LXVII. POLITICAL LIBERTY AND RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE
In the sketch I have here drawn, the rigorous accuracy of which no one can question, we have not discovered any thing like oppression in Catholicity, nor any alliance between the clergy and the throne for the destruction of liberty: what we have discovered is merely the regular and natural order of things,--a successive development of events contained in each other, as the plant is contained in the germ. As for the Inquisition, I think I have said enough respecting it in the chapters that treat of it: in this place I will merely observe, that it was not a political instrument in the hands of kings, ready to be used at their beck. Religion was its object; and as we have seen, far from losing sight of this object to suit the wishes of the sovereign, it unhesitatingly condemned the doctrines that would have unjustly extended the powers of the monarch. Shall I be told, that the Inquisition was in its very nature intolerant, and consequently opposed to the growth of liberty? I answer, that toleration, as now understood, had at that time no existence in any European country. Besides, it was under the direct and full influence of religious intolerance that the people were emancipated, municipalities organized, the system of large representative assemblies established, which, under different names, and more or less directly, interfered in public affairs.
Men's ideas were not yet so far perverted as to lead them to believe that religion was favorable and conducive to the oppression of the people; on the contrary, we observe in the hearts of these people a vehement desire for liberty and progress, whilst at the same time they clung with enthusiasm to a faith, in the sight of which it appeared to them just and salutary to refuse toleration to any doctrine at variance with the teaching of the Church of Rome. Unity of faith does not fetter the people--does not impede their movements in any direction--as well, indeed, might it be said, that the mariner is fettered by the compass that guides him in safety through the wide expanse of waters. Was the ancient unity of European civilization wanting in grandeur, in variety, or in beauty? Did Catholic unity, presiding over the destinies of society, arrest its progress, even in the ages of barbarism? Let us fix our eyes upon the grand and delightful spectacle exhibited in the centuries preceding the sixteenth, and pause a moment to reflect; we shall all the better understand in what manner Protestantism has given a wrong direction to the course of civilization.
The immense agitation occasioned by the gigantic enterprise of the Crusades shows in what a state of fermentation were the elements deposited in the bosom of society. The shock excited them to activity--union augmented their force--every where, and in every sense, was to be seen a vigorous and active movement, a sure presage of the high degree of civilization and refinement which Europe was about to attain. The arts and sciences, as if called into life by some powerful voice, reappeared, loudly asserting their claim to protection and an honorable reception. On the feudal castles, those heirlooms of the manners of the period of conquest, a ray of light suddenly gleamed, that illuminated with the rapidity of lightning all climates and all people. Those masses of men, who had hitherto bent in painful toil for the benefit of their masters, now lifted up their heads, and, with bold hearts and enfranchised lips, demanded a share in social advantages. Addressing each other with a look of intelligence, they combined together, and insisted in common that the law should be substituted for caprice. Then towns sprang up, increased in size and importance, and were surrounded with ramparts; municipal institutions arose, and began to develop themselves; kings, till then the sport of the pride, ambition or stubbornness of the feudal lords, seized upon an opportunity so favorable, and made common cause with the people. Threatened with destruction, feudalism entered valiantly into the contest, but in vain; and, restrained by a power even more irresistible than the weapons of its adversaries, and, as if oppressed by the air it breathed, it felt its action impeded, its energies enfeebled, and, despairing of victory, it gave itself up to the enjoyment to be found in the patronage of the arts.
To the coat of mail now succeeded elegance of dress; to the powerful shield, the pompous escutcheon; to the bearing and address of the warrior, the manners of the courtier:--thus was the whole power of feudalism undermined; the popular element was left completely at liberty to develop itself; and the powers of monarchs became every day more extensive. Royalty thus strengthened, municipal institutions in full vigor, and feudalism undermined, the remnants of barbarism and oppression still existing in the laws fell one by one beneath the attacks of so many adversaries; and, for the first time in the world's history, there was seen a considerable number of great nations presenting the peaceful spectacle of many millions of men living in social union, and enjoying together the rights of men and of citizens. Until this period, public tranquillity, and even the very existence of society, had to be secured by carefully excluding from the working of the political machine a great number of individuals by means of slavery--a system that proved at once the intrinsic inferiority and weakness of the governments of antiquity. The Christian religion, with the courage inspired by the consciousness of strength, and with an ardent love for humanity, had never doubted that she held in her hands other means of restraining men than a recourse to degradation and violence, and had, in fact, resolved the problem in a manner the most noble and generous. She had said to society: "Dost thou dread this immense multitude, that have no sufficient titles to thy confidence? I will stand security for them. Thou enslavest them; thou puttest chains around their necks; I will subdue their hearts. Leave them free; and this multitude, before which thou tremblest as before a herd of wild beasts, will become a class of men serviceable to themselves and to thee." This voice had been heard, and all men were freed from the yoke of slavery--all entered upon this noble struggle, which was to place society in equilibrium, without destroying or shaking its foundations. We have already said above, that there existed powerful adversaries. Shocks more or less violent were inevitable; but there was no cause for anticipating any serious catastrophe, unless some fatal combination of circumstances arose to overthrow the only power capable of moderating the inflamed, and sometimes exasperated, passions of men--to impose silence upon that powerful voice, ever ready to say to the combatants, That is enough. That voice--the voice of Christianity--might have been heard with greater or less docility; but it would always have sufficed to calm down the fury of the passions, to moderate the fierceness of their conflicts, and thus to prevent scenes of bloodshed.
If we take a glance at Europe at the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, with a view to discover the social elements, whose struggle seemed likely to disturb public tranquillity, we shall find the power of the throne already far superior to that of the lords and of the people; we shall see it endeavoring to please its rivals, lending its aid to one for the subjugation of the others: but already this power was evidently indestructible. Held more or less in check by the proud remnants of feudalism, and by the ever-growing and encroaching power of the people, monarchy nevertheless maintained its position as a central force for the protection of society against violence and excess. This tendency was so strong, that we every where meet with the same phenomenon, manifested with more or less distinctness, and with characters of greater or less identity. The nations of Europe were great both in numbers and extent; the abolition of slavery gave a sanction to the principle, that man ought to live free in the midst of society, enjoying its most essential advantages, and with sufficient room to enable him to take a more or less elevated rank, according to the means he employs to gain it. Thus society had said to each individual: "I acknowledge thee as a man and a citizen; from this moment I guarantee to thee the possession of these titles. If thou desirest to lead a quiet life in the bosom of thy family--labor and be careful; no one shall wrest from thee the rewards of thy labors, nor trammel the free exercise of thy faculties. Dost thou aspire to the possession of wealth--consider how others have acquired it, and display a similar activity and intelligence. Art thou ambitious of fame, of rising to an elevated rank, to splendid titles--the sciences and the military profession are before thee. If thou hast inherited an illustrious name, thou mayest still increase its lustre; if thou art not in possession of such a name, thou art free to acquire one."
Such was the condition of the social problem at the end of the fifteenth century. Every thing was made public, all the great means of action were openly developing themselves with rapidity; the art of printing already transmitted men's thoughts from one end of the world to the other with the speed of lightning, and insured their preservation for the benefit of future generations. The frequent intercourse between nations, the revival of literature and the arts, the cultivation of the sciences, the inclination for travelling and commerce, the discovery of a new passage to the East Indies, the discovery of America, the preference given to political negotiations for effecting the arrangements of international relations,--every thing combined to give to the minds of men that strong impulse, that shock which at once arouses and develops all their faculties, and gives new life. It is difficult to understand by what process of reasoning, in the face of facts so positive and certain,--facts that stand so prominently forward in every page of history, any man could ever seriously maintain that Protestantism aided human progress. If previous to Luther's reform society had been found stationary, and still submerged in the chaos into which it had been plunged by the irruptions of the barbarians; if the people had not succeeded, previously to that reform, in forming themselves into great nations, and in providing themselves with systems of government more or less perfectly organized, but all unquestionably superior to any that had hitherto existed,--the assertion might carry with it a degree of plausibility, or, at all events, it would not stand, as it unfortunately does, in direct opposition to the most authentic and notorious facts. But what, on the contrary, was the actual state of Europe at the time of Luther's appearance? The administration of justice, exercised with more or less perfection, already possessed a highly moral, rational, and equitable system of legislation for the guidance of its decisions; the people had in great part shaken off the yoke of feudalism, and had acquired abundant resources for the preservation and defence of their liberties; the executive had made immense progress, owing to the establishment, extension, and amelioration of municipalities; the royal authority, enlarged, fortified, and consolidated, formed in the midst of society a central force powerful to work good, to prevent evil, to restrain the passions, to preserve the balance of interests, to prevent ruinous social contests, and to watch over the general welfare of society by constant protection and effectual encouragement; in fine, at that period, nations were seen to fix a look of great foresight and sagacity on the rock upon which the vessel of society is in danger of being wrecked, whenever the power of royalty is left without any sort of counterpoise. Such was already the condition of Europe before the religious revolution of the sixteenth century.
I promptly concede that great progress has been made since that period in all matters of a social, political and administrative nature; but does it follow that this progress is owing to the Protestant Reformation? To prove that it is, it would be necessary to produce two societies absolutely similar in position and circumstances, but separated by a long space of time, that would render all reciprocal influence between them impossible, and subjected, one to the influence of the Catholic, the other to the Protestant principle; then each of the two religions might come forward and say to the world, "This is my work." But it is absurd to compare, as is often done, times so widely different, circumstances so utterly dissimilar and exceptional with ordinary cases; it should also be remembered, that, in every thing, the first step is always the most difficult, and the greatest merit is always due to invention; in a word, after so many other violations of the rules of logic, our opponents should not obstinately persist in deducing from one single fact all other facts, simply because the latter happen to be posterior to the former, otherwise they will fall under suspicion of insincerity in their search after truth, and of a wish to falsify history.
The organization of European society, such as Protestantism found it, was, assuredly not perfect, but it was, at all events, as perfect as was possible. Unless Providence had vouchsafed to govern the world by prodigies, Europe, at this period, could not have attained to a more advantageous position. The elements of progress, of happiness, of civilization and refinement, were in her bosom; they were numerous and powerful; time was developing them by degrees in a manner truly wonderful; and as mournful experience is every day lessening the prestige and credit of destructive doctrines, the time is perhaps not far distant, when philosophers, examining dispassionately this period of history, will agree that society had even then received the most fortunate impulse. It will be seen that Protestantism, by giving a wrong direction to the march of society, only precipitated it upon a perilous route, where it has been on the brink of ruin; and would perhaps have been ruined altogether, had not the hand of the Most High been stronger than the feeble arm of man. Protestants boast of having rendered great service to society by having destroyed in some countries, and impaired in others, the power of the Popes. As regards the Papal supremacy in relation to matters of faith, what I have elsewhere said will suffice to demonstrate the disastrous consequences of the exercise of private judgment; as to discipline, I am unwilling to enter upon questions that would indefinitely extend the limits of this work. I will merely ask my opponents, whether they deem it prudent to leave a society co-extensive with the world without a legislator, without a judge, without an arbitrator, without a counsellor, without a chief?
Temporal power.--This term has long been the bugbear of kings--the watchword of the anti-Catholic party--a snare into which many upright men have fallen--a butt for the shafts of discontented statesmen, disappointed writers, and snarling canonists; and nothing more natural, seeing that the subject afforded them an opportunity of pouring out their resentments, and of giving currency to their suspicious doctrines, well assured that, by affecting zeal for the power of the monarch, they would find, in case of danger, a ready asylum in the palaces of kings. The present is not the place for the discussion of a question that has been the subject of so many vehement and learned disputes; and it would be the more inopportune, as, in the existing state of things, assuredly no power apprehends the least temporal usurpation on the part of the Holy See, which, whatever its enemies may say, has evinced at all times, and even humanly speaking, more prudence, tact, patience, and wisdom than any other power upon earth; and amidst the extreme difficulties of modern times, has taken up a position that enables it to yield to the various exigencies of the times without any compromise of its high dignity, without any deviation from its sublime obligations. It is certain that the temporal power of the Popes had risen in the course of time to such a height, that the successor of St. Peter had become a universal counsellor, arbitrator, and judge, from whose sentence it was dangerous to appeal, even in purely political matters. The general movement throughout Europe had somewhat weakened this power; but yet, at the moment when Protestantism made its appearance, it still had such an ascendency over the minds of men, it commanded so much veneration and respect, and was possessed of such vast means for defending its rights, enforcing its pretensions, supporting its decisions, and making its counsels respected, that the most powerful monarchs of Europe considered it a very serious matter to have the Court of Rome opposed to them in any affair whatever; and consequently they eagerly sought on all occasions, to secure its favor and friendship. Rome had thus become a general centre of negotiation, and no affair of importance could escape its influence.
Such have been the outcries raised against the colossal power, against this pretended usurpation of rights, that one might suppose the Popes to have been a succession of deep conspirators, who, by their intrigues and artifices, aimed at nothing short of universal monarchy. As our opponents plume themselves on their spirit of observation and historical analysis, I felt it necessary to observe, that the temporal power of the Popes was strengthened and extended at a time when no other power was as yet really constituted. To call that power usurpation therefore, is not merely an inaccuracy--it is an anachronism. In the general confusion brought upon all European society by the irruptions of the barbarians, in that strange medley of races, laws, manners, and traditions, there remained only one solid foundation for the structure of the edifice of civilization and refinement, only one luminous body to shine upon the chaos, only one element capable of giving life to the germ of regeneration that lay buried in blood-stained ruins--Christianity, predominant over and annihilating the remains of other religions, arose, in this age of desolation, like a solitary column in the center of a ruined city, or like a bright beacon amid darkness.
Barbarians, and proud of their triumphs as they were, the conquering people bowed their heads beneath the pastoral staff that governs the flock of Jesus Christ. The spiritual pastors, a body of men quite new to these barbarians, and speaking a lofty and divine language, obtained over the chiefs of the ferocious hordes from the north a complete and permanent ascendency, which the course of ages could not destroy. Such was the foundation of the temporal power in the Church; and it will be easily conceived that as the Pope towered above all the other pastors in the ecclesiastical edifice, like a superb cupola above the other parts of a magnificent temple, his temporal power must have risen far higher than that of ordinary bishops; and must also have had a deeper, more solid, and more lasting foundation. All the principles of legislation, all the foundations of society, all the elements of intellectual culture, all that remained of the arts and sciences, all was in the hands of religion; and all very naturally sought protection from the pontifical throne, the only power acting with order, concert, and regularity, and the only one that offered any guarantee for stability and permanence. Wars succeeded to wars, convulsions to convulsions, the forms of society were continually changing; but the one great, general, and dominant fact, the stability and influence of religion, remained still the same: and it is ridiculous in any man to declaim against a phenomenon so natural, so inevitable, and, above all, so advantageous, designating it, "A succession of usurpations of temporal power."
Power, ere it can be usurped, must exist; and where, I pray, did temporal power then exist? Was it in kings?--the sport, and frequently the victims of the haughty barons? In the feudal lords?--continually engaged in contests amongst themselves, with kings, and with the people? In fine, was it in the people?--a troop of slaves, who, thanks to the efforts of religion, were slowly working out their freedom? The people, it is true, united against the lords--they raised their voices to demand protection from the monarch, or to solicit the aid of the Church against the vexations and outrages inflicted on them by both; still, however, they as yet formed but an unorganized embryo of society, without any fixed rule, without government, and without laws. Could we honestly compare modern times with these? Could we apply to these bygone ages restrictions and distinctions of authority that are admissible only in a state of society in which the elements of life and civilization have been developed, in which solid and permanent foundations have been laid, in which, consequently, the functions of social authority could be, and have in effect been, regulated, after a minute analysis of the limits of their respective jurisdictions? To reason otherwise, would be to seek order in chaos, smoothness on the surface of a tempest-tossed ocean. We should not forget, either, a general and unvarying fact, founded on the very nature of things,--a fact, moreover, to which the history of all times and all countries is continually calling our attention, and which has received a striking confirmation from the revolutions of modern times,--viz. that whenever society is deeply diseased, there is always at hand a principle of life to stay the progress of the malady. A contest takes place--collisions occur one after another--they become more frequent and more violent; but ultimately the principle of order prevails over that of disorder, and continues long afterwards to predominate in society. This principle may be more or less just, more or less rational, more or less violent, more or less adequate to attain its object; but whatever it be in these respects, it always prevails in the end, unless, during the struggle, another, a better and more powerful principle takes its place.
Now, in the middle ages, this principle was the Christian Church. She alone could be this principle, for she had truth in her doctrines, justice in her laws, and regularity and prudence in her government. She was the only element of life that existed at this period--the only depository of the grand idea upon which the reorganization of society depended; and this idea was not vague and abstract, but positive and practicable, for it proceeded from the lips of Him whose word calls forth worlds out of nothing, and makes light to shine forth in the midst of darkness. When once the sublime doctrines of the Church had penetrated into the heart of society, her pure, fraternal, and consoling morality necessarily influenced its manners. Forms of government also, and systems of legislation were, in like manner, more or less affected by her mild and powerful influence. These are facts--undeniable facts. Now, the Roman Pontiffs were the center of this happy preponderance which religion so legitimately obtained and so justly deserved; hence it is clear that the power of the Holy See very naturally rose above all other powers.
After having contemplated this sublime picture, drawn from the plain and authentic records of history, why dwell on the defects or the vices of some few individuals? Why drag to light the excesses, the errors, the disorders ever incident to humanity? Why maliciously seek out facts through a long succession of obscure ages, collecting them together and placing them in a light most calculated to make an impression, and to mislead the ignorant? Why, in fine, urge, exaggerate, disfigure, and paint these facts in the darkest possible colors? To do so, is to betray a very shallow understanding of the philosophy of history, a spirit of great partiality, low views, grovelling sentiments, and miserable spleen. It should be loudly proclaimed to the whole world, and a thousand times repeated, that it may never be forgotten, that limits which have no existence cannot be respected--that to create power is not to usurp it--that to make laws is not to violate them--that to reduce to order the chaos in which society is overwhelmed is not to disturb society. Now this was the work of the Church--this is what was done by the Popes.[40]
LXVIII. UNITY IN FAITH NOT ADVERSE TO POLITICAL LIBERTY
The supposed incompatibility of unity in faith with political liberty is an invention of the irreligious philosophy of the last century. Whatever political opinions be adopted, it is of extreme importance that we be on our guard against such a doctrine. We must not forget that the Catholic religion occupies a sphere far above all forms of government--she does not reject from her bosom either the citizen of the United States, or the inhabitant of Russia, but embraces all men with equal tenderness, commanding all to obey the legitimate governments of their respective countries. She considers them all as children of the same father, participators in the same redemption, heirs to the same glory. It is very important to bear in mind that irreligion allies itself to liberty or to despotism, according as its interests incline; lavish of its applause when an infuriated populace are burning temples and massacring the ministers of the altar, it is ever ready to flatter monarchs, to exaggerate their power beyond measure, whenever they win its favor by despoiling the clergy, subverting discipline, and insulting the Pope. Caring little what instruments it employs, provided it accomplishes its work, it is royalist when in a position to sway the minds of kings, to expel the Jesuits from France, from Spain, from Portugal, to pursue them to the four quarters of the globe without allowing them either respite or repose; liberal in the midst of popular assemblies that exact sacrilegious oaths from the clergy, and send into exile or to the scaffold the ministers of religion who remain faithful to their duty.
The man who cannot see that what I have advanced is strictly true, must have forgotten history, and paid little attention to very recent occurrences. With religion and morality, all forms of government are good; without them, none can be good. An absolute monarch, imbued with religious ideas, surrounded by counsellors of sound doctrines, and reigning over a people amongst whom the same doctrines prevail, may make his subjects happy, and will be sure to do so as far as circumstances of time and place permit. A wicked monarch, or one surrounded by wicked counsellors, will do mischief in proportion to the extent of his powers; he will be even more to be dreaded than revolution itself, because better able to arrange his plans, and to carry them out more rapidly, with fewer obstacles, a greater appearance of legality, more pretensions to public utility, and consequently with more certainty of success and of permanent results. Revolutions have undoubtedly done great injury to the Church; but persecuting monarchs have done equally as much. A freak of Henry VIII. established Protestantism in England; the cupidity of certain other princes produced a like result in the nations of the north; and in our own days, a decree of the Autocrat of Russia drives millions of souls into schism. It follows that an unmixed monarchy, if it be not religious, is not desirable; for irreligion, immoral in its nature, naturally tends to injustice, and consequently to tyranny. If irreligion be seated on an absolute throne, or if she hold possession of the mind of its occupant, her powers are unlimited; and, for my part, I know nothing more horrible than the omnipotence of wickedness.
In recent times, European democracy has signalized itself lamentably by its attacks upon religion; a circumstance which, far from favoring its cause, has injured it extremely. We can indeed form an idea of a government more or less free, when society is virtuous, moral, and religious; but not when these conditions are wanting. In the latter case, the only form of government that remains is despotism, the rule of force, for force alone can govern men who are without conscience and without God. If we attentively consider the points of difference between the revolution of the United States and that of France, we shall find that one of the principal points of difference consists in this, that the American revolution was essentially democratic, that of France essentially impious. In the manifestos by which the former was inaugurated, the name of God, of Providence, is every where seen; the men engaged in the perilous enterprise of shaking off the yoke of Great Britain, far from blaspheming the Almighty, invoke his assistance, convinced that the cause of independence was the cause of reason and of justice. The French began by deifying the leaders of irreligion, overthrowing altars, watering with the blood of priests the temples, the streets, and the scaffolds--the only emblem of revolution recognized by the people is Atheism hand in hand with liberty. This folly has borne its fruits--it communicated its fatal contagion to other revolutions in recent times--the new order of things has been inaugurated with sacrilegious crimes; and the proclamation of the rights of man was begun by the profanation of the temples of Him from whom all rights emanate.
Modern demagogues, it is true, have only imitated their predecessors the Protestants, the Hussites, the Albigenses; with this difference, however, that in our days irreligion has manifested itself openly, side by side with its companion, the democracy of blood and baseness; whilst the democracy of former times was allied with sectarian fanaticism. The dissolving doctrines of Protestantism rendered a stronger power necessary, precipitated the overthrow of ancient liberties, and obliged authority to hold itself continually on the alert, and ready to strike. When the influence of Catholicity had been enfeebled, the void had to be filled up by a system of espionage and force. Do not forget this, you who make war upon religion in the name of liberty; do not forget that like causes produce like effects. Where moral influences do not exist, their absence must be supplied by physical force: if you take from the people the sweet yoke of religion, you leave governments no other resource than the vigilance of police, and the force of bayonets. Reflect, and choose. Before the advent of Protestantism, European civilization, under the ægis of the Catholic religion, was evidently tending towards that general harmony, the absence of which has rendered necessary an excessive employment of force. Unity of faith disappeared, opening the way to an unrestrained liberty of opinion and religious discord; the influence of the clergy was in some countries destroyed, in others weakened: thus was the equilibrium between different classes put an end to, and the class naturally destined to fill the office of mediator rendered powerless. By abridging the power of the Popes, both people and governments were let loose from that gentle curb which restrained without oppressing, and corrected without degrading; kings and people were arrayed against each other, without any body of men possessed of authority to interpose between them in case of a conflict; without a single judge, who, the friend of both parties, and disinterested in the quarrel, might have settled their differences with impartiality, governments began to place their reliance upon standing armies, and the people upon insurrections.
And it is of no avail to allege that in countries where Catholicity prevailed, a political phenomenon arose similar to that which we observe in Protestant nations; for I maintain that amongst Catholics themselves events did not follow the course which they naturally would have followed, had not the fatal Reformation intervened. To attain its complete development, European civilization required the unity from which it had sprung; it could not by any other means establish harmony amongst the diverse elements which it sheltered in its bosom. Its homogeneity was gone the moment unity of faith disappeared. From that hour no nation could adequately effect its organization without taking into account, not only its own internal wants, but also the principles that prevailed in other countries, against the influence of which it had to be on its guard. Do you suppose, for instance, that the policy of the Spanish government, constituted as it was the protector of Catholicity against powerful Protestant nations, was not powerfully influenced by the peculiar and very dangerous position of the country?
I think I have shown that the Church has never been opposed to the legitimate development of any form of government; that she has taken them all under her protection, and consequently that to assert that she is the enemy of popular institutions is a calumny. I have also placed it equally beyond a doubt, that the sects hostile to the Catholic Church, by encouraging a democracy either irreligious or blinded by fanaticism, so far from aiding in the establishment of just and rational liberty, have, in fact, left the people no alternative between unbridled licentiousness and unrestrained despotism. The lesson thus furnished by history is confirmed by experience; and the future will serve only to corroborate its truth. The more religious and moral men are, the more deserving they are of liberty; for they have then less need of external restraints, having a most powerful one in their own consciences. An irreligious and immoral people stand in need of some authority to keep them in order, otherwise they will be constantly abusing their rights, and will consequently deserve to lose them. St. Augustine perfectly understood these truths, and explains briefly and beautifully the conditions necessary for all forms of government. The holy Doctor shows that popular forms are good where the people are moral and conscientious; where they are corrupt, they require either an oligarchy or an unmixed monarchy.
I have no doubt that an interesting passage, in the form of a dialogue, that we meet with in his first book on Free Will, chap. vi., will be read with pleasure.
"Augustine. You would not maintain, for instance, that men or people are so constituted by nature as to be absolutely eternal, and subject neither to destruction nor change?--Evodius. Who can doubt that they are changeable, and subject to the influence of time?--Augustine. If the people are serious and temperate; and if, moreover, they have such a concern for the public good that each one would prefer the public interest to his own, is it not true that it would be advisable to enact that such a people should choose their own authorities the administration of their affairs?--Evodius. Certainly.--Augustine. But, in case these same people become so corrupt that the citizens prefer their own to the public good; if they sell their votes; if, corrupted by ambitious men, they intrust the government of the state to men as criminal and corrupt as themselves; is it not true that, in such a case, if there be amongst them a man of integrity, and possessing sufficient power for the purpose, he will do well to take from these people the power of conferring honors, and concentrate it in the hands of a small number of upright men, or even in the hands of one man?--Evodius. Undoubtedly.--Augustine. Yet, since these laws appear very much opposed to each other, the one granting the people the right of conferring honors, the other depriving them of that right; since, moreover, they cannot both be in force at once, are we to affirm that one of these laws is unjust, or that it should not have been enacted?--Evodius. By no means."[D]
[D] Aug. Quid ipsi homines et populi, ejusne generis rerum sunt, ut interire mutarive non possint, æternique omnino sint?--Evod. Mutabile plane atque tempori obnoxium hoc genus esse quis dubitet?--Aug. Ergo, si populus sit bene moderatus et gravis, communisque utilitatis diligentissimus custos, in quo unusquisque minoris rem privatam quam publicam pendat, nonne recte lex fertur, qua huic ipsi populo liceat creare sibi magistratus, per quos sua res, id est publica, administretur?--Evod. Recte prorsus.--Aug. Porro, si paulatim depravatus idem populus rem privatam reipublicæ præferat, atque habeat venale suffragium, corruptusque ab eis qui honores amant, regimen in se flagitiosis consceleratisque committat, nonne item recte, si quis tunc extiterit vir bonus, qui plurimum possit, adimat huic populo potestatem dandi honores, et in paucorum bonorum vel etiam unius redigat arbitrium?--Evod. Et id recte.--Aug. Cum ergo duæ istæ leges ita sibi videantur esse contrariæ, ut una earum honorum dandorum populo tribuat potestatem, auferat altera, et cum ista secunda ita lata sit, ut nullo modo ambæ in una civitate simul esse possint, num dicemus aliquam earum injustam esse et ferri minime debuisse?--Evod. Nullo modo.
The whole question is here comprised in a few words: Can monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy, be one and all legitimate and proper? Yes. By what considerations are we to be guided in our decision as to which of these forms is legitimate and proper in any given case? By the consideration of existing rights, and of the condition of the people to whom such form is to be applied. Can a form once good become bad? Certainly it may; for all human things are subject to change. These reflections, as solid as they are simple, will prevent all excessive enthusiasm in favor of any particular form of government. This is not a mere question of theory, but one of prudence also. Now, prudence does not decide before having attentively considered and weighed all circumstances. But there is one predominant idea in this doctrine of St. Augustine: this idea I have already indicated, viz. that great virtue and disinterestedness are required under a free government. Those who are laboring to establish political liberty on the ruins of all religious belief would do well to reflect upon the words of the illustrious doctor.
How would you have people exercise extensive rights, if you disqualify them by perverting their ideas and corrupting their morals? You say that under representative forms of government reason and justice are secured by means of elections; and yet you labor to banish this reason and justice from the bosom of that society in which you talk of securing them. You sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind; instead of models of wisdom and prudence, you offer the people scandalous scenes. Do not say that we are condemning the age, and that it progresses in spite of us: we reject nothing that is good; but perversity and corruption we must reprobate. The age progresses--true; but neither you nor we know whither. Catholics know one thing--a thing which it needs not a prophet to tell, viz. that a good social condition cannot be formed out of bad men; that immoral men are bad; that where there is no religion, morality cannot take root. Firm in our faith, we shall leave you to try, if you choose, a thousand forms of government, to apply your palliatives to your own social patient, to impose upon him with deceitful words; his frequent convulsions--his continued restlessness--are evidences of your incapacity; and well is it for your patient that he still feels this anxiety: it is a sure sign that you have not entirely succeeded in securing his confidence. If ever you do secure it--if ever he fall asleep quietly in your arms--"all flesh will then have corrupted its way;" and it may also be feared lest God should resolve to sweep man from the face of the earth.
Chapter LXIX
OF INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF CATHOLICITY.
It has been abundantly proved in the course of this work, that the pseudo-Reformation has not in any way contributed to the perfection either of individuals or of society; from which we may naturally infer that the case is the same as regards the development of the intellect. I am unwilling, however, to let this truth stand merely as a corollary, and I believe it to be susceptible of a special elucidation. We may freely examine what advantage Protestantism has conferred upon the various branches of human learning, without any fear of the result as regards Catholicity. When we are to examine objects naturally embracing a great many different relations, it is not enough merely to pronounce certain conspicuous names, or to cite with emphasis one or two facts. This is not the way to place a question in its proper light; and to treat it adequately, much more is required. A discussion, either confined within limits too narrow to admit of its full development, or allowed an indefinite range, carries with it, in the eyes of an observer of only slight penetration, an air of universality, elevation, and boldness, whilst in reality it is all uncertainty and vagueness, and is liable to be involved in endless contradictions.
To investigate this question satisfactorily, we must, it seems to me, grasp the Catholic and Protestant principles respectively, subject them to a most rigid scrutiny, and seize upon every point that appears favorable or inimical to the development of the human mind. Further, we should survey, in its widest range, the history of the intellect; pausing here and there at the epochs where the influence of the principle whose tendencies and effects we are studying has been most effectively exerted; then, rejecting anomalous exceptions, as proving nothing either one way or the other, and facts too insignificant and isolated to affect in any way the course of events, the mind, sufficiently elevated, and observing attentively, and with a sincere desire to know the truth, will be enabled to discover how far its philosophical deductions are in accordance with facts; and thus will it complete the solution of the problem.
One of the fundamental principles of Catholicity, one of its distinctive characteristics, is the submission of the intellect to authority in matters of faith. This is the point against which the attacks of Protestants have ever been and still are directed: and this is quite natural, seeing that Protestants profess resistance to authority as a fundamental and constituent principle. From this fatal source flow all their other errors. If there be in Catholicity any thing capable of arresting the march of the mind or of lowering its flight, it must unquestionably be the principle of submission to authority. With this principle must rest all the blame in this respect, if indeed the Catholic religion be chargeable with any.
Submission of the intellect to authority. These words, it cannot be denied, do, unless we have seized upon their true meaning, and ascertained the precise objects to which this submission is applicable, at first sight, convey an idea of antagonism to intellectual development. If you cherish an ardent affection for the dignity of our nature; if you are an enthusiastic advocate of scientific progress, and behold with delight the brilliant efforts of a bold, vigorous, and accomplished genius; you will discover something repulsive in a principle which appears to invoke slavery, since it checks the flight of the mind, clips the wings of the intellect, and casts it into the dust. But if you examine this principle in its essence, apply it to the various branches of learning, and observe what are the points of contact which it offers with the methods adopted for the cultivation of the mind, will you discover any foundation for these suspicions and apprehensions? What truth will you find in the reproaches of which Catholicity has been made the object? How vain and puerile will appear all the declamation published on this subject!
We will now enter fully into the examination of this difficulty; we will take the Catholic principle, and analyze it with the eye of impartial philosophy. With this principle before us, we will survey the whole field of science, and consult the testimony of the greatest men. If we find that it has ever been opposed to the genuine development of any one branch of learning; if, on visiting the tombs where repose the most illustrious, they tell us that the principle of submission to authority chained down their intellects, obscured their imaginations, and withered their hearts,--we will then acknowledge that Protestants are right in the reproaches which they are constantly directing against the Catholic religion on this subject. God, man, society, nature, the entire creation--such are the objects on which our minds can be occupied; beyond the sphere of these objects we cannot reach, for they embrace infinity--there is nothing beyond them. Well, then, the Catholic principle opposes no obstacle to the mind's progress. Whether as regards God or man, society or nature, it imposes no shackles, places no obstacle in the way of the human mind; instead of checking this progress, it rather serves as a lofty beacon, which, far from interfering with the mariner's liberty, guides him in safety amid the obscurity of night.
How does the Catholic principle oppose the freedom of the human mind in anything relating to the Divinity? Protestants surely will not tell us that there is anything at all wrong in the idea which the Catholic religion gives of God. Agreeing with us on the idea of a being eternal, immutable, infinite, the Creator of heaven and earth, just, holy, full of goodness, a rewarder of the good, and a punisher of the wicked, they admit this to be the only reasonable idea of God that can be presented to the mind of man. To this idea the Catholic religion unites an incomprehensible, profound, and ineffable mystery, veiled from the sight of weak mortals,--the august mystery of the Trinity; but on this point Protestants cannot reproach us, unless they are prepared to avow themselves Socinians. The Lutherans, the Calvinists, the Anglicans, and many other sects, condemn, as well as we do, those who deny this august mystery. We may remark here, that Calvin had Michael Servetus burned at Geneva for his heretical doctrines on the Trinity. I am well aware of the ravages that Socinianism has made among the separated Churches, where the spirit and the right of private judgment in matters of faith have converted Christians into unbelieving philosophers; but, notwithstanding this, the mystery of the Trinity was long respected by the leading Protestant sects, and is so yet, externally at least, by the greater part of them.
In any case, I cannot see how this mystery shackles human reason in its contemplation of the Divinity. Does it prevent it from going forth into immensity? What limit does it fix to the infinite ocean of light and being implied in the word God? Does it in the least obscure this splendor? When the mind of man, soaring above the regions of creation, and detaching itself from the body that would bear it down, abandons itself to the delights of sublime meditation on the infinite Being, Creator of heaven and earth, does this august mystery stop him in his heavenward flight? Ask the innumerable volumes written on the Divinity, eloquent and irrefragable testimonies of liberty enjoyed by the human mind wherever Catholicity prevails. The doctrines of Catholicity relative to the Divinity may be considered under two aspects; either as having reference to mysteries above our comprehension, or as touching what is within the reach of reason. As regards mysteries, their abode is in a region so sublime, they appertain to an order of things so superior to any created thought, that the mind, even after the most extensive, most profound, and, at the same time, most free investigations, is unable, without the aid of revelation, to form even the most remote idea of these ineffable wonders. How can things that never meet, which are of a totally distinct order, and which are an immense distance apart, interfere with each other? The intellect can fix upon one of them by means of meditation, can lose itself in contemplating it, without even thinking of the other. Can the moon's orbit come into contact with the remotest of the fixed stars?
Do you fear that the revelation of a mystery may limit the sphere of your reason's operations? Are you apprehensive lest, in wandering through immensity, you may be smothered in the narrowness of your reason? Was space wanted for the genius of Descartes, of Gassendi, of Mallebranche? Did these men complain that their intellects were limited, imprisoned? Why, indeed, should they complain (I speak not of them only, but of all the great minds of modern times who have treated of the Divinity), when they cannot but own that they are indebted to Catholicity for the most splendid and sublime ideas that enrich their writings? The philosophers of antiquity, in their treatises on the Divinity, are at an immense distance below the least eminent of our metaphysical theologians. What would Plato himself be compared to Lewis of Granada, Louis de Léon, Fénélon, or Bossuet? Before Christianity appeared upon earth, before the faith of the Chair of Peter had taken possession of the world, the primitive ideas on the Divinity having been effaced, the human mind wandered amongst a thousand errors, a thousand monstrous fancies; feeling the necessity of a God, man substituted for the Supreme Being the creation of his own imagination. But ever since the ineffable splendor, descending from the bosom of the Father of light, has shone upon the whole earth, ideas of the Divinity have remained so fixed, clear, and simple, and at the same time so lofty and sublime, that human reason has obtained a wider range; the veil which concealed the origin of the universe has been withdrawn; the world's destiny has been marked out, and man has received the key that explains the wonders which fill and surround him. Protestants have felt the force of this truth; their aversion for every thing Catholic was almost fanatical; yet, generally speaking, they may be said to have respected the idea of the Divinity. On this point, of all others, the spirit of innovation has been felt the least. How, indeed, could it be otherwise? The God of the Catholics was too great to be replaced by any other. Newton and Leibnitz, embracing heaven and earth in their speculations, could say nothing new of the Author of so many wonders, nothing but what had already been taught by the Catholic religion.
Well had it been for Protestants if, whilst in the midst of their wanderings they preserved this precious treasure, they had faithfully followed the example of their predecessors, and had rejected that monstrous philosophy which threatens us with the revival of all errors, ancient and modern, beginning with the substitution of a monstrous pantheism for the sublime Deity of Christianity. Let those Protestants who are friends of truth, jealous of the honor of their communion, devoted to their country's welfare, and interested in the future prospects of mankind, be warned in time. If pantheism should prevail, it will not be the spiritualist but the naturalist philosophers who will triumph. The German philosophers may in vain seek refuge in abstraction and enigmas, in vain condemn the sensualist philosophy of the last century; a God confounded with nature is not God, a God identified with every thing is nothing; pantheism is a deification of the universe, that is, a denial of God.
What sorrowful reflections suggest themselves to us when we consider the direction now taken by the minds of men in different parts of Europe, and more especially in Germany! Catholics long since told them they would begin with resistance to authority by denying a dogma, but would end by a denial of all, and fall into atheism; and the course of ideas during the last three centuries has fully confirmed the truth of the prediction. Strange, that German philosophy should aim at producing a reaction against the materialist school, and with all its spiritualism end in pantheism! Providence, it would seem, has ordained that the soil which has produced so many errors should be barren of truth. Out of the Church all is unsteadiness and confusion; materialism ending in atheism, wild idealism and fantastic spiritualism resulting in pantheism! Verily, God still abhors pride, and repeats the terrible chastisement of the confusion of tongues. Catholicity triumphs the while; but mourns in the midst of her triumphs. I do not see either how it can be that Catholicity impedes the operation of the intellect as regards the study of man. What does the Church require of us on this point? What does she teach on the subject? How far extends the circle embracing the doctrines we are forbidden to call in question?
Philosophers are divided into two schools, the materialists and the spiritualists. The former assert that the human soul is only a portion of matter, which, by a certain modification, produces in us what we call thought and will; the latter maintains that the energy accompanying thought and will is incompatible with the inertness of matter; that what is divisible, composed of divers parts, and consequently of divers entities, could not harmonize with the simple unity essential to a being that thinks, wills, reasons, with itself upon every thing, and possesses the profound consciousness of individuality. For these reasons they assert that the contrary opinion is false and absurd; and they ground their opinion upon a variety of considerations. The Catholic Church intervenes in the dispute, and says: "The soul of man is not corporeal, it is a spirit; you cannot be both a Catholic and a materialist." But ask the Catholic Church by what systems you are to explain the ideas, the sensations, the acts of the will, and human feelings,--and she will tell you that on these matters you are perfectly free to hold what you consider most in accordance with reason; that faith does not descend to particular questions appertaining to the affairs of this world, which God himself delivered to the consideration of men. Before the light of the Gospel shone upon the world, the schools of philosophy were in the most profound ignorance on the subject of our origin and our destiny; none of the philosophers could explain the profound contradictions that are found in man; none of them succeeded in pointing out the cause of that strange mixture of greatness and littleness, of goodness and malice, of knowledge and ignorance, of excellence and baseness. But religion came forth, and said: "Man is the work of God; his destiny is to be for evermore united with God; for him the earth is a place of exile only; man is no longer what he was when he came forth from the hands of his Creator; the whole human race is subjected to the consequences of a great fall." Now I would defy all philosophers, ancient and modern, to show wherein the obligation of believing these things militates in the slightest degree against the progress of true philosophy.
So far, indeed, are the doctrines of Catholicity from checking philosophical progress, that they are, on the contrary, a most fruitful source of this progress in every respect. If we wish to make progress in any of the sciences, it is no slight advantage for the intellect to have a safe and firm axis around which it may revolve; it is a fortunate thing to be enabled to avoid at the very outset in the intellectual race, a multitude of questions which would entangle us in inextricable labyrinths, or from which we could not escape without falling into most lamentable absurdities; in a word, when we approach the investigation of these questions, we ought to consider ourselves happy in finding them resolved beforehand in their most important points, and in knowing where the truth lies, and where the danger of falling into error. The philosopher's position is then that of a man who, sure of the existence of a mine in a certain spot, does not waste his time in searching after it, but, knowing his ground, his researches and labors are profitable from the first. This is the cause of the vast advantage which in these matters modern philosophers possess over those of antiquity: the ancients had to grope in the dark; the moderns, preceded by brilliant lights, advance with a firm and sure step, and march straight to their destination. They may boast incessantly that they set aside revelation, that they hold it in disdain, perhaps that they even openly attack it. Even in this case religion enlightens them, and often guides their steps; for there are a thousand splendid ideas for which they are indebted to religion, and which they cannot erase from their minds; ideas which they have found in books, learned in catechisms, and imbibed with their milk; ideas which they hear uttered by every one around them, which are spread everywhere, and which impregnate with their vivifying and beneficent influence the atmosphere they breathe. In repudiating religion, these same moderns are carrying ingratitude to great lengths; for at the very moment they insult her, they are profiting by her favors.
This is not the place to enter into details on this matter, or numerous proofs might easily be adduced in support of the foregoing observations; a comparison between the first works of modern philosophy that came to hand and the works of the ancients would be decisive; but such a labor would still be incomplete for those who are not versed in these matters; and for those who are so, it would be superfluous. I leave the question with entire confidence to the perspicacity and impartiality of my readers; it will, I think, be acknowledged that whenever our modern philosophers have spoken of man with truth and dignity, their language has borne the impress of Christian ideas. Such is the influence of Catholicity upon those sciences which, confined to a purely speculative order, allow the genius of the philosopher the widest range and the greatest freedom possible; but if, as regards those sciences, the influence of Catholicity, instead of checking the mind in its flight, only enlarges its range, increases its sublimity, its daring, and at the same time its security, by preventing it from running astray, what shall we say of its influence on the study of ethics? Has the whole body of philosophers together ever discovered any thing beyond what is contained in the Gospel? What doctrine excels in purity, in sanctity, in sublimity that taught by the Catholic religion? On this point we will do justice to the philosophers, even to those most hostile to the Christian religion. They have attacked its doctrines, and smiled at the divinity of its origin; but have always evinced a profound respect for its morality. I know not what secret influence has constrained them into an avowal that must certainly have cost them dear. "Yes," they invariably say, "it cannot be denied that the morality of Catholicity is excellent."
There are certain doctrines of Catholicity which cannot be said to appertain directly either to God, to man, or to morality, in the sense generally given to this word. The Catholic religion is a revealed religion, of an order far superior to any thing that the human mind is capable of conceiving. Its object is to guide us to a destiny that we could neither attain nor even imagine by our own strength, and it is based upon this principle, that human nature, corrupted by the fall, requires to be restored and purified; evidently, therefore, it should contain certain doctrines explanatory of the mode in which this work of restoration and purification is to be effected, whether in a general or particular sense; and at the same time pointing out the means which God has chosen to lead man to happiness. Such are the doctrines of the Incarnation, of Redemption, of Grace, and of the Sacraments.
These dogmas embrace a wide field; the relations in which they stand to God and to man are very extensive; the doctrines of the Catholic Church are, and always have been, unchangeable. Well then! extensive as they are, they afford not a single point that can be said to have a tendency to embarrass the free action of the intellect in investigations of any kind. The cause of this fact is the same as that I have already indicated. Those who have attentively compared the sciences of philosophy and theology may have remarked that theology, in the sublime questions mentioned above, occupies a sphere so distinct and supereminent as scarcely to preserve a single point of contact with that in which philosophy moves. They are two vast and sublime orbits, occupying in the depths of space positions very distant from each other. Man sometimes tries to make them approximate, and would be glad if a ray of terrestrial light could penetrate into the region of incomprehensible mysteries; but he scarcely knows how to begin this, and we hear him avow, with a profound sense of his own weakness, that he is speaking only conventionally and by analogy, merely with a view to make himself better understood. The Church allows such attempts, owing to the good intentions they evince; sometimes she even prompts and encourages them, desiring, as far as possible, to accommodate what is incomprehensible in her doctrines to the feeble capacities of men.
After all their reasonings on the attributes of the Divinity and the relations of man to God, have philosophers discovered any thing incompatible with these doctrines of Catholicity? Have revealed truths stood in their way as a stumbling-block to their investigations? When Descartes, in the seventeenth century, effected a revolution in philosophy, a singular incident occurred that will throw a strong light on this subject. The Catholic doctrine respecting the august mystery of the Eucharist is known, and also in what the dogma of transubstantiation consists. Many theologians, the reader is also probably aware, in order to explain the supernatural phenomenon which takes place after the consummation of the miracle, had recourse to the doctrine of accidents, which they distinguished from the substance. Now the theory of Descartes, and of almost all other modern philosophers, was incompatible with this explanation, for they denied the existence of accidents distinct from the substance. It consequently appeared at first sight that a difficulty would here arise for the Catholic doctrine, and that the Church would have to oppose this system of philosophy. And did it so happen? Not at all. Upon a careful investigation of the matter, it was seen that the Catholic dogma belonged to a region infinitely above that uncertain one in which the philosophic doctrine was discovered, however closely they might have seemed to approximate. In vain theologians discussed the matter, indulged in mutual recriminations, drew from the new doctrine all sorts of inferences, in order to represent it as dangerous. The Church, always superior to the thoughts of men, kept aloof from these disputes, maintaining that grave, majestic, and impassive attitude so well becoming her to whom Jesus Christ confided the sacred deposit of His doctrine. Such is the liberty accorded by the Church to the genius of philosophers, that it is free in every sense. The Church has no need to be continually imposing restrictions and conditions; the sacred doctrines of which she is the depository dwelling in so elevated a region that the mind of man can scarcely ever meet them, at least so long as his investigations do not wander from the track of true philosophy.
But this human reason, at once so powerful and so feeble, sometimes becomes puffed up with arrogance and pride, and in the name of liberty and independence claims a right to blaspheme the Almighty, to deny man's free will, the immortality and spirituality of his soul, her sublime origin and her heavenly destiny. At such a time we avow, and we glory in the avowal, the Church does raise her voice, not to oppress or tyrannize over the human mind, but to defend the rights of the Supreme Being and the dignity of human nature; then, indeed, we behold her opposing, with unyielding firmness, that senseless liberty which consists in the fatal right of uttering all sorts of extravagances. This liberty Catholics neither possess nor desire, knowing that in these matters, as in others, there is a sacred line of demarcation between liberty and licentiousness. Happy slavery, that keeps us from atheism, materialism, and from doubting whether our souls come from God, whether they tend towards Him, and whether there exists for unhappy mortals, after the sufferings that weigh upon them in this life, a life of eternal happiness purchased by the merits of a God-man! As for the sciences which have society for their object, I think I need not vindicate the Catholic religion from the reproach of having in this respect oppressed the human mind. The long train of reflections in which I have set forth her doctrines and her influence, as regards the nature and extent of power, and the civil and political liberty of nations, proves to a demonstration that the Catholic religion, without descending to the arena in which the passions of men strive and contend, teaches a doctrine most favorable to true civilization and to the rightly-understood liberties of the people.
I will also touch briefly upon the relations of the Catholic principle with the study of the natural sciences. Assuredly it is not easy to see in what way this principle can be injurious to the progress of the human mind in this department of knowledge. I have said, it is not easy; I might have said impossible, and that for a very simple reason, founded upon a fact within the reach of every man; viz. the extreme reserve which the Catholic religion evinces in every thing relating to purely natural science. One might suppose that God had designed, on this matter, to read us a severe lesson on our excessive curiosity: you have only to read the Bible to be convinced of the truth of what I have advanced. I do not mean that nature is never noticed in the Bible; that divine book presents her to us in her grandest, noblest, and most sublime aspect; as a living whole, in fact, together with all her relations and her sublime destiny, but without any kind of analysis or decomposition. In these sacred pages the painter's pencil and the poet's fancy will meet with magnificent models; but the inquisitive philosopher will look in vain for the hints he is in quest of. The Holy Spirit did not aim at making naturalists, but virtuous men; hence, in describing the creation, He represents it solely in a light the best adapted to excite in us feelings of admiration and gratitude towards the Author of so many wonders and benefits. Nature, as she appears in the sacred text, has not much to gratify the curiosity of the philosopher; but then she delights and ennobles the imagination--she moves and penetrates the heart.
LXX. HISTORICAL ANALYSIS OF INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT
From the rapid view we have taken of the several branches of learning in their relations to the authority of the Church, it is clear to a demonstration, that the alleged enslavement of the intellect amongst Catholics is nothing but a mere bugbear: in no respect does our faith either arrest or retard the progress of learning. Since, however, it not unfrequently happens that, in arguments apparently the most solid, a flaw is discovered when they are brought to the test of facts, it will be well to corroborate our assertion by historical testimony; fully assured as we are, that the result must be favorable to the cause of truth. We will begin at the beginning.
M. Guizot maintains that the contest between the Church and the advocates of the freedom of thought originated in the middle ages. Noticing the efforts of John Erigena, Roscelin, Abelard, and the alarm they excited in the Church, he observes: "This was the great event that occurred at the end of the eleventh, and at the beginning of the twelfth centuries, at a time when the Church was under theocratic and monastic influence. It was then that, for the first time, a serious struggle was commenced between the clergy and the freethinkers." (Hist. Générale de la Civilisation en Europe. Leçon 6.) The entire scope of M. Guizot's work shows that, in his judgment, the best-founded reproach that could be cast upon the Catholic Church was, that she checked the freedom of thought. According to him, this is the point upon which the advantage of the Protestant system over Catholicity is the least controvertible. His object being the complete development of this idea, in treating of the religious revolution of the sixteenth century it was requisite for him to deposit it as a seed in his preliminary lectures; as otherwise the fact of the Reformation would have appeared isolated, and shorn of its importance. Besides, it was necessary that the resistance of Protestants to the Catholic Church should have a meaning; that it should carry with it the appearance of a noble and generous thought; that it should be regarded as the proclamation of the freedom of the human mind. To attain this end, the Church, on the one hand, must be represented as asserting claims in the middle ages to which she had not previously pretended; and, on the other, those writers who resisted these alleged pretensions of the Church must be held up as men of extraordinary penetration.
Now, such is precisely the thread of M. Guizot's discourse; and we hence infer his efforts to prepare beforehand the triumph of his opinions. His plan, however, is ill-concerted; for he appears to have overlooked the most palpable facts in the history of the Church; and not even to have known what were the doctrines of the three champions, whose names he invokes with so much complacency. That no one may accuse me of making inconsiderate assertions, I will here quote his words literally: "Thus every thing," says he, "seemed turning to the advantage of the Church, of her unity, and of her power. But whilst the Papacy was grasping at the government of the world, whilst the monasteries were undergoing a moral reformation, a few powerful but isolated individuals claimed for human reason the right of being something in man, the right to interfere in the formation of his opinions. Most of them refrained from attacking received opinions, or religious belief; they merely said that reason had a right to prove them; and that it was not enough that they were affirmed by authority. John Erigena, Roscelin, and Abelard were the interpreters, through whom individual reason began to lay claim to her inheritance--the first authors of that movement of liberty, which was associated with the reform movement of Hildebrand and St. Bernard. If we seek the dominant feature of this movement, we shall find that it was not a change of opinion, a revolt against the system of public belief; it was simply the right of reasoning claimed for reason." (Hist. Générale de la Civilisation en Europe. Leçon 6.)
We will pass over the author's singular parallel between the efforts of John Erigena, Roscelin, and Abelard, and those of the great reformers, Hildebrand or St. Gregory VII., and St. Bernard. These latter sought to reform the Church by legitimate means, to render the clergy more venerable by making them more virtuous, and to win greater respect for authority by sanctifying the persons entrusted with its exercise: the others, according to M. Guizot, resisted this authority in matters of faith; that is, they aimed at its overthrow, and for this purpose laid the axe to the root; the former were reformers, the latter devastators: and yet we are told that their efforts were directed to one and the same object, had one and the same tendency. Verily, the philosophy of history were a sorry thing, if it could allow of such a confusion of ideas! What progress can be made in this branch of knowledge, by men who have so strange a way of dealing with facts? But, I repeat, let us take leave of these aberrations, and fix our attention specially on two points: the worth of these three writers, so much vaunted, and the idea we are told to entertain of their resistance to authority. Doubtless the names of John Erigena and Roscelin are already pronounced with respect by those persons who would fain be thought well versed in the philosophy of history, without having ever read history, and who are obliged to content themselves with those easy lessons that are learned in an hour, and studied in an evening. With persons of this description, it is enough to have heard these names pronounced with emphasis, to have seen them coupled with epithets, such as powerful men, advocates of human reason, interpreters of individual reason, to make them fancy that learning is no less indebted to Erigena and Roscelin than to Descartes or Bacon.
Without bearing in mind the remarks I have already made on the peculiarity of M. Guizot's position, it would not be easy to conjecture why he should seek to represent as new and extraordinary, what was, in fact, neither new nor uncommon; how he could say that the Church first began the contest against liberty of thought, when she put down Erigena, Roscelin, and Abelard. He brings forward these three writers, as though their influence had been paramount; whereas they had no more influence than other sectarians, who abounded in preceding centuries. Who and what really was this John Erigena? A writer but imperfectly versed in theological science; but who, puffed up by the favor shown him by Charles the Bold, broached certain errors on the subject of the Eucharist, predestination and grace. In all that, I see only a man departing from the doctrine of the Church; and in Nicholas the First attempting to stop him in his career, I see only a Pope fulfilling his duty. What is there in all this either new or extraordinary? Does not the whole history of the Church, from the time of the Apostles, exhibit an unbroken succession of similar facts?
I repeat, it is impossible to conceive for what purpose the name of Erigena is brought forward. His errors produced no result of importance; and the age in which he lived cannot be considered as having exercised any great influence on the intellectual development of subsequent times. He lived in the ninth century. Now, this century had no share in the movement of those that followed; indeed, it is well known that the tenth century was the darkest period of ignorance during the middle ages; and that the intellectual movement commenced only at the close of the tenth, and at the opening of the eleventh century. Erigena and Roscelin are separated by two centuries. As for Roscelin and Abelard, it is easier to understand why their names are cited. Every one knows the noise that Abelard made in the world by his doctrines, and perhaps still more by his adventures. Roscelin may also command attention by his errors, and especially as the master of Abelard.
To give an idea of the spirit that guided these men, and of the opinion we are to form of their intentions, we must enter into some details touching their lives and their doctrines. Roscelin was one of the most crafty men of his time. A subtle dialectician and warm partizan of the sect of the Nominalists, he substituted his own opinions for the teaching of the Church; and ended by falling into the gravest errors on the sacred mystery of the Trinity. History has recorded a fact, that proves incontestably the notorious dishonesty of the man--his want of probity and of modesty. At the time that Roscelin was propagating his errors, St. Anselm, who was afterwards archbishop of Canterbury, was living, but at that time abbot of Beck. Lanfranc, archbishop of Canterbury, who died some time before, had left behind him the highest reputation for virtue and sound doctrine. Roscelin thought that the authority of so high a name would give currency and consideration to his errors; and, resorting to the foulest calumny, he affirmed that his opinions were the same as those of Archbishop Lanfranc, and Anselm, abbot of Beck. To this calumny Lanfranc could not reply, as he was already in the tomb; but the abbot of Beck vigorously repelled so unjust an imputation; and at the same time vindicated the reputation of Lanfranc, who had been his master. The works of St. Anselm leave no doubt as to the nature of Roscelin's errors. We find them recorded with the greatest precision. In fact, it were difficult to say why M. Guizot has conferred so much importance upon this man, or why he should be adduced as one of the principal champions of the freedom of thought. There is nothing in Roscelin to distinguish him from other heretics. He is a man who employs artifices and subtleties, and falls into error; but nothing is more common in the history of the Church; and it certainly cannot be considered matter of astonishment.
Abelard is more deserving of notice: his name has become so famous that no one is unacquainted with his sad adventures. A disciple of Roscelin, and as well skilled as his master in the dialectics of the age, endowed with great talents, and eager to parade them on the principal theatres of literature, Abelard earned a reputation never attained by the dialectician of Compiègne. His errors on points of very great importance produced much mischief in the Church, and drew upon himself many sorrows. But it is not true, as M. Guizot will have it, that his doctrines met with less reproof than his method; neither is it true that he and his master Roscelin had no intention of effecting a radical change in matters of doctrine. Evidence of a most unexceptionable kind fortunately places the matter beyond all doubt, and proves that it was not Roscelin's method, but his error on the Trinity, for which he was condemned. Nor have we less certainty in the case of Abelard; for the various errors taken from his works are preserved in the form of articles.
We learn from St. Bernard, that on the Trinity, Abelard held the opinions of Arius--on the Incarnation, those of Nestorius--on grace, those of Pelagius. All this did not merely tend to a radical change of doctrine, but actually was one. I do not know that Abelard ever protested against the truth of these accusations; and even if he had, we all know how to estimate such a protest. It is certain that, in the famous Assembly of Sens--convoked at the request of Abelard himself--he had not a word to say in reply to the sainted abbot of Clairvaux, who reproached him with his errors; and laying before him the very words of his propositions, extracted from his writings, urged him either to defend or abjure them. Abelard, confronted with so formidable an adversary, was so embarrassed that he could only say, in reply, that he appealed to Rome. The Council of Sens, out of respect for the Holy See, abstained from condemning the person of the innovator, but did not fail to condemn his errors; and this condemnation was approved by the Sovereign Pontiff, and extended to his person also. Now, from the articles containing the errors of Abelard, it does not appear that his dominant idea was to proclaim the liberty of thought. He has, it is true, an overweening confidence in his own subtleties; but, beyond this, his only fault is an erroneous and dogmatizing spirit on points of the greatest importance; a fault which he had in common with all the heretics who preceded him.
All this M. Guizot ought to have known; how he can have overlooked it I cannot imagine, nor why he attaches to these authors an importance which they really do not deserve. Perhaps he was anxious to furnish Protestants with some illustrious predecessors, when he laid such stress on the names of Roscelin and Abelard. These two, after all, were not deficient in ability or in erudition, and they lived precisely during the early period of the intellectual movement. Probably M. Guizot thought, that to bring these two innovators upon the scene would answer his purpose extremely well, as showing that, from the very dawn of intellectual development, men of the greatest fame had raised their voices in favor of freedom of thought. After all, had M. Guizot succeeded in proving that John Erigena, Roscelin, and Abelard aimed at nothing more than the assertion of the right of private examination in matters of faith, it would not follow that these innovators had not sought to effect a radical change in matters of doctrine. In fact, what can be more radical as regards matters of faith than that which strikes at authority, the root of all certainty? Neither would it follow, that in condemning the errors of these men the Church had taken alarm merely at their method; for if this method was to consist in withdrawing the intellect from the yoke of authority, even in matters of faith, it was itself a very grievous error, combated at all times by the Catholic Church, which never would consent to have her authority called in question on points of faith.
And yet, if these innovators had entered into the contest chiefly for the purpose of contending against authority in matters of faith, M. Guizot would have had some reason to notice their proceedings as constituting a new era; but, strange to say, their propositions do not appear to have been drawn up with a view to advocate the independence of thought, nor against authority in matters of faith; it was not for such an attempt, but for other errors, that the Church condemned them. Where, then, are the accuracy and historical truth which we should expect from such a man as M. Guizot? How could he venture, in addressing a numerous audience, thus to substitute his own thoughts for facts? The fact is, he well knew that these were matters generally treated very superficially; that to gain the sympathy of superficial men it would suffice to speak in pompous terms of the liberty of thought, to pronounce certain names probably heard by many for the first time, such as Erigena and Roscelin, and especially to mention the unfortunate lover of Heloïse.
M. Guizot, unable to conceal from himself that his observations upon this period were somewhat feeble, tries to apply a remedy by inserting a passage from the Introduction to the Theology of Abelard, which, in my opinion, is very far from answering the purpose of the publicist. His object, in fact, is to show that from that very period a vigorous spirit of resistance to the authority of the Church in matters of faith had sprung up, and that the human mind was even then longing to burst asunder the fetters in which it had been held. He would have us believe that Abelard, yielding to the importunities of his own disciples, had the courage to throw off the yoke of authority; and that his writings were, to a certain extent, the expression of a necessity long felt, of an idea with which many minds had long been agitated. The following is the passage referred to: "If we seek the dominant feature of this movement, we shall find that it was not a change of opinion, a revolt against the system of public belief; it was simply the right of reasoning claimed for reason."
We have already seen how utterly devoid of truth is this assertion of the publicist. The very attack upon authority was itself a radical change in opinions, and a revolution in received doctrines; for the authority of the Church was in itself a dogma, and formed the basis of all religious belief, as experience has satisfactorily shown, since the appearance of Protestantism at the commencement of the sixteenth century. But let us allow the historian to proceed: "The disciples of Abelard, as he himself tells us in his Introduction to Theology, required of him philosophical arguments, and such as would satisfy reason, requesting him to teach them not merely to repeat his instructions, but to understand them also; for no one can believe what he does not understand, and it is ridiculous to preach to others things that neither the teacher nor his pupils understand. 'What object can the study of philosophy have but that of leading the mind to the contemplation of God, to whom all things are to be referred? Why are the faithful allowed to read works treating of worldly affairs and the books of the Gentiles, except to prepare them to understand the sacred Scriptures, and to furnish them with the skill necessary for their defence?... For this purpose alone we should avail ourselves of all our reasoning powers, lest, on questions so difficult and complicated as those that form the object of Christian faith, the subtilty of our opponents should too readily injure the purity of our faith.'"
It cannot be denied, that in Abelard's time a lively curiosity aroused men's minds to employ all their powers to be able to give a reason for what they believed; but it is not true that the Church threw any obstacle in the way of this movement, considering it as a scientific method, and so long as it did not overstep legitimate bounds, and attack or undermine the articles of faith. It is impossible to take a more unfavorable view of the Church than M. Guizot has here taken of her; nor could any one more completely overlook, I will even say distort, facts.
"The importance of this first attempt at liberty," says he, "of this revival of the spirit of inquiry, was soon felt. The Church, though engaged in effecting her own reform, took the alarm nevertheless, and at once declared war against the reformers, whose new methods menaced her with more evils than their doctrines."
Thus is the Church represented as conspiring against the progress of thought, repressing with a strong arm the first attempts of the mind to advance in the path of science, and laying aside questions of doctrine to contend against methods; and all this, we are told, as if it were something new and wonderful. "For," says M. Guizot, "this was the great event which occurred at the end of the eleventh and beginning of the twelfth centuries, at a time when the Church was under theocratic and monastic influence. It was now that, for the first time, a serious struggle commenced between the clergy and the freethinkers. The quarrels of Abelard and St. Bernard, the Councils of Soissons and Sens, in which Abelard was condemned, merely give expression to this event, which has occupied so large a space in the history of modern civilization."
Still the same confusion of ideas. I have said already, and must repeat here that the Church has condemned no method; it was not a method, but error, that the Church condemned, unless by a method be meant an assault upon the articles of faith, under pretence of breaking the fetters of authority, which is not merely a method, but an error of the very highest import. In reproving a pernicious doctrine, subversive of all faith, and denying the infallibility of the See of St. Peter in matters of doctrine, the Church did not put forth any new pretensions; her conduct has always been the same ever since the time of the Apostles, and is the same still. The moment a doctrine is propagated that appears in the least degree dangerous, the Church examines it, compares it with the sacred deposit of truth confided to her; if the doctrine is not inconsistent with divine truth, she allows it free circulation, for she is not ignorant that God has given up the world to the controversies of men; but if it is opposed to the faith, its condemnation is irremissible, without concern or regret. Were the Church to act otherwise, she would contradict herself, and cease to be what she is, the jealous depository of divine truth. If she allowed her infallible authority to be questioned, that moment she would forget one of her most sacred obligations, and would lose all claim on our belief; for, in betraying an indifference for truth, she would prove herself to be no longer a religion descended from heaven, but a mere delusion.
Precisely at the time of which M. Guizot speaks, we observe a fact which proves that the Church allows free scope to the exercise of thought. The high reputation which St. Anselm sustained during his whole career, and the great esteem in which he was held by the Sovereign Pontiffs of his time, are well known; yet St. Anselm philosophised with great freedom. In the introduction to his Monologue, he tells us that some persons entreated him to explain things by reason alone, without the aid of the sacred Scriptures. The Saint was not afraid to comply with their request, and he accordingly wrote the little work we have just named. In other parts of his works, too, St. Anselm adopts the same method. Very few persons concern themselves now-a-days about ancient writers, and doubtless very few have read the works of the holy Doctor of whom we are speaking. They display, however, such perspicuity of thought, such solid reasoning, and above all such a discreet and temperate judgment, that we are surprised to find the human mind, at the very commencement of the intellectual movement, attaining to so high an elevation. In him we find the greatest freedom of thought combined with the respect due to the authority of the Church; and far from impairing the vigor of his ideas, this respect augments their force and perspicuity. From his works we learn that Abelard was not the only one who taught, not merely to repeat his lectures, but also to understand them; for St. Anselm, some years previous, followed the same method with a clearness and solidity far beyond what could be expected at that time. We there discover, also, that in the bosom of the Catholic Church men carried the operations of reason to the greatest possible extent, though always within the bounds prescribed by its own weakness, and with reverential regard to the sacred veil that shrouds august mysteries.
The works of St. Anselm prove that Abelard was not exactly the man to teach the world that the end of philosophical studies is to lead the mind to the contemplation of God, to whom all things should be referred; and that we should avail ourselves of all our reasoning powers, lest on questions so difficult and complicated as those that form the object of Christian faith, the subtilties of our opponents should too readily injure the purity of our faith. But from the Saint's profound submission to the authority of the Church, from the candor and ingenuousness with which he acknowledges the limits of the human mind, we see that he was persuaded that it is not impossible to believe what we do not comprehend; and, in fact, there is a wide difference between the conviction that a thing exists, and a clear knowledge of the nature of the thing in the existence of which we believe.
LXXI. RELIGION AND THE HUMAN MIND IN EUROPE
As we are to examine what was, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the conduct of the Church in reference to innovators, we will avail ourselves of the excellent opportunity afforded by this epoch for noticing the progress of the human mind. It has been said that in Europe intellectual development was exclusively theological. This is true, and necessarily so; all the faculties of man receive their development according to the circumstances that surround him; and as his health, his temperament, his strength, his color even, and his stature depend upon climate, food, mode of life, and other circumstances affecting him, so in like manner his moral and intellectual faculties bear the stamp of the principles which predominate in the family and society of which he forms a constituent part. Now, in Europe, religion was the predominating element; in every thing religion made herself heard and felt; nowhere was there a principle of life or action discoverable unconnected with religion. It was quite natural, therefore, that in Europe all the faculties of man should have their development in a religious sense. A little attention will show us that this was the case not with the intellect only, but likewise with the heart, with the passions even, and with the whole moral man; just as, in whatever direction we go in Europe, we meet at every step with some monument of religion; so whatever faculty we examine in the individual European, we find upon it the impress of religion.
And the case was the same with families and society as with individuals; religion was equally predominant in both. Wherever man has progressed towards a state of perfection, we observe a similar phenomenon; and it is an invariable fact in the history of the human race, that no society ever entered on the road to civilization, save under the direction and impulse of religious principles. True or false, rational or absurd, wherever man is on the road to improvement, these principles are found. Some nations, indeed, may well excite our pity at the monstrous superstitions into which they have fallen; but we still must acknowledge, that, under these very superstitions, lay concealed germs of good that did not fail to produce considerable benefits. The Egyptians, Phœnicians, Greeks, and Romans were all extremely superstitious; yet the progress they made in civilization and intellectual culture was such, that their monuments and memorials strike us even yet with admiration. It is easy to smile at an extravagant observance or a senseless dogma; but we should remember that the growth and preservation of certain moral principles cannot be otherwise secured than under the protecting shade of religious belief. Now, these principles are most indispensably necessary to prevent individuals from being monstrously changed, and to maintain the social and family ties unbroken. Much has been said against the immorality tolerated, permitted, and sometimes even taught by certain forms of religion; and certainly nothing is more lamentable than to behold man thus led astray by that which ought to be his best guide. Let us, however, look for a reality beneath these shadows, which appear at first so gloomy, and we shall soon discover some rays of light that may lead us to regard false religions, not indeed with indulgence, but with less horror than those infamous systems which make matter self-existent, and pleasure the only divinity.
To preserve the idea of moral good and evil, an idea without meaning except in the supposition that there exists a divine power, is itself an inestimable advantage. Now this advantage adheres inseparably to every form of religion, even to those that make the most absurd and most criminal applications of the idea of good and evil. Doubtless, the people of antiquity, and those of our own time who have not received the light of Christianity, have gone most deplorably astray; but, in the midst of their very wanderings, there always remains a certain degree of light; and this light, however dimly it shines, however faint and feeble its rays, is incomparably better than the thick darkness of atheism. Between the nations of antiquity and those of Europe there is this very remarkable difference, that the former passed from a state of infancy to a state of civilization; while the latter advanced to this, in passing from that undefinable state which, in Europe, was the result of the invasion of the barbarians, of the confused mixture of a young with a decrepit society, of rude and ferocious nations with others that were civilized, cultivated, or rather effeminate. Hence, amongst the ancients the imagination was developed before the intellect, whilst amongst Europeans the intellect came before the imagination. With the former, poetry came first; with the latter, what is termed dialectics and metaphysics.
What is the reason of so striking a difference? When a people are yet in their infancy, either an infancy properly so called, or having lived long in ignorance, in a state similar to that of an infant people, we find them rich in sensations, but very poor in ideas. Nature, with her majesty, her wonders, and her mysteries, affects such a people the most; their language is grand, picturesque, and highly poetical; their passions are not refined, but, on the other hand, they are very energetic and violent. Now an intellect that ingenuously seeks the light, loves truth in its purity and simplicity, confesses and embraces it readily, lending itself neither to subtilties, artifices, nor disputes. The least thing that makes a vivid impression upon the senses or the imagination of such a people fills them with surprise and wonder; you cannot inspire them with enthusiasm without setting before them something heroic and sublime.
On the first glance at the state of the people of Europe in the middle ages, we perceive in them a certain resemblance to an infant people, but, at the same time, a very striking difference on several points. Their passions are very strong, they are pleased beyond every thing with the wonderful and the extraordinary, and, for want of realities, their imagination conjures up gigantic phantoms. The profession of arms is their favorite occupation; they rush eagerly into the most perilous adventures, and meet them with incredible courage. All this indicates a development of the feelings of sensibility and imagination, inasmuch as they produce intrepidity and valor; but, strange to say, together with these dispositions, we find a singular taste for things the most purely intellectual; with the most lively, ardent, and picturesque reality, we find associated a taste for the coldest and barest abstractions. A knight, with the cross on his shoulder, gorgeously clad, covered with trophies, beaming with glory won in a hundred combats; a subtile dialectician, disputing on the system of the Nominalists, and urging his subtilely devised abstractions till he becomes unintelligible;--these are certainly two characters very dissimilar, and yet they exist together in the same society; both have their prestige, receive the greatest homage, and are followed by enthusiastic admirers. Even when we have taken into account the singular position of the European nations at that period, it is not easy to assign a cause for this anomaly. We can easily understand how the people of Europe, emerging, for the most part, from the forests of the North, and engaged for a long time either in intestine wars or in conflicts with vanquished tribes, should have preserved, together with their warlike habits, a strong and lively imagination and violent passions; but it is not so easy to account for their taste for an order of ideas purely metaphysical and dialectical. When, however, we come to look deeply into the matter, we discover that this apparent anomaly had its origin in the very nature of things. How is it that a people in their infancy have so much imagination and sensibility? Because the objects by which these faculties are naturally excited abound around them; because individuals, being continually exposed to the influence of external things, these objects operate upon them more forcibly. Man first feels and imagines; later he understands and reflects: this is the natural order in which his faculties begin to operate. Hence, with every people the development of the imagination and of the passions precedes that of the intellect; the passions and the imagination finding their object and aliment before the intellect. This accounts, also, for the fact that the poetical always precedes the philosophical era. From this it follows, that nations in their infancy think little, as they want ideas; and this is the chief distinctive mark between them and the people of Europe at the period we are speaking of. In fact, ideas at that time abounded in Europe; and hence the purely intellectual was held in such repute even amidst the most profound ignorance. Hence, also, the intellect strove to shine even before its time appeared to have arrived. Sound ideas respecting God, respecting man and society, were already everywhere disseminated, thanks to the incessant teaching of Christianity; and as there still remained numerous traces of the wisdom of antiquity, both Christian and Pagan, the consequence was, that every man possessed of a little learning had, in fact, a great fund of ideas.
It is clear, however, that notwithstanding these advantages, the minds of men could not, amidst the chaos of erudition and philosophy that then presented itself, escape the confusion naturally resulting from the wide-spread ignorance, occasioned by a long succession of revolutions. They could not possess sufficient discrimination and judgment to pursue all at once, and with success, the study of the Bible, of the writings of the holy Fathers, of the civil and canon law, of the works of Aristotle, and of the Arabian commentaries. Yet these were all studied at the same time; on all these, disputes were zealously maintained; and the errors and extravagances which in such a state of things were inevitable were accompanied by the presumption that is invariably inherent in ignorance. To succeed in explaining certain passages of the Bible, of the Fathers, of the codes, and of the works of philosophers, great preparatory labors were necessary, as the experience of subsequent ages has proved. It was necessary to study languages, to examine archives and monuments, to collect together from all parts an immense mass of materials; then, to reduce these to order, to compare them together, and to discriminate between them; in a word, it was necessary to possess a rich fund of learning, enlightened by the torch of criticism. Now all this was then wanting, and could only be attained in the course of ages. The consequence was inevitable, considering the mania that existed for explaining every thing. If a difficulty arose, and the facts and knowledge requisite for its solution were wanting, they adopted a roundabout way; instead of seeking the support derivable from facts, the disputants took their stand upon an idea; substituting some subtle abstraction for solid reasoning; where they found it impossible to form a body of sound doctrine, they threw together a confused mass of ideas and words. Who could repress a smile, or not feel pity for Abelard, for instance, promising his disciples to explain to them the prophet Ezechiel, with very little time for preparation, and actually fulfilling his promise? I would ask the reader whether, in the middle of the thirteenth century, an explanation of Ezechiel, given with only a slight preparation, could have been successful or interesting?
The study of dialectics and metaphysics was embraced with so much ardor, that in a short time these branches of knowledge superseded all others. The consequences were prejudicial to the minds of men; their attention being wholly engrossed by this object of their choice, the pursuit of more solid learning was regarded with indifference--history was neglected, literature unnoticed, in a word, the mind was only half developed. Every thing appertaining to the imagination and the feelings was sacrificed to the cultivation of the intellect; not, indeed, in its most useful operations,--the formation of a clear and perfect perception, of a mature judgment, of a habit of sound and accurate reasoning,--but in those which are astute, subtle, and extravagant.
Those who would reproach the Church for her conduct at that period in reference to innovators have a very imperfect understanding of the actual condition of Europe as regards science and religion. We have already seen that the intellectual development was religious; consequently, even when it deviated from the right path, it still retained this character, and the oddest subtilties were applied to mysteries the most sublime. Almost all the heretics of the time were renowned dialecticians, and their errors arose from an excess of subtilty. Roscelin, one of the leading dialecticians of his time, was the founder, or at least one of the leaders of the sect of the Nominalists. Abelard was celebrated for the readiness of his talents, his skill in disputation, and his address in explaining every thing to suit his thesis. The abuse of his intellect led him into the errors which we have already spoken of--errors which he would have avoided, had he not proudly yielded himself up to his own vain thoughts. The mania for subtilising every thing drew Gilbert de la Poirée into the most lamentable errors on the subject of the Divinity; Amaury, another celebrated philosopher, after the fashion of the time, took up so warmly the question of Aristotle's primordial matter, that he ended by declaring matter to be God. The Church strenuously opposed these errors, which arose in great numbers in minds led astray by vain arguments, and puffed up with foolish pride. It would argue a strange misconception of the true interests of science, to suppose that the Church's resistance to these raving innovators was not most favorable to intellectual progress.
These headstrong men, eager in the pursuit of knowledge, and captivated by the first chimera presented to their imagination, stood greatly in need of some discreet authority to restrain them within the bounds of reason and moderation. The intellect had scarcely taken the first steps in the career of knowledge, and yet fancied it already knew every thing, "pretending to know all things except the nescio, I know not," as St. Bernard reproaches the vain Abelard. Why should we not, for the good of humanity, and the credit of the human intellect, approve the condemnation pronounced by the Church against the errors of Gilbert, which aimed at nothing less than the overthrow of the ideas that we have of God? If Amaury and his disciple David de Dinant are smitten by the sentence of the Church, it is because they destroy the idea of the Divinity by confounding the Creator with primordial matter. Was it for the advantage of Europe that its intellectual movement should be commenced by precipitating itself at the very outset into the abyss of pantheism?
Had the human intellect followed in its development the way marked out for it by the Church, European civilization would have gained at least two centuries; the fourteenth century would have been as far advanced as the sixteenth was. To convince ourselves of the truth of this assertion, we have only to compare writings with writings, and men with men; the men most firmly attached to the faith of the Church attained to such eminence that they left the age in which they lived far behind them. Roscelin's antagonist was St. Anselm; the latter always remained faithful to the authority of the Church; the former rebelled against her: and who, let met ask, would have the hardihood to compare the dialectician of Compiègne with the learned Archbishop of Canterbury? How vast the difference between the profound and skilful metaphysician who composed the Monologue and the Prosologue, and the frivolous leader of the disputes of the Nominalists! Have the subtilties and cavillings of Roscelin any weight whatever against the lofty thoughts of the man who, in the eleventh century, to prove the existence of God, could reject all vain and captious reasonings, concentrate himself within himself, consult his own ideas, compare them with their object, and demonstrate the existence of God from the very idea of God, thus anticipating Descartes by five hundred years? Who best understood the true interests of science? Show me how the intellect of St. Anselm was degraded or shackled by the influence of the formidable authority of the Church, by any usurpation on the part of Popes of the rights of the human mind. And can Abelard himself be compared, either as a man, or as a writer, with his Catholic adversary, St. Bernard? Abelard was a perfect master of all the subtilties of the schools; noisy disputes were his amusement; he was intoxicated with the applause of his disciples, who were dazzled by their master's talents and courage, and still more by the learned follies of the age; yet what has become of his works? Who reads them? Who ever thinks of finding in them a single page of sound reasoning, the description of a single great event, or a picture of the manners of the time, in other words, the least matter of interest to science or history? On the contrary, what man of learning has not often sought this in the immortal works of St. Bernard?
It is impossible to find a more sublime personification of the Church combating against the heretics of his time than the illustrious Abbot of Clairvaux, contending against all innovators, and speaking, if we may use the term, in the name of the Catholic faith. No one could more worthily represent the ideas and sentiments which the Church endeavored to diffuse amongst mankind, nor more faithfully delineate the course through which Catholicity would have led the human mind. Let us pause for a moment in the presence of this gigantic mind, which attained to an eminence far beyond any of its contemporaries. This extraordinary man fills the world with his name--upheaves it by his words--sways it by his influence; in the midst of darkness he is its light; he forms, as it were, a mysterious link, connecting the two epochs of St. Jerome and St. Augustine, of Bossuet and Bourdaloue. In the midst of a general relaxation and corruption of morals, by the strictest observances and the most perfect purity he is proof against every assault. Ignorance prevails throughout all classes; he studies night and day to enlighten his mind. A false and counterfeit erudition usurps the place of true knowledge; he knows its unsoundness, disdains and despises it; and his eagle eye discovers at a glance that the star of truth moves at an immense distance from this false reflection, from this crude mass of subtilties and follies, which the men of his time termed philosophy. If at that period there existed any useful learning, it was to be sought in the Bible, and in the writings of the holy Fathers; to the study of these, therefore, St. Bernard devotes himself unremittingly. Far from consulting the vain babblers who are arguing and declaiming in the schools, St. Bernard seeks his inspirations in the silence of the cloister, or in the august sanctuary of the temple; if he goes out, it is to contemplate the great book of nature, to study eternal truths in the solitude of the desert, and, as he himself has expressed it, "in forests of beech-trees."
Thus did this great man, rising superior to the prejudices of his time, avoid the evil produced in his contemporaries by the method then prevailing. By this method the imagination and the feelings were stifled; the judgment warped; the intellect sharpened to excess; and learning converted into a labyrinth of confusion. Read the works of the sainted Abbot of Clairvaux, and you will find that all his faculties go, as it were, hand in hand. If you look for imagination, you will find the finest coloring, faithful portraits, and splendid descriptions. If you want feeling, you will learn how skilfully he finds his way into the heart, captivates, subdues, and fashions it to his will. Now he strikes a salutary fear into the hardened sinner, tracing with great force the formidable picture of the divine justice and the eternal vengeance; then he consoles and sustains the man who is sinking under worldly adversity, the assaults of his passions, the recollection of his transgressions, or an exaggerated fear of the divine justice. Do you want pathos? Listen to his colloquies with Jesus and Mary; hear him speaking of the blessed Virgin with such enrapturing sweetness, that he seems to exhaust all the epithets that the liveliest hope and the most pure and tender love can suggest. Would you have vigor and vehemence of style, and that irresistible torrent of eloquence which nothing can resist, which carries the mind beyond itself, fires it with enthusiasm, compels it to enter upon the most arduous paths, and to undertake the most heroic enterprises? See him with his burning words inflaming the zeal of the people, nobles, and kings; moving them to quit their homes, to take up arms, and to unite in numerous armies that pour into Asia to rescue the Holy Sepulchre. This extraordinary man is every where met with, every where heard. Entirely free from ambition, he possesses, nevertheless, a leading influence in the great affairs of Europe: though fond of solitude and retirement, he is continually obliged to quit the obscurity of the cloister to assist in the councils of kings and popes. He never flatters, never betrays the truth, never dissembles the sacred ardor which burns within his breast; and yet he is every where listened to with profound respect; his stern voice is heard in the cottages of the poor and in the palaces of kings; he admonishes with terrible severity the most obscure monk and the Sovereign Pontiff.
In the midst of so much ardor and activity, his mind loses none of its clearness or precision. His exposition of a point of doctrine is remarkable for ease and lucidity; his demonstrations are vigorous and conclusive; his reasoning is conducted with a force of logic that presses close upon his adversary, and leaves him no means of escape: in defence, his quickness and address are surprising. In his answers he is clear and precise; in repartee, quick and penetrating; and without dealing in the subtilties of the schools, he displays wonderful tact in disentangling truth from error, sound reason from artifice and fraud. Here is a man formed entirely and exclusively under the influence of Catholicity; a man who never strayed from the pale of the Church, who never dreamed of setting his intellect free from the yoke of authority; and yet he rises like a mighty pyramid above all the men of his time.
To the eternal honor of the Catholic Church, and utterly to disprove the accusation brought against her, of exerting an influence hostile to the freedom of the human mind, I must observe that St. Bernard was not the only man who rose superior to the age, and pointed out the way to genuine progress. It is unquestionably certain, that the most distinguished men of that period, those least influenced by the evils that so long kept the human mind in pursuit of mere vanities and shadows, were precisely the men most devotedly attached to Catholicity. These men set an example of what was necessary to be done for the advancement of learning; an example that for a long time had, it is true, but few followers, but which found some in subsequent ages: now it is to be observed that the progress of learning was due to the credit obtained by this method--I speak of the study of antiquity.
The sacred sciences were the chief object of attention at this period; as the intellect was theologically developed, dialectics and metaphysics were studied with a view to their application to theology. With Roscelin, Abelard, Gilbert de la Poirée, and Amaury, the phrase was: "Let us reason, subtilise, and apply our systems to all sorts of questions; let our reason be our rule and guide, without which knowledge is impossible." With St. Bernard, St. Anselm, Hugh and Richard de St. Victor, Peter Lombard, on the contrary, it was: "Let us see what antiquity teaches; let us study the works of the holy Fathers; let us analyse and compare their texts; we cannot place our dependence exclusively on arguments, which are sometime dangerous and sometimes futile." Which of these two judgments has been actually confirmed? Which of these methods was adopted when real progress was to be made? Was not recourse had to an unremitting study of ancient works? Was it not found necessary to throw aside the cavils of the dialecticians? Protestants themselves boast of having taken this way; their theologians consider it an honor to be versed in antiquity; and would be offended if treated as mere dialecticians. On which side, then, was reason? With the heretics, or with the Church? Who best understood the method most favorable to intellectual progress? The heretical dialectician, or the orthodox doctor? To these questions there can only be one reply. These are not mere opinions--they are facts; not an empty theory, but the actual history of learning, as known by all the world, and as represented to us in irrefragable documents. Unless prepossessed by the authority of M. Guizot, the reader certainly cannot complain that I have eschewed questions of history, or claimed his belief on my own bare word.
Unhappily, mankind seemed doomed never to find the true road without going a long way round; thus the intellect, taking the very worst way of all, went in pursuit of subtilties and cavils, forsaking the beaten track of reason and good sense. At the beginning of the twelfth century the evil had reached to such a height, that to apply a remedy was no slight undertaking; nor is it easy to say how far matters might have gone, nor what evils would have ensued in various ways, had not Providence, who never abandons the care of the moral, any more than of the physical universe, raised up an extraordinary genius, who, rising to an immense height above the men of his age, reduced the chaos to order. Out of the undigested mass, by retrenching here, adding there, classifying and explaining, this man collected a fund of real learning. Persons acquainted with the history of learning at that time will readily understand that I speak of St. Thomas Aquinas. Rightly to appreciate the extraordinary merit of this great Doctor, we must view him in connection with the times and circumstances of which we are treating. Beholding in St. Thomas Aquinas one of the most luminous, most comprehensive, and most penetrating intellects that have ever adorned the human race, we are almost tempted to think that his appearance in the thirteenth century was inopportune; we regret that he did not live in a more recent age, to enter the lists with the most illustrious men of whom modern Europe can boast. But, upon further reflection, we find that the human mind owes so much to him, we see so clearly the reason why his appearance at the time when Europe received his lectures was most opportune, that we have no other feeling left than one of profound admiration of the designs of Providence.
What was the philosophy of his time? Amidst the strange compound of Greek and Arabian philosophy and of Christian ideas, what would have become of dialectics, metaphysics, and morality? We have already seen what sort of fruit began to grow out of such combinations, favored by a degree of ignorance unable to distinguish the real nature of things, and encouraged by pride that pretended to a knowledge of every thing. And yet the evil was only beginning; its further development would have been attended with symptoms still more alarming. Fortunately, this great man appeared; the first touch of his powerful hand advanced learning two or three centuries. He could not root out the evil, but at least he applied a remedy; owing to his indisputable superiority, his method and his learning soon won their way everywhere. He became, as it were, the centre of a grand system, round which all other scholastic writers were forced to revolve; he thus prevented a multitude of errors that without his intervention would have been almost inevitable. He found the schools in a state of complete anarchy; he reduced them to order; and on account of his angelic intellect, and his eminent sanctity, was looked up to as their sublime dictator. This is the view I take of the mission of St. Thomas; it will be viewed in the same light by all those who study his works, and do not content themselves with a hasty perusal of a biographical article respecting him.
Now this man was a Catholic, and the Catholic Church venerates him upon her altars, and I do not see that his mind was shackled by authority in matters of faith; it goes abroad freely amongst all the branches of knowledge; he unites in his person such extensive and profound acquirements as to appear a prodigy for the age in which he lived. We observe in St. Thomas, notwithstanding the purely scholastic method which he adopted, the same characteristic that we discover in all the eminent Catholic writers of the times. He reasons much; but it is easy to see that he does not trust entirely to his reason, but proceeds with that wise diffidence which is an unequivocal sign of real learning. He avails himself of the doctrines of Aristotle; but evidently would have made less use of them, and more of the Fathers, but for his leading idea, which was, to make the philosophy of his time subservient to the defence of religion. The reader must not suppose that his metaphysics and moral philosophy are a congeries of inexplicable enigmas, as a knowledge of the period at which he wrote might lead us to apprehend. Nothing of the kind; and any one who entertains such an idea has evidently not spent much time in the study of his writings. His metaphysical works, it must be acknowledged, make us perfectly acquainted with the dominant ideas of the time; but it is equally undeniable, that in every page we meet with the most luminous passages on the most complicated questions of ideology, ontology, cosmology, and psychology; so much so, that we almost imagine we are reading the works of a philosopher who wrote after the fullest development of the sciences had been attained.
What his political ideas were, we have already seen; were it necessary, and did the nature of the present work permit, I might here produce many fragments from his Treatise on Laws and on Justice, distinguished for such solid principles, such lofty views, so profound a knowledge of the nature of society, that they would occupy an honorable position amongst the best works on legislation written in modern times. His treatises on virtues and vices, whether considered generally, or in detail, exhaust the subject, and defy all subsequent writers to produce a single idea of any importance that has not been already either developed, or at least suggested in them. Above all, his works are remarkable for moderation and extreme reserve in doctrinal expositions, in which respect they are eminently conformable to the spirit of Catholicity; and assuredly if all writers had followed in his footsteps, the field of science would have presented us with an assembly of sages, and would not have been converted into a blood-stained arena for furious combatants. Such is his modesty, that he does not relate a single incident in his life, private or public; from him we hear nothing but the language of enlightened reason, calmly dispensing its treasures: the man, with his fame, his misfortunes, his labors, and all his vain pretensions, with which other writers are wont to weary us, never appears for an instant.[41]
Chapter LXXII
ON THE PROGRESS OF THE HUMAN MIND FROM THE ELEVENTH CENTURY TO THE PRESENT TIME.
I think I have satisfactorily vindicated the Catholic Church from the reproaches cast upon her by her enemies, for her conduct during the eleventh and twelfth centuries in reference to the development of the human mind. Let us now take a rapid survey of the march of intellect up to our own times, and see what titles Protestantism can produce to the gratitude of the friends of progress in human knowledge.
If I mistake not, the following are the phases through which the human mind has passed, since the revival of learning in the eleventh century. First came the epoch of subtilties, with its heaps of crude erudition; then the age of criticism, with appropriate attempts at grave controversies on the meaning of records and monuments; and finally came the reflecting age, and the inauguration of the philosophical period. The eleventh and succeeding centuries, to the sixteenth, were characterized by a fondness for dialectics and erudite trifles; criticism and controversy formed the distinctive characteristics of the sixteenth, and part of the seventeenth centuries; the philosophical spirit began to prevail towards the middle of the seventeenth, and continued to our own time. Now of what advantage was Protestantism to learning? None; Protestantism found learning already accumulated--this I can easily prove--Erasmus and Louis Vives shone in the time of Luther.
Did Protestantism promote the study of criticism? Yes; just as an epidemic that decimates nations aids the progress of the medicinal art. But we must not suppose that the taste for this kind of literary labor would not have been disseminated without the aid of the pseudo-Reformation. As monuments came to light, as a knowledge of languages became more general, as the public acquired clearer and more correct notions of history, people would naturally set themselves to discriminate between the apocryphal and the authentic. The necessary documents were at hand, and were studied unremittingly; for this was the favorite taste of the epoch. Under such circumstances, how is it possible there should have existed no desire to examine to what author, and to what age, such documents severally belonged; to investigate how far ignorance or dishonesty had falsified them, had taken from, or added to them? On this subject, I need only relate what took place relative to the famous decretals of Isidore Mercator. These decretals had been received, without opposition, during the centuries anterior to the fifteenth, owing to the want of antiquarian and critical research; but the moment that knowledge and facts began to accumulate, the edifice of imposture gave way. As early as the fifteenth century, Cardinal Cusa challenged the authenticity of certain decretals that had been supposed to be anterior to Pope Siricius; and the reflections of the learned Cardinal led the way to other attacks of a similar kind. A serious discussion arose, in which Protestants naturally took part; but it would unquestionably have been engaged in all the same, if Catholic writers had been left entirely to themselves. When the learned came to read the codes of Theodosius and Justinian, the works of antiquity, and collections of ecclesiastical records, they could not possibly fail to observe that the spurious decretals contained sentences and fragments belonging to an era posterior to the time to which they were referred; and when once such doubts had arisen, error was sure to be promptly exposed.
We may say of controversy, what we have just said of criticism. There would have been no want of controversy, even if the unity of the faith had never been violated. In support of this assertion, the recollection of what occurred amongst the different schools of Catholics is quite conclusive. These schools were engaged in controversy amongst themselves, in the presence even of the common opponent: and we may rest assured that, if their attention had not been partially diverted by that enemy, their polemical discussions would have been maintained only with the greater energy and warmth. Protestants have no more the advantage over Catholics, as regards controversy than as regards criticism. However true it be that some of our theologians did not see the necessity of opposing the enemy with arms superior to those taken from the arsenal of Aristotelian philosophy, it is quite certain that a great number of them took up a sufficiently lofty position, and were thoroughly impressed with the importance of the crisis, and urged the introduction of very great modifications into the course of theological studies. Bellarmin, Melchior Cano, Petau, and many others, were no way inferior to the most skilful Protestants, whatever may have been the boasted scientific merits of the defenders of error.
The knowledge of the learned languages must have contributed in an extraordinary degree to the progress of critical and controversial learning. Now I do not see that Catholics were behind others in the knowledge of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Anthony de Nebrija, Erasmus, Louis Vives, Lawrence Villa, Leonardus Aretinus, Cardinal Bembo, Sadolet, Poggio, Melchior Cano, and many others, too numerous to mention; were they, I ask, trained in Protestantism? Did not the Popes, moreover, take the lead in this literary movement? Who patronized the learned with greater liberality? Who supplied them with more abundant resources? Who incurred greater expenses in the purchase of the best manuscripts? Nor let it be forgotten, that such was the taste for pure Latinity, that some among the learned objected to read the Vulgate, for fear of acquiring inelegant phrases.
As regards Greek, we need only bear in mind the causes that led to its diffusion in Europe, to be convinced that the progress made in the knowledge of this language owes nothing whatever to the pseudo-Reformation. It is well known that, after the taking of Constantinople by the Turks, the literary remains of that unfortunate nation were brought to the coasts of Italy. In Italy the study of Greek was first seriously commenced; from Italy it spread to France, and to the other European states. Half a century before the appearance of Protestantism, this language was taught in Paris by the Italian Gregory de Tiferno. At the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, Germany itself could boast of the celebrated John Reuchlin, who taught Greek with great applause, first at Orleans and Poictiers, and afterwards at Ingolstadt. Reuchlin, being on one occasion at Rome, so felicitously explained, and read with so pure an accent, a passage from Thucydides, in the presence of Argyropilus, that the latter, filled with admiration, exclaimed: "Gracia nostra exilio transvolavit Alpes; our exiled Greece has crossed the Alps."
Respecting Hebrew, I will transcribe a passage from the Abbé Goujet: "Protestants," says he, "would fain have it thought that they effected the revival of this language in Europe; but they are forced to acknowledge, that whatever they know of Hebrew they owe to the Catholics, who were their teachers, and the sources whence, even to this day, is obtained all that is most valuable in Oriental literature. John Reuchlin, who lived the greater part of his time in the fifteenth century, was unquestionably a Catholic, and one of the most skilful Hebrew scholars, and was also the first Christian who reduced the teaching of that language to a system. John Weissel of Groningen had taught him the elements of this language, and had himself pupils in whom he had awakened a love for this study. In like manner, it was by the exertions of Picus de Mirandula, who was a strict Catholic, that a taste for the study of Hebrew was revived in the West. At the time of the Council of Trent, most of the heretics who then knew that language had learned it in the bosom of the Church they had forsaken; and their vain subtilties respecting the meaning of the sacred text excited the faithful to still greater assiduity in the study of a language so well calculated to insure their own triumph and the defeat of their opponents. In devoting themselves to this branch of study, moreover, they were only following out the intentions of Pope Clement V., who, as early as the beginning of the fourteenth century, had ordained that Greek, and Hebrew, and even Arabic and Chaldean, should be publicly taught, for the benefit of foreigners, at Rome, at Paris, at Oxford, at Bologna, and at Salamanca. The design of this Pope, who so well knew the advantages resulting from well-conducted studies, was, to augment the learning of the Church by the study of languages, and to raise up doctors capable of defending her against every form of error. By means of these languages, and more especially of Hebrew, he intended to renew the study of the sacred books, that the latter, when read in the original, might appear more worthy of the Holy Spirit who inspired them, and by their combined grandeur and simplicity, when better known, awaken greater reverence for them; and that, without derogating from the respect due to the Latin version, it might be felt that an intimate acquaintance with the originals was peculiarly serviceable in confirming the faith of believers, and confuting heretics." (L'Abbé Goujet, Discours sur le renouvellement des Etudes, et principalement des Etudes ecclésiastiques depuis le quatorzième siècle.)
One of the causes which contributed the most to the development of the human mind was the creation of great centres of instruction, collecting the most illustrious talents and learning, and diffusing rays of light in all directions. I know not how men could forget that this idea was not due to the pretended Reformation, seeing that most of the universities of Europe were established long before the birth of Luther. That of Oxford was established in 895; Cambridge in 1280; that of Prague, in Bohemia, in 1358; that of Louvain, in Belgium, in 1425; that of Vienna, in Austria, in 1365; that of Ingolstadt, in Germany, in 1372; that of Leipsic in 1408; that of Basle, in Switzerland, in 1469; that of Salamanca in 1200; that of Alcala in 1517. It would be superfluous to notice the antiquity of the universities of Paris, of Bologna, of Ferrara, and of a great many others, which attained the highest renown long before the advent of Protestantism. The Popes, it is well known, took an active part in the establishment of universities, granting them privileges, and bestowing upon them the highest honors and distinctions. How can any one, then, venture to assert, that Rome has opposed the progress of learning and the sciences, in order to keep the people in darkness and ignorance? As if Divine Providence had intended to confound these future calumniators of His Church, Protestantism made its appearance precisely at the time when, under the auspices of a renowned Pope, the progress in the science, in literature and the arts was most active. Posterity, judging of our disputes with impartiality, will undoubtedly pass a severe sentence upon those pretended philosophers, who are constantly endeavoring to prove from history, that Catholicity has impeded the progress of the human mind, and that scientific progress has been all owing to the cry of liberty raised in central Germany. Yes; sensible men in future ages, like those of our own times, will form a correct judgment upon this subject, when they reflect that Luther began to propagate his errors in the age of Leo X.
Certainly, the court of Rome could not at that time be reproached with obscurantism. Rome was at the head of all progress, which she urged onwards with the most active zeal, the most ardent enthusiasm; so much so, indeed, that if she were censurable at all--if there were in her conduct any thing of which history should disapprove--it was rather that her march was too quick than too slow. Had another St. Bernard addressed Leo X., he would assuredly not have blamed him for abusing his authority to impede the march of the human intellect and the progress of learning. "The Reformation," says M. de Chateaubriand, "deeply imbued with the spirit of its founder--a coarse and jealous monk--declared itself the enemy of the arts. By prohibiting the exercise of the imaginative faculties, it clipped the wings of genius, and made her plod on foot. It raised an outcry against certain alms destined for the erection of the basilica of St. Peter for the use of the Christian world. Would the Greeks have refused the assistance solicited from their piety for the building of a temple to Minerva? Had the Reformation been completely successful from the beginning, it would have established, for a time at least, another species of barbarism: viewing as superstition the pomp of divine worship; as idolatry the chefs-d'œuvre of sculpture, of architecture, and of painting, its tendency was to annihilate lofty eloquence and sublime poetry--to degrade taste, by repudiating its models--to introduce a dry, cold, and captious formality into the operations of the mind--to substitute in society affectation and materialism in lieu of ingenuousness and intellectuality, and to make machinery take the place of manual and mental operations. These are truths confirmed by everyday experience.
"Amongst the various branches of the reformed religion, their approximation to the beautiful and sublime is always found to be proportioned to the amount of Catholic truth they have retained. In England, where an ecclesiastical hierarchy has been upheld, literature has had its classic era. Lutheranism preserves some sparks of imagination, which Calvinism aims at utterly extinguishing; and so on, till we come to Quakerism, which would reduce social life to unpolished manners and the practice of trades. Shakspeare, in all probability, was a Catholic; Milton has evidently imitated some parts of the poems of St. Avitus and Masenius; Klopstock has borrowed very largely from the faith of Rome. In our own days, in Germany, the high imaginative powers have been put forth only when the spirit of Protestantism had begun to decline. It was in treating Catholic subjects that the genius of Goethe and Schiller was manifested; Rousseau and Madame de Staël are, indeed, illustrious exceptions to this rule; but were they Protestants after the model of the first disciples of Calvin? At this very day, painters, architects, and sculptors, of all the conflicting creeds, go to seek inspiration at Rome, where they find universal toleration. Europe, nay, the whole world, is covered with monuments of the Catholic religion. To it we are indebted for that Gothic architecture, which rivals in its details, and eclipses in its magnificence, the monuments of Greece. It is now three centuries since Protestantism arose,--it is powerful in England, in Germany, in America,--it is professed by millions of men,--and what has it erected? It can show only the ruins it has made; on which perhaps, it has planted gardens or built factories. Rebelling against the authority of tradition, the experience of centuries, and the venerable wisdom of ages, Protestantism let go its hold on the past, and planted a society without roots. Acknowledging for their founder a German monk of the sixteenth century, the reformers renounced the wonderful genealogy that unites Catholics, through a succession of great and holy men, with Jesus Christ Himself, and, through Him, with the patriarchs and the earliest of mankind. The Protestant era, from the first hours of its existence, refused all relationship with the era of that Leo who protected the civilized world against Attila, and also with the era of that other Leo, at whose coming barbarism vanished, and society, now no longer in need of defence, put on the ornaments of civilization." (Etud. Histor., François I.)
It is much to be regretted that the author of such noble sentiments, who so accurately describes the effects of Protestantism on literature and the arts, should have said, that "the Reformation was, properly speaking, philosophic truth, under the guise of Christianity, attacking religious truth." (Etud. Histor., Preface.) What is the meaning of these words? We shall best understand them from the illustrious author's own explanation. "Religious truth," says he, "is the knowledge of one God manifested in a form of worship. Philosophic truth is the threefold knowledge of things intellectual, moral, and natural." (Etud. Histor., Exposition.) It is difficult to imagine how any one who admits the truth of the Catholic religion, and, as a necessary consequence, the falsehood of Protestantism, can define the latter to be, philosophic truth at war with religious truth. In the natural, as well as in the supernatural, order of things, in philosophy as in religion, all truths come from God, all end in Him. There cannot, therefore, be any antagonism between truths of one order and truths of another order; between religious and true philosophy, between nature and grace, no antagonism is possible. Truth is that which is; for truth resides in beings themselves; we should rather say, it consists of beings themselves such as they exist, such as they are in their substance; and hence it is quite incorrect to say that philosophic truth has ever stood in antagonism to religious truth.
According to the same author "Philosophic truth is neither more nor less than the independence of the human mind; its tendency being to make discoveries, and lead to perfection in the three sciences that come within its sphere, viz. the intellectual, the moral, and the natural. But philosophic truth," he continues, "looking forwards to the future, has stood in opposition to religious truth, which adheres to the past, owing to the immovable nature of the eternal principle upon which it is founded." (Etud. Histor., Exposition.) With all the respect due to the immortal author of the Génie du Christianisme and of the Martyrs, I must take the liberty to observe, that we find here a lamentable confusion of ideas. The philosophic truth of which M. de Chateaubriand here treats, must be either science itself, considered as an aggregate of truths, or a general knowledge, in which truth and error are commingled; or, in fine, the whole body of men of learning, considered as constituting a very influential class in society. In the first case, it is impossible for philosophic truth to be in antagonism to religious truth,--that is, to Catholicity; in the second case, the alleged opposition is nothing extraordinary, for error being in this case mixed up with truth, will on some points be found to be opposed to Catholic faith; and, finally, as regards the third hypothesis, it is unfortunately too true, that many men, distinguished by their talents and erudition, have been opposed to Catholicity; but, on the other hand, as great a number of men equally eminent have triumphantly maintained the truth of Catholicity; hence it would be extremely illogical to affirm that philosophic truth, even in this sense, is opposed to religious truth.
It is not my wish to give an unfavorable interpretation to the words of the illustrious writer; I rather incline to think, that, in his mind, philosophic truth is nothing but a spirit of independence considered in a general, vague, and undefined sense, and not as applied to any object in particular. This is the only way to reconcile assertions so different; for it is quite clear, that, after he had so severely condemned the Protestant Reformation, the writer could not proceed to admit that this same Reformation carried with it philosophic truth, properly so called, wherein it became opposed to Catholic doctrines. But, in this case, the language of the illustrious author is unquestionably wanting in precision; this, however, need not surprise us, as, upon reflection, we shall find that, in treating historico-philosophical subjects, precision is not to be expected from writers whose genius has been wont to soar into the highest regions on the wings of a sublime poetry.
It was not either in Germany or in England, but in Catholic France, that the philosophical movement advanced with the greatest freedom and daring. Descartes, the founder of a new era in philosophy, that superseded the Aristotelian, and gave a fresh impulse to the study of logic, of physics, and metaphysics, was a Frenchman and a Catholic. The greater part of his most distinguished followers were also in communion with the Roman Church. Philosophy, then, in the highest sense of the word, owes nothing to Protestantism. Before Leibnitz, Germany could scarcely reckon a single philosopher of any note; and the English schools that attained to any thing like celebrity arose after Descartes' time. We shall find, upon reflection, that France was the centre of the philosophical movement from the end of the sixteenth century; and at that period all the Protestant countries were so backward in this kind of study, that the active progress of philosophy amongst the Catholics was scarcely noticed by them. In like manner, it was in the bosom of the Catholic Church that the taste arose for profound meditations on the secrets of the heart, and on the relations of the human mind to God and nature, and that sublime abstraction which concentrates man's faculties, sets him free from the body, and elevates him to those exalted regions that appear destined to be visited exclusively by celestial spirits. Is not mysticism, in its purest, most refined, and most elevated form, found in our Catholic writers of the golden age? Since that time, what has been published that may not be met with in the works of St. Teresa, in those of St. John of the Cross, in the venerable Avila, in Louis de Grenada, and in Louis de Léon?
And Pascal, that man of thought, one of the most vigorous geniuses of the seventeenth century, who was unhappily deceived for some time by a hypocritical and canting sect, was he a Protestant? Was it not he who laid the basis of that philosophico-religious school, whose investigations, directed at one time to the deepest questions of religion, at another to those of nature, or to the mysteries of the human heart, have surrounded truth with a flood of light? Do not the apologists of Christianity, whether Protestants or Catholics, when engaged in combating indifference or incredulity, avail themselves by preference of his Pensées? Authors who have written on the philosophy of history have perhaps surpassed all others in their eagerness to vilify the Church as the enemy of enlightenment, whilst they represent Protestantism as the great bulwark of the rights of the mind. Now, gratitude alone should have induced them to proceed more circumspectly; they should not forget that the real founder of the philosophy of history was a Catholic, and that the first and best work ever written on this subject came from the pen of a Catholic Bishop. It was Bossuet, in his immortal Discours sur l'Histoire Universelle, who first taught our modern thinkers to take a lofty survey of the human race; to embrace at one view all the events that have marked the course of ages, contemplating them in all their vastness and intimate connection, with all their phases, effects, and causes, and to draw from them salutary lessons for the instruction both of princes and people. Now, Bossuet was a Catholic, and, moreover, one of the most trenchant adversaries of the Protestant Reformation. His fame is heightened too by another work, in which he completely overthrows the doctrines of the innovators, by proving their continual variations, and demonstrating that theirs must be the way of error, seeing that variation is incompatible with truth. We may ask the abettors of Protestantism, if the Eagle of Meaux feels in his flight the fetters of the Catholic religion, when, glancing at the origin and destiny of mankind, at the fall of our first parents and its consequences, on the revolutions of the East and West, he traces with such wonderful sublimity the designs of Divine Providence?
As regards the literary movement, I might almost consider myself relieved from all necessity of combating the reproaches cast upon Catholicity by its enemies. What, in fact, was the literature of all the Protestant countries together, at the time when Italy produced those orators and poets, who, in succeeding ages, have been universally received as models? Various descriptions of literature were already quite common in Catholic countries, that were not even known in England or Germany; and when, at a later period, an attempt was made to fill up the hiatus, no better means could be found for the purpose than to take for models the Spanish writers, who had been subject to Catholic obscurantism and the fires of the Inquisition.
Neither the mind, the heart, nor the imagination of man owes any thing to Protestantism. Before the Reformation these were all in graceful and vigorous progress; after the Reformation, this progress continued in the bosom of the Catholic Church as successfully as before. Catholicity displays a bright array of illustrious men crowned with the glories they have won amidst the unanimous plaudits of all civilized nations. Whatever has been said of the tendency of our religion to enslave and hoodwink the mind, is but calumny. No; that which is born of light, cannot produce darkness; that which is the work of truth itself, need not fly from the sun's rays to conceal itself in the bowels of the earth. The daughter of heaven may walk in the brightness of day, may dare discussion, may gather around her all the brightest intellects; well assured that the more closely and attentively they see and contemplate her, the more pure, the more beauteous and enrapturing will she appear.