Open the history of America, the history of England, and the history
of France; read the great lives, the great deaths, the great
sufferings, the sublime words, when the ruling passion of life reveals
itself in the last moments of the dying,--and compare them!
Washington and Franklin fought, spoke, suffered; rose and fell, in
their political life, from popularity to ingratitude, from glory to
bitter scorn of their citizens,--always in the name of God, for whom
they acted; and the liberator of America died, committing to the
Divine protection, first, the liberty of his People,--and, afterwards,
his own soul to His indulgent judgment.
Strafford, dying for the constitution of his country, wrote to Charles
I., to entreat his consent to his punishment, that he might spare
trouble to the State: "Put not your trust," wrote he, after this
consent was obtained, "put not your trust in princes, or in the son
of man, because salvation is not in them, but from on high." While
walking to the scaffold, he stopped under the windows of his friend,
the Bishop of London; he raised his head towards him, and asked, in a
loud voice, the assistance of his prayers in the terrible moment to
which he had come. The primate, bowed with age, and bathed in tears,
gave, in a stifled voice, his tender benedictions to his unhappy
friend, and fell, without consciousness, into the arms of his
attendants. Strafford continued his way, sustained by the Divine
force, descending from this invocation upon him: he spoke with
resignation to the People assembled to see him die. "I fear only one
thing," said he, "and that is, that this effusion of innocent blood is
a bad presage for the liberty of my country!" (Alas! why did not the
Convention recall these words among us, in '93?) Stafford
continued:--"Now," said he, "I draw near my end. One blow will make my
wife a widow, my children orphans, deprive my poor servants of an
affectionate master, and separate me from my dear brother, and my
friends. May God be all of these!" He disrobed himself, and placed his
head on the block. "I give thanks," said he, "to my heavenly Master
for helping me to await this blow without fear; for not permitting me
to be cast down for a single instant by terror. I repose my head as
willingly on this block as I ever laid it down to sleep." This is
faith in Patriotism! See Charles I., in his turn,--that model of a
kingly death. At the moment that he was to receive the blow of the
axe, the edge of which he had coolly examined and touched, he raised
his head, and addressed the clergyman who was present:--"Remember!"
said he; as if he had said, "Remember to advise my sons never to
revenge their father!"
Sidney, the young martyr of a patriotism, guilty, because too hasty,
died to expiate the dream of the freedom of his country. He said to
the jailer, "May my blood purify my soul! I rejoice that I die
innocent toward the king, but a victim resigned to the King of Heaven,
to whom we owe all life."
The republicans of Cromwell sought only the way of God, even in the
blood of battles. Their politics is nothing but faith; their
government, a prayer; their death, a holy hymn;--they sang, like the
Templars, on their funeral-pile. We see, we feel, we hear God, above
all, in these revolutions, in these great popular movements, and in
the souls of the great citizens of these nations.
But recross the Atlantic, traverse the Channel, approach our own
time, open our annals; and listen to the great political actors in the
drama of our liberty. It would seem as if God was hidden from the
souls of men; as if his name had never been written in the language.
History will have the air of being atheistic, while recounting to
posterity these _annihilations_, rather than _deaths_, of the
celebrated men of the greatest years of France. The victims alone have
a God; the tribunes and lictors have none.
See Mirabeau on his death-bed. "Crown me with flowers," said he,
"intoxicate me with perfumes, let me die with the sound of delicious
music." Not one word of God, or of his soul! A sensual philosopher, he
asks of death only a supreme sensualism; he desires to give a last
pleasure even to agony.
Look at Madam Roland, that strong woman of the Revolution,--upon the
car that carries her to death. She looks with scorn upon the stupid
People, who kill their prophets and their sibyls. Not one glance to
Heaven; only an exclamation for the earth she leaves:--"O, Liberty!"
Approach the prison door of the Girondines: their last night is a
banquet, and their last hymn is the _Marseillaise_!
Follow Camille Desmoulins to punishment:--a cold and indecent
pleasantry at the tribunal; one long imprecation on the road to the
guillotine;--those are the last thoughts of this dying man, about to
appear on high!
Listen to Danton, upon the platform of the scaffold, one step from God
and immortality:--"I have enjoyed much; let me go to sleep," he
says;--then, to the executioner, "You will show my head to the
People; it is worth while!" Annihilation for a confession of faith;
vanity for his last sigh: such is the Frenchman of these latter days!
What do you think of the religious sentiment of a free People, whose
great characters seem to walk thus in procession to annihilation; and
die, without even death, that terrible minister, recalling to their
minds the fear or the promises of God?
Thus the Republic,--which had no future,--reared by these men, and
mere parties, was quickly overthrown in blood. Liberty, achieved by so
much heroism and genius, did not find in France a conscience to
shelter it, a God to avenge it, a People to defend it, against that
other Atheism called Glory! All was finished by a soldier, and by the
apostacy of republicans travestied into courtiers! And what could you
expect? Republican Atheism has no reason to be heroic. If it is
terrified, it yields. Would one buy it, it sells itself; it would be
most foolish to sacrifice itself. Who would mourn for it?--the People
are ungrateful, and God does not exist.
Thus end atheistic revolutions!