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LETTERS TO EUGENIA;
OR,
A PRESERVATIVE
AGAINST RELIGIOUS PREJUDICES.
BY BARON D'HOLBACH,
AUTHOR OF THE SYSTEM OF NATURE, THE SOCIAL SYSTEM,
GOOD SENSE, CHRISTIANITY UNVEILED, ECCE HOMO,
UNIVERSAL MORALITY, RELIGIOUS CRUELTY, &c., &c., &c.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, BY
ANTHONY C. MIDDLETON, M. D.
... "Arctis
Religionum animos nodis exsolvere pergo."
LUCRETII _De Rerum Natura_, lib. iv. _v._ 6, 7.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY JOSIAH P. MENDUM,
AT THE OFFICE OF THE BOSTON INVESTIGATOR.
1857.
NAIGEON'S PREFACE.
1768.
For many years this work has been known under the title of _Letters to
Eugenia_. The secretive character of those, however, into whose hands
the manuscript at first fell; the singular and yet actual pleasure
that is caused generally enough in the minds of all men by the
exclusive possession of any object whatever; that kind of torpor,
servitude, and terror in which the tyrannical power of the priests
then held all minds--even those who by the superiority of their
talents ought naturally to be the least disposed to bend under the
odious yoke of the clergy,--all these circumstances united contributed
so much to stifle in its birth, if I may so express myself, this
important manuscript, that for a long time it was supposed to be lost;
so much did those who possessed it keep it carefully concealed, and so
constantly did they refuse to allow a copy to be taken. The
manuscripts, indeed, were so scarce, even in the libraries of the
curious, that the late M. De Boze, whose pleasure it was to collect
the rarest works belonging to every species of literature, could never
succeed in acquiring a copy of the _Letters to Eugenia_, and in his
time there were only three in Paris; it may have been from design,
_propter metum Judaeorum_;[1] it may have been there were actually no
more known.
[1] _On account of fear of the Jews_, or, in other words, the
intolerant clergy of the despotic government.
It is not till within five or six years that MSS. of these letters
have become more common; and there is reason to believe that they are
now considerably multiplied, since the copy from which this edition is
printed has been revised and corrected by collation with six others,
that have been collected without any great difficulty. Unhappily, all
these copies swarm with faults, which corrupt the sense, and
comprehend many variations, but which also, to use the language of the
Biblical critics, have served sometimes to discover and to fix the
true reading! More often, however, they have rendered it more
uncertain than it was before what one ought to be followed--a new
proof of the multiplicity of copies, because the more numerous are the
manuscripts of a work, the more they differ from each other, as any
one may be fully convinced by consulting those of the _Letter of
Thrasybulus to Leucippus_, and the various readings of the New
Testament collected by the learned Mill, and which amount to more than
thirty thousand.
However this may be, we have spared no pains to reestablish the text
in all its purity; and we venture to say, that, with the exception of
four or five passages, which we found corrupted in all the manuscripts
that we had an opportunity to collate, and which we have amended to
the best of our ability, the edition of these letters that we now
offer to the reader will probably conform almost exactly with the
original manuscript of the author.
With regard to the author's name and quality we can offer nothing but
conjectures. The only particulars of his life upon which there is a
general agreement are, that he lived upon terms of great intimacy with
the Marquis de la Fare, the Abbe de Chaulieu, the Abbe Terrasson,
Fontenelle, M. de Lassere, &c. The late MM. Du Marsais and Falconnet
have often been heard to declare that these letters were composed by
some one belonging to the school of Seaux. All that we can pronounce
with certainty is the fact, that it is only necessary to read the
work to be entirely convinced the author was a man of extensive
knowledge, and one who had meditated profoundly concerning the matters
upon which he has treated. His style is clear, simple, easy, and in
which we may remark a certain urbanity, that leads us to be sure that
he was not an obscure individual, nor one to whom good company and
polished society were unfamiliar. But what especially distinguishes
this work, and which should endear it to all good and virtuous people,
is the signal honesty which pervades and characterizes it from the
very beginning to the end. It is impossible to read it without
conceiving the highest idea of the author's probity, whoever he may
have been--without desiring to have had him for a friend, to have
lived with him, and, in a word, without rendering justice to the
rectitude of his intentions, even when we do not approve of his
sentiments. The love of virtue, universal benevolence, respect to the
laws, an inviolable attachment to the duties of morality, and, in
fine, all that can contribute to render men better, is strongly
recommended in these Letters. If, on the one hand, he completely
overthrows the ruinous edifice of Christianity, it is to erect, on the
other hand, the immovable foundations of a system of morality
legitimately established upon the nature of man, upon his physical
wants, and upon his social relations--a base infinitely better and
more solid than that of religion, because sooner or later the lie is
discovered, rejected, and necessarily drags with it what served to
sustain it. On the contrary, the truth subsists eternally, and
consolidates itself as it grows old: _Opinionum commenta delet dies,
naturae judicia confirmat_.[2]
[2] "Time effaces the comments of opinion, but it confirms the
judgments of nature."--CICERO.
The motto affixed to many of the manuscript copies of these letters
proves that the worthy man to whom we owe them did not desire to be
known as their author, and that it was neither the love of reputation,
nor the thirst of glory, nor the ambition of being distinguished by
bold opinions, which the priests, and the satellites subjected to them
by ignorance, denominate _impieties_, which guided his pen. It was
only the desire of doing good to his fellow-beings by enlightening
them, which actuated him, and the wish to uproot, so to speak,
religion itself, as being the source of all the woes which have
afflicted mankind for so many ages. This is the motto of which we
spoke:--
"Si j'ai raison, qu'importe a qui je suis?"
(If reason's mine, no matter who I am.)
It is a verse of Corneille, whose application is exceedingly
appropriate, and which should be upon the frontispiece of all books of
this nature.
We are unable to say any thing more certain concerning the person to
whom our author has addressed his work. It appears, however, from many
circumstances in these Letters, that she was not a supposititious
marchioness, like her of the _Worlds_ of M. de Fontenelle, and that
they have really been written to a woman as distinguished by her rank
as by her manners. Perhaps she was a lady of the school of the Temple,
or of Seaux. But these details, in reality, as well as those which
concern the name and the life of our author, the date of his birth,
that of his death, &c., are of little importance, and could only serve
to satisfy the vain curiosity of some idle readers, who avidiously
collect these kind of anecdotes, who receive from them a kind of
existence in the world, and who feel more satisfaction from being
instructed in them than from the discovery of a truth. I know that
they endeavor to justify their curiosity by saying that when a person
reads a book which creates a public sensation, and with which he is
himself much pleased, it is natural he should desire to know to whom a
grateful homage should be addressed. In this case the desire is so
much the more unreasonable because it cannot be satisfied; first,
because when death and proscription is the penalty, there has never
been and there never will be a man of letters so imprudent, and, to
speak plainly, so strangely daring, as to publish, or during his life
to allow a book to be printed, in which he tramples under foot
temples, altars, and the statues of the gods, and where he attacks
without any disguise the most consecrated religious opinions;
secondly, because it is a matter of public notoriety that all the
works of this character which have appeared for many years are the
secret testaments of numbers of great men, obliged during their lives
to conceal their light under a bushel, whose heads death has withdrawn
from the fury of persecutors, and whose cold ashes, consequently, do
not hear in the tomb either the importunate and denunciatory cries of
the superstitious, or the just eulogiums of the friends of truth;
thirdly and lastly, _because this curiosity, so unfortunately
entertained, may compromise in the most cruel manner the repose, the
fortune, and the liberty of the relatives and friends of the authors
of these bold books!_ This single consideration ought, then, to
determine those hazarders of conjectures, if they have really good
intentions, to wrap in the inmost folds of their hearts whatever
suspicions they may entertain concerning the author, however true or
false they may be, and to turn their inquiring spirits to a use more
beneficial for both themselves and others.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
In 1819 an anonymous translation of the LETTERS TO EUGENIA was
published in London by Richard Carlile. This translation in some of
its parts was sufficiently complete and correct, but in others it was
at absolute variance with the original work; in other parts, also, it
was interlarded with matter not written by d'Holbach; and in others,
large portions of the original Letters were entirely omitted, as were
likewise a number of notes and the whole of the preliminary
observations, with which the volume was introduced to the public by
Naigeon, so long the intimate friend of both d'Holbach and Diderot. In
again presenting the work in an English dress, the London translation
has been made the foundation of this, but the whole has been
thoroughly revised and collated with the original. The omitted
portions have been translated and inserted in their proper places, and
though some passages of the London work, not entirely faithful to the
original, have been allowed to stand, yet the book, as it now
appears, is essentially a new one, and is the most accurate and
complete translation of the LETTERS TO EUGENIA which has ever been
made into the English language.
The work at first came anonymously from the press, and the mystery of
its authorship was sedulously maintained in the introductory
observations of Naigeon, in consequence of the danger which then
attended the issue of Infidel productions, not only in France but
throughout Christendom. The book was printed in Amsterdam, at
d'Holbach's own expense, by Marc-Michael Rey, a noble printer, to whom
the world is greatly indebted for the inestimable aid he rendered the
philosophers. But bold as he was, and then living in a country the
most free of any in the world, he dared not openly send these LETTERS
from his own press. They were issued in 1768, in two duodecimo
volumes, without any publisher's name, and with the imprint of
_London_ on the title page, in order to set those persecutors at bay
who were prowling for victims, and who sought to burn author, printer,
and book at the same pile. The prudence of the author and printer
saved _them_ from this fate; but the book had hardly reached France
before its sale was forbidden under penalty of fines and imprisonment,
and it was condemned by an act of Parliament to be burnt by the
public executioner in the streets of Paris, all of which particulars
will be narrated in the BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF BARON D'HOLBACH, which
I am now preparing for the press.
Of the excellence of the LETTERS TO EUGENIA, nothing need here be
said. The work speaks for itself, and abounds in that eloquence
peculiar to its author, and overflows with kindly sentiments of
humanity, benevolence and virtue. Like d'Holbach's other works, it is
distinguished by an ardent love of liberty, and an invincible hatred
of despotism; by an unanswerable logic, by deep thought, and by
profound ideas. The tyrant and the priest are both displayed in their
true colors; but while the author shows himself inexorable as fate
towards oppressive hierarchies and false ideas, he is tender as an
infant to the unfortunate, to those overburdened with unreasonable
impositions, to those who need consolation and guidance, and to those
searching after truth. Addressed, as the LETTERS were, to a lady
suffering from religious falsehoods and terrors, the object of the
writer is set forth in the motto from Lucretius which he placed on the
title page, and which may thus be expressed in English:--
"Reason's pure light I seek to give the mind,
And from Religion's fetters free mankind."
A. C. M.
The name of the lady was designedly kept in secrecy, and was unknown,
except to _a very few_, till some years after d'Holbach's death. We
now know from the _Feuilles Posthumes_ of Lequinio, who had it from
Naigeon, that the _Letters_ were written several years before their
publication, for the instruction of a lady formerly distinguished at
the French Court for her graces and virtues. They were addressed to
the charming Marguerite, Marchioness de Vermandois. Her husband held
the lucrative post of farmer-general to the king, and besides
inherited large estates. He possessed excellent natural abilities, and
his mind was strengthened and adorned by culture and letters. Had his
modesty permitted him to appear as such, he would now be known as a
poet of genius and merit, for he wrote some poems and plays that were
much admired by all who were allowed to peruse them. He was married in
1763, on the day he completed his twenty-first year, to Marguerite
Justine d'Estrades, then only nineteen years of age, and whom he saw
for the first time in his life only six weeks before they became
husband and wife. Like most of the matches then made among the higher
classes in France, this was one of a purely mercenary character. The
father of the Marquis de Vermandois, and the father of Marguerite, as
a means of joining their estates, contracted their children without
deigning to consult the wishes of the parties, and obedience or
disinheritance was the only alternative. When the compact was
concluded, Marguerite was taken from the convent where for five years
she had lived as a boarder and scholar, and commenced her married life
and her course in the fashionable world at the same time. The match
was far more fortunate than such matches then generally proved to be.
Marguerite's husband was passionately attached to her, and that
attachment was returned. The Marquis was a friend of Baron d'Holbach,
and soon after his marriage introduced his wife to him. Among all the
beauties of Paris the Marchioness was one of the most lovely and
fascinating. Her features were remarkably beautiful, and the bloom and
clearness of her complexion were such as absolutely to render
necessary the old comparison of the rose and the lily to do them
justice. To these were added a voluptuous figure, agreeable manners,
the graces and vivacity of wit, and the still more enduring
attractions of good humor, purity, and benevolence. A female like her
could not but be dear to all who enjoyed her intimacy, and a strong
friendship sprang up between her and Baron d'Holbach. Greatly pleased
with him at first, Marguerite was afterwards as greatly shocked. When
their intercourse had become so familiar as to permit that frankness
and freedom of conversation which prevails among intimate friends, she
discovered that the Baron was an unbeliever in the Christian dogmas
which she had learned at the convent, where, in consequence of her
mother's death, she had been educated. She had been taught that an
Infidel was a monster in all respects, and she was astounded to find
unbelievers in men so agreeable in manners and person, and so profound
in learning, as d'Holbach, Diderot, d'Alembert, and others. She could
deny neither their goodness nor their intellectual qualities, and
while she admired the individuals she shuddered at their incredulity.
Especially did she mourn over Baron d'Holbach. He had a wife as
charming as herself, formerly the lovely Mademoiselle d'Aine, whose
beautiful features and seductive figure presented
"A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal."
Nothing was more natural than that two such women should imbibe the
deepest tenderness for each other. But alas! the Baron's wife was
tainted with her husband's heresies; and yet in their home did the
Marchioness see all the domestic virtues exemplified, and beheld that
sweet harmony and unchangeable affection for which the d'Holbachs
were eminently distinguished among their acquaintances, and which was
remarkable from its striking contrast with the courtly and Christian
habits of the day. At a loss what to do, the Marchioness consulted her
confessor, and was advised to withdraw entirely from the society of
the Baron and his wife, unless she was willing to sacrifice all her
hopes of heaven, and to plunge headlong down to hell. Her natural good
sense and love of her friends struggled with her monastic education
and reverence for the priests. The conflict rendered her miserable;
and unable to enjoy happiness, she brooded over her wishes and her
terrors. In this state of mind she at length wrote a touching letter
to the Baron, and laid open her situation, requesting him to comfort,
console, and enlighten her. Such was the origin of the book now
presented in an English dress to the reader. It accomplished its
purpose with the Marchioness de Vermandois, and afterwards its author
concluded to publish the work, in hopes it might be equally useful to
others.
The _Letters_ were _written_ in 1764, when d'Holbach was in the
forty-second year of his age. Twelve different works he had before
written and published, and all without the affix of his name. _Eleven_
were upon mineralogy, the arts and the sciences, and _one_ only upon
theology. That _one_ had been secretly printed in 1761, at Nancy, with
the imprint of London, and was _honored_ with a parliamentary statute
condemning its publication and forbidding its sale or circulation.
Christian hatred bestowed upon it the additional honor of causing it
to be burned in the streets of Paris by the public executioner. But
the prudence of the author protected his life. He attributed the book
to a dead man, who had been known to entertain sceptical views. It was
entitled CHRISTIANITY UNVEILED, and bore on its title page the name of
BOULANGER. This was d'Holbach's first contribution to Infidel
literature, and the second similar work written by him was the LETTERS
TO EUGENIA. These were the preludes to more than a quarter of a
hundred different productions numbering among them such books as _Good
Sense_, _The System of Nature_, _Ecce Homo_, _Priests Unmasked_, &c.,
&c., all printed anonymously or pseudonymously at his own expense,
without a possibility of pecuniary advantage, and with such
extraordinary secrecy as to show that he was actuated by no desire of
literary fame. It was love of truth alone that impelled d'Holbach to
write. Brilliant, profound, eloquent and excellent as were his
writings, attracting notice as they did from the civil and religious
powers, commented upon as they were by such men as Voltaire and
Frederick the Great, admired as they were by that class who felt and
combated the evils of tyranny as well as of religion, of kings as well
as of priests,--that class who almost drew their life from the books
of him and his compeers,--he was never seduced from the rule he
originally laid down for his literary conduct.
A very few persons he was obliged to trust in order to get his
writings printed, and but for that fact Baron d'Holbach would now only
be known as a gentleman of great wealth, extensive benevolence, and
uncommon liberality, as a man of profound learning and agreeable
colloquial powers, as the bountiful friend of men of letters, as the
soother of the distressed, as the protector of the miserable, and as
the affectionate husband and father. So much of him we should have
known; but that he was the author of those books which roused
intolerant priests and corrupt magistrates, consistories and
parliaments, monarchs and philosophers, the people and their
oppressors,--that he was the Archimedes that thus moved the
world,--would not have been known had he not employed another
philosopher, by the name of Naigeon, to carry his manuscripts to
Amsterdam, and to direct their printing by Marc-Michel Rey. It was
Naigeon who carried the manuscript of the LETTERS TO EUGENIA to
Holland, together with a number of others by the same author, which
also appeared during the year 1768,--an eventful year in the history
of Infidel progress. The _Letters_ were carefully revised by d'Holbach
before they were sent to press. All the passages of a purely personal
character were omitted, some new matter was incorporated, and some
sentences were added purposely to keep the author and the lady he
addressed in impenetrable obscurity. To raise the veil from a man of
so much worth and genius, as well as to carry out his idea of doing
good, is one of the reasons which have led to the present preparation
and publication of this book.
A. C. M.
CONTENTS.
LETTER I.
Of the Sources of Credulity, and of the Motives which should
lead to an Examination of Religion, Page 1
LETTER II.
Of the Ideas which Religion gives us of the Divinity, 29
LETTER III.
An Examination of the Holy Scriptures, of the Nature of the
Christian Religion, and of the Proofs upon which Christianity is
founded, 46
LETTER IV.
Of the fundamental Dogmas of the Christian Religion, 76
LETTER V.
Of the Immortality of the Soul, and of the Dogma of another
Life, 91
LETTER VI.
Of the Mysteries, Sacraments, and Religious Ceremonies of
Christianity, 120
LETTER VII.
Of the pious Rites, Prayers, and Austerities of Christianity, 136
LETTER VIII.
Of Evangelical Virtues and Christian Perfection, 154
LETTER IX.
Of the Advantages contributed to Government by Religion, 184
LETTER X.
Of the Advantages Religion confers on those who profess it, 211
LETTER XI.
Of Human or Natural Morality, 233
LETTER XII.
Of the small Consequence to be attached to Men's Speculations,
and the Indulgence which should be extended to them, 255
LETTERS TO EUGENIA.
LETTER I.
Of the Sources of Credulity, and of the Motives which should lead
to an Examination of Religion.
I am unable, Madam, to express the grievous sentiments that the
perusal of your letter produced in my bosom. Did not a rigorous duty
retain me where I am, you would see me flying to your succor. Is it,
then, true that Eugenia is miserable? Is even she tormented with
chagrin, scruples, and inquietudes? In the midst of opulence and
grandeur; assured of the tenderness and esteem of a husband who adores
you; enjoying at court the advantage, so rare, of being sincerely
beloved by every one; surrounded by friends who render sincere homage
to your talents, your knowledge, and your tastes,--how can you suffer
the pains of melancholy and sorrow? Your pure and virtuous soul can
surely know neither shame nor remorse. Always so far removed from the
weaknesses of your sex, on what account can you blush? Agreeably
occupied with your duties, refreshed with useful reading and
entertaining conversation, and having within your reach every
diversity of virtuous pleasures, how happens it that fears, distastes,
and cares come to assail a heart for which every thing should procure
contentment and peace? Alas! even if your letter had not confirmed it
but too much, from the trouble which agitates you I should have
recognized without difficulty the work of superstition. This fiend
alone possesses the power of disturbing honest souls, without calming
the passions of the corrupt; and when once she gains possession of a
heart, she has the ability to annihilate its repose forever.
Yes, Madam, for a long time I have known the dangerous effects of
religious prejudices. I was myself formerly troubled with them. Like
you I have trembled under the yoke of religion; and if a careful and
deliberate examination had not fully undeceived me, instead of now
being in a state to console you and to reassure you against yourself,
you would see me at the present moment partaking your inquietudes, and
augmenting in your mind the lugubrious ideas with which I perceive you
to be tormented. Thanks to Reason and Philosophy, an unruffled
serenity long ago irradiated my understanding, and banished the
terrors with which I was formerly agitated. What happiness for me if
the peace which I enjoy should put it in my power to break the charm
which yet binds you with the chains of prejudice?
Nevertheless, without your express orders, I should never have dared
to point out to you a mode of thinking widely different from your
own, nor to combat the dangerous opinions to which you have been
persuaded your happiness is attached. But for your request I should
have continued to enclose in my own breast opinions odious to the most
part of men accustomed to see nothing except by the eyes of judges
visibly interested in deceiving them. Now, however, a sacred duty
obliges me to speak. Eugenia, unquiet and alarmed, wishes me to
explore her heart; she needs assistance; she wishes to fix her ideas
upon an object which interests her repose and her felicity. I owe her
the truth. It would be a crime longer to preserve silence. Although my
attachment for her did not impose the necessity of responding to her
confidence, the love of truth would oblige me to make efforts to
dissipate the chimeras which render her unhappy.
I shall proceed then, Madam, to address you with the most complete
frankness. Perhaps at the first glance my ideas may appear strange;
but on examining them with still further care and attention, they will
cease to shock you. Reason, good faith, and truth cannot do otherwise
than exert great influence over such an intellect as yours. I appeal,
therefore, from your alarmed imagination to your more tranquil
judgment; I appeal from custom and prejudice to reflection and reason.
Nature has given you a gentle and sensible soul, and has imparted an
exquisitely lively imagination, and a certain admixture of melancholy
which disposes to despondent revery. It is from this peculiar mental
constitution that arise the woes that now afflict you. Your goodness,
candor, and sincerity preclude your suspecting in others either fraud
or malignity. The gentleness of your character prevents your
contradicting notions that would appear revolting if you deigned to
examine them. You have chosen rather to defer to the judgment of
others, and to subscribe to their ideas, than to consult your own
reason and rely upon your own understanding. The vivacity of your
imagination causes you to embrace with avidity the dismal delineations
which are presented to you; certain men, interested in agitating your
mind, abuse your sensibility in order to produce alarm; they cause you
to shudder at the terrible words, _death_, _judgment_, _hell_,
_punishment_, and _eternity_; they lead you to turn pale at the very
name of an inflexible _judge_, whose absolute decrees nothing can
change; you fancy that you see around you those demons whom he has
made the ministers of his vengeance upon his weak creatures; thus is
your heart filled with affright; you fear that at every instant you
may offend, without being aware of it, a capricious God, always
threatening and always enraged. In consequence of such a state of
mind, all those moments of your life which should only be productive
of contentment and peace, are constantly poisoned by inquietudes,
scruples, and panic terrors, from which a soul as pure as yours ought
to be forever exempt. The agitation into which you are thrown by these
fatal ideas suspends the exercise of your faculties; your reason is
misled by a bewildered imagination, and you are afflicted with
perplexities, with despondency, and with suspicion of yourself. In
this manner you become the dupe of those men who, addressing the
imagination and stifling reason, long since subjugated the universe,
and have actually persuaded reasonable beings that their reason is
either useless or dangerous.
Such is, Madam, the constant language of the apostles of superstition,
whose design has always been, and will always continue to be, to
destroy human reason in order to exercise their power with impunity
over mankind. Throughout the globe the perfidious ministers of
religion have been either the concealed or the declared enemies of
reason, because they always see reason opposed to their views. Every
where do they decry it, because they truly fear that it will destroy
their empire by discovering their conspiracies and the futility of
their fables. Every where upon its ruins they struggle to erect the
empire of fanaticism and imagination. To attain this end with more
certainty, they have unceasingly terrified mortals with hideous
paintings, have astonished and seduced them by marvels and mysteries,
embarrassed them by enigmas and uncertainties, surcharged them with
observances and ceremonies, filled their minds with terrors and
scruples, and fixed their eyes upon a future, which, far from
rendering them more virtuous and happy here below, has only turned
them from the path of true happiness, and destroyed it completely and
forever in their bosoms.
Such are the artifices which the ministers of religion every where
employ to enslave the earth and to retain it under the yoke. The human
race, in all countries, has become the prey of the priests. The
priests have given the name of _religion_ to systems invented by them
to subjugate men, whose imagination they had seduced, whose
understanding they had confounded, and whose reason they had
endeavored to extinguish.
It is especially in infancy that the human mind is disposed to receive
whatever impression is made upon it. Thus our priests have prudently
seized upon the youth to inspire them with ideas that they could never
impose upon adults. It is during the most tender and susceptible age
of men that the priests have familiarized the understanding of our
race with monstrous fables, with extravagant and disjointed fancies,
and with ridiculous chimeras, which, by degrees, become objects that
are respected and that are feared during life.
We need only open our eyes to see the unworthy means employed by
_sacerdotal policy_ to stifle the dawning reason of men. During their
infancy they are taught tales which are ridiculous, impertinent,
contradictory, and criminal, and to these they are enjoined to pay
respect. They are gradually impregnated with inconceivable mysteries
that are announced as sacred truths, and they are accustomed to
contemplate phantoms before which they habitually tremble. In a word,
measures are taken which are the best calculated to render those
blind who do not consult their reason, and to render those base who
constantly shudder whenever they recall the ideas with which their
priests infected their minds at an age when they were unable to guard
against such snares.
Recall to mind, Madam, the dangerous cares which were taken in the
convent where you were educated, to sow in your mind the germs of
those inquietudes that now afflict you. It was there that they began
to speak to you of fables, prodigies, mysteries, and doctrines that
you actually revere, while, if these things were announced to-day for
the first time, you would regard them as ridiculous, and as entirely
unworthy of attention. I have often witnessed your laughter at the
simplicity with which you formerly credited those tales of sorcerers
and ghosts, that, during your childhood, were related by the nuns who
had charge of your education. When you entered society where for a
long time such chimeras have been disbelieved, you were insensibly
undeceived, and at present you blush at your former credulity. Why
have you not the courage to laugh, in a similar manner, at an infinity
of other chimeras with no better foundation, which torment you even
yet, and which only appear more respectable, because you have not
dared to examine them with your own eyes, or because you see them
respected by a public who have never explored them? If my Eugenia is
enlightened and reasonable upon all other topics, why does she
renounce her understanding and her judgment whenever religion is in
question? In the mean time, at this redoubtable word her soul is
disturbed, her strength abandons her, her ordinary penetration is at
fault, her imagination wanders, she only sees through a cloud, she is
unquiet and afflicted. On the watch against reason, she dares not call
that to her assistance. She persuades herself that the best course for
her to take is to allow herself to follow the opinions of a multitude
who never examine, and who always suffer themselves to be conducted by
blind or deceitful guides.
To reestablish peace in your mind, dear Madam, cease to despise
yourself; entertain a just confidence in your own powers of mind, and
feel no chagrin at finding yourself infected with a general and
involuntary epidemic from which it did not depend on you to escape.
The good Abbe de St. Pierre had reason when he said that _devotion was
the small pox of the soul_. I will add that it is rare the disease
does not leave its pits for life. Indeed, see how often the most
enlightened persons persist forever in the prejudices of their
infancy! These notions are so early inculcated, and so many
precautions are continually taken to render them durable, that if any
thing may reasonably surprise us, it is to see any one have the
ability to rise superior to such influences. The most sublime geniuses
are often the playthings of superstition. The heat of their
imagination sometimes only serves to lead them the farther astray, and
to attach them to opinions which would cause them to blush did they
but consult their reason. Pascal constantly imagined that he saw hell
yawning under his feet; Mallebranche was extravagantly credulous;
Hobbes had a great terror of phantoms and demons;[3] and the immortal
Newton wrote a ridiculous commentary on the vials and visions of the
Apocalypse. In a word, every thing proves that there is nothing more
difficult than to efface the notions with which we are imbued during
our infancy. The most sensible persons, and those who reason with the
most correctness upon every other matter, relapse into their infancy
whenever religion is in question.
[3] On this subject see Bayle's _Dict. Crit._, art. _Hobbes_, Rem. N.
Thus, Madam, you need not blush for a weakness which you hold in
common with almost all the world, and from which the greatest men are
not always exempt. Let your courage then revive, and fear not to
examine with perfect composure the phantoms which alarm you. In a
matter which so greatly interests your repose, consult that
enlightened reason which places you as much above the vulgar, as it
elevates the human species above the other animals. Far from being
suspicious of your own understanding and intellectual faculties, turn
your just suspicion against those men, far less enlightened and honest
than you, who, to vanquish you, only address themselves to your lively
imagination; who have the cruelty to disturb the serenity of your
soul; who, under the pretext of attaching you only to heaven, insist
that you must sunder the most tender and endearing ties; and in fine,
who oblige you to proscribe the use of that beneficent reason whose
light guides your conduct so judiciously and so safely.
Leave inquietude and remorse to those corrupt women who have cause to
reproach themselves, or who have crimes to expiate. Leave superstition
to those silly and ignorant females whose narrow minds are incapable
of reasoning or reflection. Abandon the futile and trivial ceremonies
of an objectionable devotion to those idle and peevish women, for
whom, as soon as the transient reign of their personal charms is
finished, there remains no rational relaxation to fill the void of
their days, and who seek by slander and treachery to console
themselves for the loss of pleasures which they can no longer enjoy.
Resist that inclination which seems to impel you to gloomy meditation,
solitude, and melancholy. Devotion is only suited to inert and
listless souls, while yours is formed for action. You should pursue
the course I recommend for the sake of your husband, whose happiness
depends upon you; you owe it to the children, who will soon,
undoubtedly, need all your care and all your instructions for the
guidance of their hearts and understandings; you owe it to the friends
who honor you, and who will value your society when the beauty which
now adorns your person and the voluptuousness which graces your figure
have yielded to the inroads of time; you owe it to the circle in which
you move, and to the world which has a right to your example,
possessing as you do virtues that are far more rare to persons of your
rank than devotion. In fine, you owe happiness to yourself; for,
notwithstanding the promises of religion, you will never find
happiness in those agitations into which I perceive you cast by the
lurid ideas of superstition. In this path you will only encounter
doleful chimeras, frightful phantoms, embarrassments without end,
crushing uncertainties, inexplicable enigmas, and dangerous reveries,
which are only calculated to disturb your repose, to deprive you of
happiness, and to render you incapable of occupying yourself with that
of others. It is very difficult to make those around us happy when we
are ourselves miserable and deprived of peace.
If you will even slightly make observations upon those about you, you
will find abundant proofs of what I advance. The most religious
persons are rarely the most amiable or the most social. Even the most
sincere devotion, by subjecting those who embrace it to wearisome and
crippling ceremonies, by occupying their imaginations with lugubrious
and afflicting objects, by exciting their zeal, is but little
calculated to give to devotees that equality of temper, that sweetness
of an indulgent disposition, and that amenity of character, which
constitute the greatest charms of personal intercourse. A thousand
examples might be adduced to convince you that devotees who are the
most occupied in superstitious observances to please God are not
those women who succeed best in pleasing those by whom they are
surrounded. If there seems to be occasionally an exception to this
rule, it is on the part of those who have not all the zeal and fervor
which is exacted by their religion. Devotion is either a morose and
melancholy passion, or it is a violent and obstinate enthusiasm.
Religion imposes an exclusive and entire regard upon its slaves. All
that an acceptable Christian gives to a fellow-creature is a robbery
from the Creator. A soul filled with religious fervor fears to attach
itself to things of the earth, lest it should lose sight of its
jealous God, who wishes to engross constant attention, who lays it
down as a duty to his creatures that they should sacrifice to him
their most agreeable and most innocent inclinations, and who orders
that they should render themselves miserable here below, under the
idea of pleasing him. In accordance with such principles, we generally
see devotees executing with much fidelity the duty of tormenting
themselves and disturbing the repose of others. They actually believe
they acquire great merit with the Sovereign of heaven by rendering
themselves perfectly useless, or even a scourge to the inhabitants of
the earth.
I am aware, Madam, that devotion in you does not produce effects
injurious to others; but I fear that it is only more injurious to
yourself. The goodness of your heart, the sweetness of your
disposition, and the beneficence which displays itself in all your
conduct, are all so great that even religion does not impel you to
any dangerous excesses. Nevertheless, devotion often causes strange
metamorphoses. Unquiet, agitated, miserable within yourself, it is to
be feared that your temperament will change, that your disposition
will become acrimonious, and that the vexatious ideas over which you
have so long brooded will sooner or later produce a disastrous
influence upon those who approach you. Does not experience constantly
show us that religion effects changes of this kind? What are called
_conversions_, what devotees regard as special acts of divine grace,
are very often only lamentable revolutions by which real vices and
odious qualities are substituted for amiable and useful
characteristics. By a deplorable consequence of these pretended
miracles of grace we frequently see sorrow succeed to enjoyment, a
gloomy and unhappy state to one of innocent gayety, lassitude and
chagrin to activity and hilarity, and slander, intolerance, and zeal
to indulgence and gentleness; nay, what do I say? cruelty itself to
humanity. In a word, superstition is a dangerous leaven, that is
fitted to corrupt even the most honest hearts.
Do you not see, in fact, the excesses to which fanaticism and zeal
drive the wisest and best meaning men? Princes, magistrates, and
judges become inhuman and pitiless as soon as there is a question of
the interests of religion. Men of the gentlest disposition, the most
indulgent, and the most equitable, upon every other matter, religion
transforms to ferocious beasts. The most feeling and compassionate
persons believe themselves in conscience obliged to harden their
hearts, to do violence to their better instincts, and to stifle
nature, in order to show themselves cruel to those who are denounced
as enemies to their own manner of thinking. Recall to your mind,
Madam, the cruelties of nations and governments in alternate
persecutions of Catholics or Protestants, as either happened to be in
the ascendant. Can you find reason, equity, or humanity in the
vexations, imprisonments, and exiles that in our days are inflicted
upon the Jansenists? And these last, if ever they should attain in
their turn the power requisite for persecution, would not probably
treat their adversaries with more moderation or justice. Do you not
daily see individuals who pique themselves upon their sensibility
unblushingly express the joy they would feel at the extermination of
persons to whom they believe they owe neither benevolence nor
indulgence, and whose only crime is a disdain for prejudices that the
vulgar regard as sacred, or that an erroneous and false policy
considers useful to the state? Superstition has so greatly stifled all
sense of humanity in many persons otherwise truly estimable, that they
have no compunctions at sacrificing the most enlightened men of the
nation because they could not be the most credulous or the most
submissive to the authority of the priests.
In a word, devotion is only calculated to fill the heart with a bitter
rancor, that banishes peace and harmony from society. In the matter
of religion, every one believes himself obliged to show more or less
ardor and zeal. Have I not often seen you uncertain yourself whether
you ought to sigh or smile at the self-depreciation of devotees
ridiculously inflamed by that religious vanity which grows out of
sectarian conventionalities? You also see them participating in
theological quarrels, in which, without comprehending their nature or
purport, they believe themselves conscientiously obliged to mingle. I
have a hundred times seen you astounded with their clamors, indignant
at their animosity, scandalized at their cabals, and filled with
disdain at their obstinate ignorance. Yet nothing is more natural than
these outbreaks; ignorance has always been the mother of devotion. To
be a devotee has always been synonymous to having an imbecile
confidence in priests. It is to receive all impulsions from them; it
is to think and act only according to them; it is blindly to adopt
their passions and prejudices; it is faithfully to fulfil practices
which their caprice imposes.
Eugenia is not formed to follow such guides. They would terminate by
leading her widely astray, by dazzling her vivid imagination, by
infecting her gentle and amiable disposition with a deadly poison. To
master with more certainty her understanding, they would render her
austere, intolerant, and vindictive. In a word, by the magical power
of superstition and supernatural notions, they would succeed, perhaps,
in transforming to vices those happy dispositions that nature has
given you. Believe me, Madam, you would gain nothing by such a
metamorphosis. Rather be what you really are. Extricate yourself as
soon as possible from that state of incertitude and languor, from that
alternative of despondency and trouble, in which you are immersed. If
you will only take your reason and virtue for guides, you will soon
break the fetters whose dangerous effects you have begun to feel.
Assume the courage, then, I repeat it, to examine for yourself this
religion, which, far from procuring you the happiness it promised,
will only prove an inexhaustible source of inquietudes and alarms, and
which will deprive you, sooner or later, of those rare qualities which
render you so dear to society. Your interest exacts that you should
render peace to your mind. It is your duty carefully to preserve that
sweetness of temper, that indulgence, and that cheerfulness, by which
you are so much endeared to all those who approach you. You owe
happiness to yourself, and you owe it to those who surround you. Do
not, then, abandon yourself to superstitious reveries, but collect all
the strength of your judgment to combat the chimeras which torment
your imagination. They will disappear as soon as you have considered
them with your ordinary sagacity.
Do not tell me, Madam, that your understanding is too weak to sound
the depths of theology. Do not tell me, in the language of our
priests, that the truths of religion are mysteries that we must adopt
without comprehending them, and that it is necessary to adore in
silence. By expressing themselves in this manner, do you not see they
really proscribe and condemn the very religion to which they are so
solicitous you should adhere? Whatever is supernatural is unsuited to
man, and whatever is beyond his comprehension ought not to occupy his
attention. To adore what we are not able to know, is to adore nothing.
To believe in what we cannot conceive, is to believe in nothing. To
admit without examination every thing we are directed to admit, is to
be basely and stupidly credulous. To say that religion is above
reason, is to recognize the fact that it was not made for reasonable
beings; it is to avow that those who teach it have no more ability to
fathom its depths than ourselves; it is to confess that our reverend
doctors do not themselves understand the marvels with which they daily
entertain us.