[Illustration]
Chapter i.
Oswald passed the following day in the gardens of some monasteries. He
went first to that of the Carthusians, and stopped some time before he
entered, to contemplate two Egyptian lions which are at a little
distance from the gate. Those lions have a remarkable expression of
strength and repose; there is something in their physiognomy belonging
neither to the animal nor the man: they seem one of the forces of nature
and enable us to form a conception how the gods of the Pagan theology
might be represented under this emblem.
The Carthusian monastery is built upon the ruins of the Thermæ of
Diocletian; and the church by the side of the monastery, is decorated
with such of its granite columns as remained standing. The monks who
inhabit this retreat are very eager to show them, and the interest they
take in these ruins seems to be the only one they feel in this world.
The mode of life observed by the Carthusians, supposes in them either a
very limited mind, or the most noble and continued elevation of
religious sentiments; this succession of days without any variety of
event, reminds us of that celebrated line:
Sur les mondes détruits le Temple dort immobile.
_The Temple sleeps motionless on the ruins of worlds_.
The whole employment of their life serves but to contemplate death.
Activity of mind, with such an uniformity of existence, would be a most
cruel torment. In the midst of the cloister grow four cypresses. This
dark and silent tree, which is with difficulty agitated by the wind,
introduces no appearance of motion into this abode. Near the cypresses
is a fountain, scarcely heard, whose fall is so feeble and slow, that
one would be led to call it the clepsydra of this solitude, where time
makes so little noise. Sometimes the moon penetrates it with her pale
lustre, and her absence and return may be considered as an event in this
monotonous scene.
Those men who exist thus, are nevertheless the same to whom war and all
its bustle would scarcely suffice if they had been brought up to it.
The different combinations of human destiny upon earth afford an
inexhaustible source of reflection. A thousand accidents pass, and a
thousand habits are formed in the interior of the soul, which make every
individual a world and the subject of a history. To know another
perfectly, would be the task of a whole life; what is it then that we
understand by knowing men? To govern them is practicable by human
wisdom, but to comprehend them belongs to God alone.
From the Carthusian monastery Oswald repaired to that of St Bonaventure,
built upon the ruins of the palace of Nero; there, where so many crimes
have been committed without remorse, poor monks, tormented by scruples
of conscience, impose upon themselves the most cruel punishment for the
slightest fault. "_Our only hope_," said one of these devotees, "_is
that at the hour of death our sins will not have exceeded our
penances_." Lord Nelville, as he entered this monastery struck his foot
against a trap, and asking the use of it--"_It leads to our place of
interment_;" said one of the young monks, who was already struck with
the malady caused by the malaria. The inhabitants of the south being
very much afraid of death, we are astonished to find institutions in
Italy which fix the ideas upon this point; but it is natural to be fond
of thoughts that inspire us with dread. There is, as it were, an
intoxication of sadness, which does good to the soul by occupying it
entirely.
An ancient Sarcophagus of a young child serves for the fountain to this
convent. The beautiful Palm-tree of which Rome boasts, is the only tree
of any sort in the garden of these monks; but they pay no attention to
external objects. Their discipline is too rigorous to allow any kind of
latitude to the mind. Their looks are cast down, their gait is slow,
they make no use of their will. They have abdicated the government of
themselves, _so fatiguing is this empire to its sad possessor_. This
day, however, did not produce much emotion in the soul of Oswald; the
imagination revolts at death, presented under all its various forms in a
manner so manifestly intentional. When we unexpectedly meet this
_memento mori_, when it is nature and not man that speaks to our soul,
the impression we receive is much deeper.
Oswald felt the most calm and gentle sensations when, at sunset, he
entered the garden of _San Giovanni e Paolo_. The monks of this
monastery are subjected to a much less rigid discipline, and their
garden commands a view of all the ruins of ancient Rome. From this spot
is seen the Coliseum, the Forum, and all the triumphal arches, the
obelisks, and the pillars which remain standing. What a fine situation
for such an asylum! The secluded monks are consoled for their own
nothingness, in contemplating the monuments raised by those who are no
more. Oswald strolled for a long time beneath the umbrageous walks of
this garden, whose beautiful trees sometimes interrupt for a moment the
view of Rome, only to redouble the emotion which is felt on beholding it
again. It was that hour of the evening, when all the bells in Rome are
heard chiming the _Ave Maria_.
----------------squilla di lontano
Che paja il giorno pianger che si muore.
DANTE.
----------------_the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day._
CAREY'S TR.
The evening prayer is used to fix the time. In Italy they say: _I will
see you an hour before, or an hour after the Ave Maria_: and the
different periods of the day and of the night, are thus religiously
designated. Oswald enjoyed the admirable spectacle of the sun which
towards the evening descends slowly in the midst of the ruins, and
appears for a moment submitted to the same destiny as the works of man.
Oswald felt all his habitual thoughts revive within him. Corinne herself
was too charming, and promised too much happiness to occupy his mind at
this moment. He sought the spirit of his father in the clouds, where the
force of imagination traced his celestial form, and made him hope to
receive from heaven some pure and beneficent breath, as the benediction
of his sainted parent.
Chapter ii.
The desire of studying and becoming acquainted with the Roman religion,
determined Lord Nelville to seek an opportunity of hearing some of those
preachers who make the churches of this city resound with their
eloquence during Lent. He reckoned the days that were to divide him from
Corinne, and during her absence, he wished to see nothing that
appertained to the fine arts; nothing that derived its charm from the
imagination. He could not support the emotion of pleasure produced by
the masterpieces of art when he was not with Corinne; he was only
reconciled to happiness when she was the cause of it. Poetry, painting,
music, all that embellishes life by vague hopes, was painful to him out
of her presence.
It is in the evening, with lights half extinguished, that the Roman
preachers deliver their sermons in Holy Week. All the women are then
clad in black, in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ, and there is
something very moving in this anniversary mourning, which has been so
often renewed during a lapse of ages. It is therefore impossible to
enter without genuine emotion those beautiful churches, where the tombs
so fitly dispose the soul for prayer; but this emotion is generally
destroyed in a few moments by the preacher.
His pulpit is a fairly long gallery, which he traverses from one end to
the other with as much agitation as regularity. He never fails to set
out at the beginning of a phrase and to return at the end, like the
motion of a pendulum; nevertheless he uses so much action, and his
manner is so vehement, that one would suppose him capable of forgetting
everything. But it is, to use the expression, a kind of systematic fury
that animates the orator, such as is frequently to be met with in Italy,
where the vivacity of external action often indicates no more than a
superficial emotion. A crucifix is suspended at the extremity of the
pulpit; the preacher unties it, kisses it, presses it against his heart,
and then restores it to its place with the greatest coolness, when the
pathetic period is concluded. There is a means of producing effect which
the ordinary preachers frequently have recourse to, namely, the square
cap they wear on their head, which they take off, and put on again with
inconceivable rapidity. One of them imputed to Voltaire, and
particularly to Rousseau, the irreligion of the age. He threw his cap
into the middle of the pulpit, charging it to represent Jean Jacques,
and in this quality he harangued it, saying; "_Well, philosopher of
Geneva, what have you to object to my arguments_?" He was silent for
some minutes as if he waited for a reply--the cap made no answer: he
then put it upon his head again and finished the conversation in these
words: "_now that you are convinced I shall say no more_."
These whimsical scenes are often repeated among the Roman preachers; for
real talent in this department is here very scarce. Religion is
respected in Italy as an omnipotent law; it captivates the imagination
by its forms and ceremonies, but moral tenets are less attended to in
the pulpit than dogmas of faith, which do not penetrate the heart with
religious sentiments. Thus the eloquence of the pulpit, as well as
several other branches of literature, is absolutely abandoned to common
ideas, which neither paint nor express any thing. A new thought would
cause almost a panic in those minds at once so indolent and so full of
ardour that they need the calm of uniformity, which they love because it
offers repose to their thoughts. The ideas and phraseology of their
sermons are confined to a sort of etiquette. They follow almost in a
regular sequence, and this order would be disturbed if the orator,
speaking from himself, were to seek in his own mind what he should say.
The Christian philosophy, whose aim is to discover the analogy between
religion and human nature, is as little known to the Italian preachers
as any other kind of philosophy. To think upon matters of religion would
scandalise them as much as to think against it; so much are they
accustomed to move in a beaten track.
The worship of the Blessed Virgin is particularly dear to the Italians,
and to every other nation of the south; it seems in some manner united
with all that is most pure and tender in the affection we feel for
woman. But the same exaggerated figures of rhetoric are found in what
the preachers say upon this subject; and it is impossible to conceive
why their gestures do not turn all that is most serious into mockery.
Hardly ever in Italy do we meet in the august function of the pulpit,
with a true accent or a natural expression.
Oswald, weary of the most tiresome of all monotony--that of affected
vehemence, went to the Coliseum, to hear the Capuchin who was to preach
there in the open air, at the foot of one of those altars which mark
out, within the enclosure, what is called _the Stations of the Cross_.
What can offer a more noble subject of eloquence than the aspect of this
monument, of this amphitheatre, where the martyrs have succeeded to the
gladiators! But nothing of this kind must be expected from the poor
Capuchin, who, of the history of mankind, knows no more than that of his
own life. Nevertheless, if we could be insensible to the badness of his
discourse, we should feel ourselves moved by the different objects that
surround him. The greater part of his auditors are of the confraternity
of the _Camaldoli_; they are clad during their religious exercises in a
sort of grey robe, which entirely covers the head and the whole body,
with two little holes for the eyes. It is thus that the spirits of the
dead might be represented. These men, who are thus concealed beneath
their vestments, prostrate themselves on the earth and strike their
breasts. When the preacher throws himself on his knees crying for _mercy
and pity_, the congregation throw themselves on their knees also, and
repeat this same cry, which dies away beneath the ancient porticoes of
the Coliseum. It is impossible at this moment not to feel the most
religious emotion; this appeal from earthly misery to celestial good,
penetrates to the inmost sanctuary of the soul. Oswald started when all
the audience fell on their knees; he remained standing, not to join in a
worship foreign to his own; but it was painful to him that he could not
associate publicly with mortals of any description, who prostrated
themselves before God. Alas! is there an invocation of heavenly pity
that is not equally suited to all men?
The people had been struck with the fine figure and foreign manners of
Lord Nelville, but were by no means scandalized at his not kneeling
down. There are no people in the world more tolerant than the Romans;
they are accustomed to visitors who come only to see and observe; and
whether by an effect of pride or of indolence, they never seek to instil
their opinions into others. What is more extraordinary still, is, that
during Holy Week particularly, there are many among them who inflict
corporal punishment upon themselves; and while they are performing this
flagellation, the church-doors are open, and they care not who enters.
They are a people who do not trouble their heads about others; they do
nothing to be looked at; they refrain from nothing because they are
observed; they always proceed to their object, and seek their pleasure
without suspecting that there is a sentiment called vanity, which has no
object, no pleasure, except the desire of being applauded.
Chapter iii.
The ceremonies of Holy Week at Rome have been much spoken of. Foreigners
come thither during Lent expressly to enjoy this spectacle; and as the
music of the Sixtine Chapel and the illumination of St Peter's are
beauties unique in themselves, it is natural that they should excite a
lively curiosity; but expectation is not equally satisfied. The
ceremonies themselves, properly speaking--the dinner of the twelve
Apostles, served by the Pope, the washing of the feet by him, and all
the different customs of this solemn season--excite very moving
recollections; but a thousand inevitable circumstances often injure the
interest and the dignity of this spectacle. All those who assist at it
are not equally devout, equally occupied with pious ideas. These
ceremonies, so often repeated, have become a sort of mechanical exercise
for most people, and the young priests despatch the service of great
festivals with an activity and a dexterity little calculated to produce
any religious effect. That indefinite, that unknown, that mysterious
impression, which religion ought to excite, is entirely destroyed by
that species of attention which we cannot help paying to the manner in
which each acquits himself of his functions. The avidity of some for the
meats presented them, and the indifference of others in the
genuflections which they multiply and the prayers which they recite,
often strip the festival of its solemnity.
The ancient costumes which still serve for the vestments of the priests,
agree badly with the modern style of treating the hair. The Greek
bishop, with his long beard, has the most respectable appearance. The
ancient custom also of making a reverence after the manner of women,
instead of bowing as men do now, produces an impression by no means
serious. In a word, the _ensemble_ is not in harmony, and the ancient is
blended with the modern without sufficient care being taken to strike
the imagination, or at least to avoid all that may distract it. A
worship, dazzling and majestic in its external forms, is certainly
calculated to fill the soul with the most elevated sentiments; but care
must be taken that the ceremonies do not degenerate into a spectacle in
which each one plays his part--in which each one studies what he must do
at such a moment; when he is to pray, when he is to finish his prayer;
when to kneel down, and when to get up. The regulated ceremonies of a
court introduced into a temple of devotion, confine the free movement of
the heart, which can alone give man the hope of drawing near to the
Deity.
These observations are pretty generally felt by foreigners, but the
Romans for the most part do not grow weary of those ceremonies; and
every year they find in them new pleasure. A singular trait in the
character of the Italians is, that their mobility does not make them
inconstant, nor does their vivacity render variety necessary to them.
They are in every thing patient and persevering; their imagination
embellishes what they possess; it occupies their life instead of
rendering it uneasy; they think every thing more magnificent, more
imposing, more fine, than it really is: and whilst in other nations
vanity consists in an affectation of boredom, that of the Italians, or
rather their warmth and vivacity, makes them find pleasure in the
sentiment of admiration.
Lord Nelville, from all that the Romans had said to him, expected to be
more affected by the ceremonies of Holy Week. He regretted the noble and
simple festivals of the Anglican church. He returned home with a
painful impression; for nothing is more sad than not being moved by that
which ought to move us; we believe that our soul is become dry, we fear
that the fire of enthusiasm is extinguished in us, without which the
faculty of thinking can only serve to disgust us with life.
Chapter iv.
But Good Friday soon restored to Lord Nelville all those religious
emotions, the want of which he so much regretted on the preceding days.
The seclusion of Corinne was about to terminate; he anticipated the
happiness of seeing her again: the sweet expectations of tender
affection accord with piety; it is only a factious, worldly life, that
is entirely hostile to it. Oswald repaired to the Sixtine Chapel to hear
the celebrated _miserere_, so much talked of all over Europe. He arrived
thither whilst it was yet day, and beheld those celebrated paintings of
Michael Angelo, which represent the Last Judgment, with all the terrible
power of the subject and the talent which has handled it. Michael Angelo
was penetrated with the study of Dante; and the painter, in imitation of
the poet, represents mythological beings in the presence of Jesus
Christ; but he always makes Paganism the evil principle, and it is under
the form of demons that he characterises the heathen fables. On the
vault of the chapel are represented the prophets, and the sybils called
in testimony by the Christians,
Teste David cum Sibyllâ.
A crowd of angels surround them; and this whole vault, painted thus,
seems to bring us nearer to heaven, but with a gloomy and formidable
aspect. Hardly does daylight penetrate the windows, which cast upon the
pictures shadow rather than light. The obscurity enlarges those figures,
already so imposing, which the pencil of Michael Angelo has traced; the
incense, whose perfume has a somewhat funereal character, fills the air
in this enclosure, and every sensation is prelusive to the most profound
of all--that which the music is to produce.
Whilst Oswald was absorbed by the reflections which every object that
surrounded him gave birth to, he saw Corinne, whose presence he had not
hoped to behold so soon, enter the women's gallery, behind the grating
which separated it from that of the men. She was dressed in black, all
pale with absence, and trembled so when she perceived Oswald, that she
was obliged to lean on the balustrade for support as she advanced; at
this moment the _miserere_ began.
The voices, perfectly trained in this ancient song, proceeded from a
gallery at the commencement of the vault; the singers are not seen; the
music seems to hover in the air; and every instant the fall of day
renders the chapel more gloomy. It was not that voluptuous and
impassioned music which Oswald and Corinne had heard eight days before;
they were holy strains which counselled mortals to renounce every
earthly enjoyment. Corinne fell on her knees before the grating and
remained plunged in the most profound meditation. Oswald himself
disappeared from her sight. She thought that in such a moment one could
wish to die, if the separation of the soul from the body could take
place without pain; if, on a sudden, an angel could carry away on his
wings our sentiments and our thoughts--sparks of ethereal fire,
returning towards their source: death would then be, to use the
expression, only a spontaneous act of the heart, a more ardent and more
acceptable prayer.
The _miserere_, that is to say, _have mercy on us_, is a psalm,
composed of verses, which are sung alternately in a very different
manner. A celestial music is heard by turns, and the verse following, in
recitative, is murmured in a dull and almost hoarse tone. One would say,
that it is the reply of harsh and stern characters to sensitive hearts;
that it is the reality of life which withers and repels the desires of
generous souls. When the sweet choristers resume their strain, hope
revives; but when the verse of recitative begins, a cold sensation
seizes upon the hearer, not caused by terror, but by a repression of
enthusiasm. At length, the last piece, more noble and affecting than all
the others, leaves a pure and sweet impression upon the soul: may God
vouchsafe that same impression to us before we die.
The torches are extinguished; night advances, and the figures of the
prophets and the sybils appear like phantoms enveloped in twilight. The
silence is profound; a word spoken would be insupportable in the then
state of the soul, when all is intimate and internal; as soon as the
last sound expires, all depart slowly and without the least noise; each
one seems to dread the return to the vulgar interests of the world.
Corinne followed the procession, which repaired to the temple of St
Peter, then lighted only by an illuminated cross. This sign of grief,
alone and shining in the august obscurity of this immense edifice, is
the most beautiful image of Christianity in the midst of the darkness of
life. A pale and distant light is cast on the statues which adorn the
tombs. The living, who are perceived in crowds beneath these vaults,
seem like pigmies, compared with the images of the dead. There is around
the cross, a space which it lights up, where the Pope clad in white is
seen prostrate, with all the cardinals ranged behind him. They remain
there for half an hour in the most profound silence, and it is
impossible not to be moved at this spectacle. We know not the subject
of their prayers; we hear not their secret groanings; but they are old,
they precede us in the journey to the tomb. When we in our turn pass
into that terrible advance guard, may God by his grace so ennoble our
age, that the decline of life may be the first days of immortality!
Corinne, also,--the young and beautiful Corinne,--was kneeling behind
the train of priests, and the soft light reflected on her countenance,
gave it a pale hue, without diminishing the lustre of her eyes. Oswald
contemplated her as a beautiful picture--a being that inspired
adoration. When her prayer was concluded she arose. Lord Nelville dared
not yet approach her, respecting the religious meditation in which he
thought her plunged; but she came to him first with a transport of
happiness; and this sentiment pervading all her actions, she received
with a most lively gaiety, all those who accosted her in St Peter's,
which had become, all at once, a great public promenade, and a
rendezvous to discuss topics of business or pleasure.
Oswald was astonished at this mobility which caused such opposite
impressions to succeed each other; and though the gaiety of Corinne gave
him pleasure, he was surprised to find in her no trace of the emotions
of the day. He did not conceive how, upon so solemn, a day, they could
permit this fine church to be converted into a Roman _café_, where
people met for pleasure; and beholding Corinne in the midst of her
circle, talking with so much vivacity, and not thinking on the objects
that surrounded her, he conceived a sentiment of mistrust as to the
levity of which she might be capable. She instantly perceived it, and
quitting her company abruptly, she took the arm of Oswald to walk with
him in the church, saying, "I have never held any conversation with you
upon my religious sentiments--permit me to speak a little upon that
subject now; perhaps I shall be able to dissipate those clouds which I
perceive rising in your mind."
Chapter v.
"The difference of our religions, my dear Oswald," continued Corinne,
"is the cause of that secret censure which you cannot conceal from me.
Yours is serious and rigid--ours, cheerful and tender. It is generally
believed that Catholicism is more rigorous than Protestantism; and that
may be true in a country where a struggle has subsisted between the two
religions; but we have no religious dissensions in Italy, and you have
experienced much of them in England. The result of this difference is,
that Catholicism in Italy has assumed a character of mildness and
indulgence; and that to destroy it in England, the Reformation has armed
itself with the greatest severity in principles and morals. Our
religion, like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the
poets, and becomes a part, if I may so express it, of all the joys of
our life; whilst yours, establishing itself in a country where reason
predominates more than imagination, has assumed a character of moral
austerity which will never leave it. Ours speaks in the name of love,
and yours in the name of duty. Our principles are liberal, our dogmas
are absolute; nevertheless, our despotic orthodoxy accommodates itself
to particular circumstances, and your religious liberty enforces
obedience to its laws without any exception. It is true that our
Catholicism imposes very hard penance upon those who have embraced a
monastic life. This state, freely chosen, is a mysterious relation
between man and the Deity; but the religion of laymen in Italy is an
habitual source of affecting emotions. Love, hope, and faith, are the
principal virtues of this religion, and all these virtues announce and
confer happiness. Our priests therefore, far from forbidding at any time
the pure sentiment of joy, tell us that it expresses our gratitude
towards the Creator. What they exact of us, is an observance of those
practices which prove our respect for our worship, and our desire to
please God, namely, charity for the unfortunate, and repentance for our
errors. But they do not refuse absolution, when we zealously entreat it;
and the attachments of the heart inspire a more indulgent pity amongst
us than anywhere else. Has not Jesus Christ said of the Magdalen: _Much
shall be pardoned her, because she hath loved much_? These words were
uttered beneath a sky, beautiful as ours; this same sky implores for us
the Divine mercy."
"Corinne!" answered Lord Nelville, "how can I combat words so sweet, and
of which my heart stands so much in need? But I will do it,
nevertheless, because it is not for a day that I love Corinne--I expect
with her a long futurity of happiness and virtue. The most pure religion
is that which makes a continual homage to the Supreme Being, by the
sacrifice of our passions and the fulfilment of our duties. A man's
morality is his worship of God; and it would be degrading the idea we
form of the Creator, to suppose that He wills anything in relation with
His creature, that is not worthy of His intellectual perfection.
Paternal authority, that noble image of a master sovereignly good,
demands nothing of its children that does not tend to make them better
or happier. How then can we imagine that God would exact anything from
man, which has not man himself for its object? You see also what
confusion in the understandings of your people results from the
practice of attaching more importance to religious ceremonies than to
moral duties. It is after Holy Week, you know, that the greatest number
of murders is committed at Rome. The people think, to use the
expression, that they have laid in a stock during Lent, and expend in
assassination the treasures of their penitence. Criminals have been
seen, yet reeking with murder, who have scrupled to eat meat on a
Friday; and gross minds, who have been persuaded that the greatest of
crimes consists in disobeying the discipline of the church, exhaust
their consciences on this head, and conceive that the Deity, like human
sovereigns, esteems submission to his power more than every other
virtue. This is to substitute the sycophancy of a courtier for the
respect which the Creator inspires, as the source and reward of a
scrupulous and delicate life. Catholicism in Italy, confining itself to
external demonstrations, dispenses the soul from meditation and
self-contemplation. When the spectacle is over, the emotion ceases, the
duty is fulfilled, and one is not, as with us, a long time absorbed in
thoughts and sentiments, which give birth to a rigid examination of
one's conduct and heart."
"You are severe, my dear Oswald," replied Corinne; "it is not the first
time I have remarked it. If religion consisted only in a strict
observance of moral duties, in what would it be superior to reason and
philosophy? And what sentiments of piety could we discover, if our
principal aim were to stifle the feelings of the heart? The stoics were
as enlightened as we, as to the duties and the austerity of human
conduct; but that which is peculiar to Christianity is the religious
enthusiasm which blends with every affection of the soul; it is the
power of love and pity; it is the worship of sentiment and of
indulgence, so favourable to the flights of the soul towards heaven.
How are we to interpret the parable of the Prodigal Son, if not that
love, sincere love, is preferred even to the most exact discharge of
every duty? This son had quitted his paternal abode, and his brother had
remained there; he had plunged into all the dissipation and pleasure of
the world, and his brother had never deviated for a single moment from
the regularity of domestic life; but he returned, full of love for his
father and of repentance for his past follies, and his parent celebrated
this return by a festival. Ah! can it be doubted that among the
mysteries of our nature, to love and to love again is what remains to us
of our celestial inheritance? Even our virtues are often too complicated
with life, for us to comprehend the gradations of good, and what is the
secret sentiment that governs and leads us astray: I ask of my God to
teach me to adore him, and I feel the effect of my prayers in the tears
that I shed. But to support this disposition of the soul, religious
practices are more necessary than you think; they are a constant
communication with the Deity; they are daily actions, unconnected with
the interests of life and solely directed towards the invisible world.
External objects are also a great help to piety; the soul falls back
upon itself, if the fine arts, great monuments, and harmonic strains, do
not reanimate that poetical genius, which is synonymous with religious
inspiration.
"The most vulgar man, when he prays, when he suffers, and places hope in
heaven, has at that moment something in him which he would express like
Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had taught him to clothe his
thoughts with words. There are only two distinct classes of men in the
world; those who feel enthusiasm, and those who despise it; every other
difference is the work of society. The former cannot find words to
express their sentiments, and the latter know what it is necessary to
say to conceal the emptiness of their heart. But the spring that bursts
from the rock at the voice of heaven, that spring is the true talent,
the true religion, the true love.
"The pomp of our worship; those pictures in which the kneeling saints
express a continual prayer in their looks; those statues placed on the
tombs as if they were one day to rise with their inhabitants; those
churches and their immense domes, have an intimate connection with
religious ideas. I like this splendid homage paid by men to that which
promises them neither fortune nor power--to that which neither punishes
nor rewards them, but by a sentiment of the heart. I then feel more
proud of my being; I recognise something disinterested in man; and were
even religious magnificence multiplied to an extreme, I should love that
prodigality of terrestrial riches for another life, of time for
eternity: enough is provided for the morrow, enough care is taken for
the economy of human affairs. How I love the useless, useless if
existence be only a painful toil for a miserable gain! But if on this
earth we are journeying towards heaven, what can we do better than to
take every means of elevating our soul, that it may feel the infinite,
the invisible, and the eternal, in the midst of all the limits that
surround us?
"Jesus Christ permitted a weak, and perhaps, repentant woman, to anoint
His feet with the most precious perfumes, and repulsed those who advised
that those perfumes should be reserved for a more profitable use. "_Let
her alone_" said He, "_for I am only with you for a short time_." Alas!
all that is good and sublime upon earth is only with us for a short
time; age, infirmity, and death, would soon dry up that drop of dew
which falls from heaven and only rests upon the flowers. Let us then,
dear Oswald, confound everything,--love, religion, genius, the sun, the
perfumes, music, and poetry: atheism only consists in coldness, egotism,
and baseness. Jesus Christ has said: _When two or three are gathered
together in my name, I will be in the midst of them._ And what is it O
God! to be assembled in Thy name, if it be not to enjoy Thy sublime
gifts, and to offer Thee our homage, to thank Thee for that existence
which Thou hast given us; above all, to thank Thee, when a heart, also
created by Thee is perfectly responsive to our own?"
At this moment a celestial inspiration animated the countenance of
Corinne. Oswald could hardly refrain from falling on his knees before
her in the midst of the temple, and was silent for a long time to
indulge in the pleasure of recalling her words and retracing them still
in her looks. At last he set about replying; for he would not abandon a
cause that was dear to him. "Corinne," said he, then, "indulge your
lover with a few words more. His heart is not dry; no, Corinne, believe
me it is not, and if I am an advocate for austerity in principle and
action, it is because it renders sentiment more deep and permanent. If I
love reason in religion, that is to say, if I reject contradictory
dogmas and human means of producing effect upon men, it is because I
perceive the Deity in reason as well as in enthusiasm; and if I cannot
bear that man should be deprived of any one of his faculties, it is
because I conceive them all barely sufficient to comprehend truths which
reflection reveals to him, as well as the instinct of the heart, namely,
the existence of God, and the immortality of the soul. What can be added
to these sublime ideas, to their union with virtue? What can we add
thereto that is not beneath them? The poetical enthusiasm which gives
you so many charms, is not, I venture to assert, the most salutary
devotion. Corinne, how could we by this disposition prepare for the
innumerable sacrifices which duty exacts of us! There was no revelation,
except by the flights of the soul, when human destiny, present and
future, only revealed itself to the mind through clouds; but for us, to
whom Christianity has rendered it clear and positive, feeling may be our
recompense, but ought not to be our only guide: you describe the
existence of the blessed, not that of mortals. Religious life is a
combat, not a hymn. If we were not condemned in this world to repress
the evil inclinations of others and of ourselves, there would in truth
be no distinction to be made except between cold and enthusiastic souls.
But man is a harsher and more formidable creature than your heart paints
him to you; and reason in piety, and authority in duty, are a necessary
curb to the wanderings of his pride.
"In whatever manner you may consider the external pomp and multiplied
ceremonies of your religion, believe me, my love, the contemplation of
the universe and its author, will be always the chief worship; that
which will fill the imagination, without any thing futile or absurd
being found in it upon investigation. Those dogmas which wound my reason
also cool my enthusiasm. Undoubtedly the world, such as it is, is a
mystery which we can neither deny nor comprehend; it would therefore be
foolish to refuse credence to what we are unable to explain; but that
which is contradictory is always of human creation. The mysteries of
heavenly origin are above the lights of the mind; but not in opposition
to them. A German philosopher[31] has said: _I know but two beautiful
things in the universe: the starry sky above our heads, and the
sentiment of duty in our hearts_. In truth all the wonders of the
creation are comprised in these words.
"So far from a simple and severe religion searing our hearts, I should
have thought, before I had known you, Corinne, that it was the only one
which could concentrate and perpetuate the affections. I have seen the
most pure and austere conduct unfold in a man the most inexhaustible
tenderness. I have seen him preserve even to old age, a virginity of
soul, which the passions and their criminal effects would necessarily
have withered. Undoubtedly repentance is a fine thing, and I have more
need than any person to believe in its efficacy; but repeated repentance
fatigues the soul--this sentiment can only regenerate once. It is the
redemption which is accomplished at the bottom of our soul, and this
great sacrifice cannot be renewed. When human weakness is accustomed to
it, the power to love is lost; for power is necessary in order to love,
at least with constancy.
"I shall offer some objections of the same kind to that splendid form of
worship, which according to you, acts so powerfully upon the
imagination. I believe the imagination to be modest, and retired as the
heart. The emotions which are imposed on it, are less powerful than
those born of itself. I have seen in the Cevennes, a Protestant minister
who preached towards the evening in the heart of the mountains. He
invoked the tombs of the French, banished and proscribed by their
brethren, whose ashes had been assembled together in this spot. He
promised their friends that they should meet them again in a better
world. He said that a virtuous life secured us this happiness; he said:
_do good to mankind, that God may heal in your heart the wound of
grief_. He testified his astonishment at the inflexibility and
hard-heartedness of man, the creature of a day, to his fellow man
equally with himself the creature of a day, and seized upon that
terrible idea of death, which the living have conceived, but which they
will never be able to exhaust. In short, he said nothing that was not
affecting and true: his words were perfectly in harmony with nature. The
torrent which was heard in the distance, the scintillating light of the
stars, seemed to express the same thought under another form. The
magnificence of nature was there, that magnificence, which can feast the
soul without offending misfortune; and all this imposing simplicity,
touched the soul more deeply than dazzling ceremonies could have done."
On the second day after this conversation, Easter Sunday, Corinne and
Lord Nelville went together to the square of St Peter, at the moment
when the Pope appears upon the most elevated balcony of the church, and
asks of heaven that benediction which he is about to bestow on the land;
when he pronounces these words, _urbi et orbi_ (to the city and to the
world)--all the assembled people fell on their knees, and Corinne and
Lord Nelville felt, by the emotion which they experienced at this
moment, that all forms of worship resemble each other. The religious
sentiment intimately unites men among themselves, when self-love and
fanaticism do not make it an object of jealousy and hatred. To pray
together in the same language, whatever be the form of worship, is the
most pathetic bond of fraternity, of hope, and of sympathy, which men
can contract upon earth.