledge and comprehension of the means proper to extend and strengthen morality, and make it prevail in all the acts of life, is to observe, that it has interrupted all communication between the conscience of the faithful and the direction of the priest; it only leaves to the latter a general direction, which, owing to its being extended over all at the same time, is exerted with effect over none. If we confine ourselves to the consideration of the abolition of the sacrament of Penance among Protestants, we may rest assured that they have thereby given up one of the most legitimate, powerful, and gentle means of rendering human conduct conformable to the principles of sound morality. Its action is legitimate; for nothing can be more legitimate than direct and intimate communication between the conscience of man who is to be judged by God, and the conscience of the man who represents God on earth;--an action which is powerful, because this intimate communication, established between man and man, between soul and soul, identifies, as it were, the thoughts and affections; because, in the presence of God alone, to the exclusion of every other witness, admonitions have more force, precepts more authority, and advice more unction and sweetness to penetrate into the inmost soul;--an action full of gentleness, for it supposes the voluntary manifestation of the conscience which seeks guidance--a manifestation which is commanded, it is true, by authority, but which cannot be enforced by violence, as God alone is the judge of its sincerity;--an action, I repeat, which is gentle, for the minister is compelled to the strictest secrecy; all imaginable precautions have been taken by the Church to prevent a betrayal, and man may rest with tranquillity in the assurance that the secrets of his conscience will never be revealed.
But you will ask me, do you believe all this is necessary to establish and preserve a good state of morality? If morality is to be any thing more than a mere worldly probity, which is exposed to destruction at the first shock of interest, or easily seduced by the passions; if it is to be a morality delicate, strict, and profound, extending over all the acts of life, guiding and ruling the heart of man, and transforming it into that beau idéal which we admire in Catholics who are really devoted to the observances and practices of their religion; if this is the morality which you mean, it is necessary, undoubtedly, that, placed under the inspection of religious authority, it should be directed and guided by a minister of the sanctuary, by a faithful communication of the secrets of our hearts and the numberless temptations which continually assail our weak nature. This is the doctrine of the Catholic Church; and I will add, that it is pointed out by experience and taught by philosophy. I do not mean to say, that Catholics alone are capable of performing virtuous actions; this would be to contradict the experience of every day. I only wish to prove the efficacy of a Catholic institution which is despised by Protestants. I speak of the great influence which this institution has in infusing into our hearts, and preserving in them, a morality which is cordial, constant, and applicable to all the acts of our souls.
No doubt, there is in man a monstrous mixture of good and evil; I know that it is not given him to attain in this life to that ineffable degree of perfection which consists in a perfect conformity with Divine truth and holiness--a perfection which he will not be able even to conceive until the moment when, stripped of his mortal body, he will be plunged into the pure ocean of light and love. But we cannot be permitted to doubt that man, in this earthly abode, in the land of misery and darkness, can, nevertheless, attain to the universal, delicate, and profound state of morality which I have just described; and, however much the present corruption of the world may be a too legitimate subject of affliction, it must be allowed that we still find, in our own days, a considerable number of honorable exceptions in the multitude of persons who conform to the strict rule of gospel morality in their conduct, their wishes, and even in their thoughts and inmost affections. To attain to this degree of morality (and observe, I do not say of evangelical perfection, but of mere morality), it is necessary that the religious principle should be visibly present to the eyes of the soul, that it should act continually upon her, urging on or restraining her in an infinite variety of circumstances which, in the course of life, occur to mislead from the path of duty. The life of man is, as it were, a chain composed of an infinite variety of acts, which cannot be constantly in accordance with reason and the eternal law, unless it remains constantly in the hands of a fixed and universal regulator. And let it not be said that such a state of morality is a beau idéal, the existence of which would bring such confusion into the acts of the soul, and complication of the whole life, as in the end to make it insupportable. No, this is not a mere fancy; it is a reality which is frequently seen by our eyes, not only in the cloister and the sanctuary, but amid the confusion and distractions of the world. That which establishes a fixed rule cannot bring confusion into the acts of the soul, or complicate the affairs of life. Quite the contrary; instead of confusion, it serves to distinguish and illuminate; instead of complicating, it puts in order and simplifies. Establish this rule, and you will have unity; and with unity general order.
Catholicity is always distinguished by its extreme vigilance with respect to morality, by its care in regulating all the acts of life, and even the most secret movements of the heart. Superficial observers have declaimed against the prolixity of moralists--against the minute and detailed study which they make of human actions considered under a moral aspect; they should have observed, that if Catholicity is the religion in the bosom of which has appeared so great a number of moralists, by whom all human actions have been examined in the greatest detail, it is because this religion has for its object to moralize for the whole man, as it were, in all his relations with God, with his neighbor, and with himself. It is clear that such an enterprise requires a more profound and attentive examination than would be necessary, if it had only to give to man an imperfect morality, stopping at the surface of actions, and not penetrating to the bottom of the heart. With respect to Catholic moralists, and without attempting to excuse the excess into which some among them have fallen, either by too great subtility, or by a spirit of party and dispute (excesses which cannot be imputed to the Catholic Church, since she has testified her displeasure when she has not expressly condemned them), it must be observed, that this abundance, this superfluity, if you will, of moral studies, has contributed more than people think to direct minds to the intimate study of man, by furnishing a multitude of facts and observations to those who have subsequently wished to devote themselves to this important science. Now, can there be a more worthy or more useful object for our labors? In another part of this work, I propose to develop the relations of Catholicity with the progress of science and literature; I shall not, therefore, enter more fully on the matter now. Still I may be allowed briefly to observe, that the development and education of the human mind have been principally theological; and that on this point, as well as on many others, philosophers are more indebted to theologians than they seem to imagine.
Let us return to the comparison of the Protestant and Catholic influence on the formation and preservation of a sound public conscience. We have showed that Catholicity, having constantly maintained the principle of authority which Protestantism rejects, has given to moral ideas a force and influence which Protestantism could not. Protestantism, indeed, by its nature and fundamental principles, has never given to these ideas any other support than they might have derived from a school of philosophy. But you will perhaps ask me, do you not acknowledge the force of these ideas; a force peculiar to them, and inherent in their nature, and which frequently changes the face of the world, by deciding its doctrines? Do you not know that they always, in the end, force a passage, in spite of every obstacle, and of all resistance? Have you forgotten the teaching of all history; and do you pretend to deprive human thought of that vital, creative force, which renders man superior to all that surrounds him? Such is the common panegyric on the strength of ideas; thus we see them transformed every moment into all-powerful beings, whose magical wand is capable of changing every thing at their pleasure.
However this may be, I am full of respect for human thought, and allow that there is much truth in what is called the force of an idea; yet I must beg leave to offer a few observations to these enthusiasts, not directly to combat their opinion, but to make some necessary modifications. In the first place, ideas, in the point of view in which we are now considering them, must be divided into two orders; some flattering our passions, the others checking them. It cannot be denied that the former have an immense expansive force. They have a motion of their own; they act in all places; they exert a rapid, violent power; one would say that they overflow with life and activity. The latter have great difficulty in making their way; they advance slowly, they cannot pursue their career without an institution to secure their stability. And why? Because it is not the ideas themselves which act in the former case, but the passions which accompany them, and assume their names; thus masking what is repulsive in them at first sight. In the latter case, on the contrary, it is the truth that speaks. Now, in this land of misfortune, the truth is but little attended to; for it leads to good; and the heart of man, as the Scripture says, is inclined to evil from his youth. Those who vaunt so much the native force of ideas, should point out to us, in ancient or modern history, one idea which, without going out of its own circle, that of the purely philosophical order, is entitled to the glory of having materially contributed to the amelioration of individuals and society.
It is commonly said that the force of ideas is immense; that once shown among men, they will fructify sooner or later; that once deposited in the bosom of humanity, they will remain there as a precious legacy, and contribute wonderfully to the improvement of the world, to the perfection towards which the human race advances. No doubt these assertions contain some truth; as man is an intelligent being, all that immediately affects his mind must certainly influence his destiny. Thus no great change is worked in society without being first realized in the order of ideas; all that is established contrary to our ideas, or without them, must be weak and passing. But it is by no means to be supposed that every useful idea contains in itself a conservative force capable of dispensing with all institutions; that is to say, with support and defence, even during times of social disorder: between these two propositions there is a gulf which cannot be closed without contradicting all history. Now humanity, considered by itself, and given up to its own strength, as it appears to philosophers, is not so safe a depositary as people wish to suppose. Unhappily we have melancholy proofs of this truth: we see too clearly that the human race, far from being a faithful trustee, has but too much imitated the conduct of a foolish spendthrift. In the cradle of the human race, we find great ideas on the unity of God, on man, on relations of man with God and their fellowmen. These ideas were certainly true, salutary, and fruitful: and yet, what did man do with them? Did he not lose them by modifying, mutilating, and distorting them in the most deplorable way? Where were they when Jesus Christ came into the world? What had humanity done with them? One nation alone preserved them; but in what way? Fix your attention on the chosen people, the Jews, and you will see that there was a continual struggle between truth and error; you will see that, by an inconceivable blindness, they incessantly inclined to idolatry; they had a constant tendency to substitute the abominations of the Gentiles for the sublime law of Mount Sinai. And do you know how the truth was preserved among this people? Observe it well; it was supported by the strongest institutions that can be imagined; it was armed with all the means of defence with which an inspired legislator could surround it. It will be said that they were a hard-hearted nation, in the language of the Scriptures; unhappily, since the fall of our first parent, this hardness of heart is become the patrimony of humanity; the heart of man is inclined to evil from his youth; ages before the existence of the Jews, God had covered the earth with the waters of heaven, and had blotted out man from the face of the world; for all flesh had corrupted its way. We must conclude from this, that the preservation of great moral ideas requires powerful institutions; it is evident, therefore, that they cannot be abandoned to the fickleness of the human mind without being disfigured, or even lost. I will say, moreover, that institutions are not only necessary to teach, but also to apply them. Moral ideas, especially those which openly contradict the passions, are never reduced to practice without great efforts; now the ideas themselves do not suffice to make these great efforts, and means of action are required capable of connecting ideas with facts; this is one of the reasons of the impotence of philosophical schools when they attempt to construct any thing. They are often powerful in destroying; momentary action is enough for this, and this action may be easily acquired in a moment of enthusiasm. But when they wish to establish and reduce their conceptions to practice, they are impotent; their only resource is what is called the force of ideas. Now, as ideas constantly vary and change--an inconstancy of which these schools themselves afford the first example--it happens that what we hear them announce one moment as an infallible means of human progress, is the next reduced to a mere object of curiosity.
These last observations anticipate the objection that may be urged against us with respect to the immense force which printing has given to ideas. But this is so far from being a preserver, that it may be said to be the best destroyer of all opinions. If we measure the immense orbit which the human mind has passed through since that important discovery, we shall see that the consummation of opinions (if I may be allowed the expression) is increased in a prodigious degree. The history of the human race, especially since the press has become periodical, appears to be the representation of a rapid drama, where the decorations change every moment, where the scenes succeed each other, scarcely allowing the spectator to catch any of the author's words. Half of this century has not yet passed away, and already it seems as if many centuries had elapsed, so great has been the number of schools which have been born and are dead, of reputations which, after being raised to the highest pitch of renown, have been soon forgotten. This rapid succession of ideas, so far from contributing to increase their force, necessarily renders them weak and unproductive. The natural order in the progress of ideas is this: at first to make their appearance, then to be realized in an institution representing them, and in fine to exert their influence on facts by means of an institution in which they are personified. Now, it is necessary that during these transformations, which essentially require time, ideas should preserve their credit, if they are to produce any favorable result. But when they succeed each other too rapidly, time is wanting for their successive transformations; new ideas strive to discredit the old ones, and consequently to render them useless. This is the reason why the strength of ideas, that is, of philosophy, was never so little to be relied on as now, to produce any thing durable and consistent in the moral order: in this respect, the gain to modern society may well be questioned. More is conceived, but less matured; what the mind gains in extent, it loses in depth, and the pretension in theory makes a sad contrast with the impotence of practice. Of what importance is it that our predecessors were not so ready as we are in improvising a discussion on great social and political questions, if they nevertheless organized and founded such admirable institutions? The architects who raised the astonishing monuments of ages which we call barbarous, were certainly not so learned or so cultivated as those of our time; and yet who has the boldness even to commence what they have finished? Thus it is in the social and political order. Let us remember that great thoughts are produced rather by intuition than by reasoning; in practice, success depends more upon the invaluable quality called tact, than upon enlightened reflection; and experience often teaches that he who knows much, sees little. The genius of Plato would not have been the best guide for Solon or Lycurgus; and all the knowledge of Cicero would not have succeeded in doing what was done by the tact and good sense of two unlettered men like Romulus and Numa.[20]