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 today 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
smallpox 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;* 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.
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.
* On this subject see Bayle's Diet. Critt art. Hobbes,
Rem. N.
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 intimacy. A thousand examples might be
adduced to convince you that devotees who are the most involved in
superstitious observances to please God Digitized by by 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
un-blushingly 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.
If the truths of religion were, as they assure us, necessary to all men,
they would be clear and intelligible to all men. If the dogmas which
this religion teaches were as important as it is asserted, they would
not only be within the comprehension of the doctors who preach them,
but of all those who hear their lessons. Is it not strange that the
very persons whose profession it is to furnish themselves with religious
knowledge, in order to impart it to others, should recognize their
own dogmas as beyond their own understanding, and that they should
obstinately inculcate to the people, what they acknowledge they do not
comprehend themselves? Should we have much confidence in a physician,
who, after confessing that he was utterly ignorant of his art, should
nevertheless boast of the excellence of his remedies? This, however, is
the constant practice of our spiritual quacks. By a strange fatality,
the most sensible people consent to be the dupes of those empirics who
are perpetually obliged to avow their own profound ignorance.
But if the mysteries of religion are incomprehensible for even those who
inculcate it,--if among those who profess it there is no one who knows
precisely what he believes, or who can give an account of either his
conduct or belief,--this is not so in regard to the difficulties with
which we oppose this religion. These objections are simple, within
the comprehension of all persons of ordinary ability, and capable of
convincing every man who, renouncing the prejudiced of his infancy,
will deign to consult the good sense, that nature has bestowed upon all
beings of the human race.
For a long period of time, subtle theologians.. have, without
relaxation, been occupied in warding off the attacks of the incredulous,
and in repairing the breaches made in the ruinous edifice of religion
by adversaries who combated under the flag of reason. In all times there
have been people who felt the futility of the titles upon which the
priests have arrogated the right of enslaving the understandings of
men, and of subjugating and despoiling nations. Notwithstanding all the
efforts of the interested and frequently hypocritical men who have taken
up the defence of religion, from which they and their confederates
alone are profited, these apologists have never been able to vindicate
successfully their _divine_ system against the attacks of incredulity.
Without cessation they have replied to the objections which have been
made, but never have they refuted or annihilated them. Almost in every
instance the defenders of Christianity have been sustained by oppressive
laws on the part of the government; and it has only been by injuries, by
declamations, by punishments and persecutions, that they have replied
to the allegations of reason. It is in this manner that they have
apparently remained masters of the field of battle which their
adversaries could not openly contest. Yet, in spite of the disadvantages
of a combat so unequal, and although the partisans of religion were
accoutred with every possible weapon, and could show themselves openly,
in accordance with _law_, while their adversaries had no arms but those
of reason, and could not appear personally but at the peril of fines,
imprisonment, torture, and death, and were restricted from bringing
all their arsenal into service, yet they have inflicted profound,
immedicable, and incurable wounds upon superstition. Still, if we
believe the mercenaries of religion, the excellence of their system
makes it absolutely invulnerable to every blow which can be inflicted
upon it; and they pretend they have a thousand times in a victorious
manner answered the objections which are continually renewed against
them. In spite of this great security, we see them excessively alarmed
every time a new combatant presents himself, and the latter may well and
successfully use the most common objections, and those which have most
frequently been urged, since it is evident that up to the present moment
the arguments have never been obviated or opposed with satisfactory
replies. To convince you, Madam, of what I here advance, you need only
compare the most simple and ordinary difficulties which good sense
opposes to religion, with the pretended solutions that have been given.
You will perceive that the difficulties, evident even to the capacities
of a child, have never been removed by divines the most practised in
dialectics. You will find in their replies only subtle distinctions,
metaphysical subterfuges, unintelligible verbiage, which can never be
the language of truth, and which demonstrates the embarrassment, the
impotence, and the bad faith of those who are interested by their
position in sustaining a desperate cause. In a word, the difficulties
which have been urged against religion are clear, and within the
comprehension of every one, while the answers, which have been given
are obscure, entangled, and far from satisfactory, even to persons most
versed in such jargon, and plainly indicating that the authors of these
replies do not themselves understand what they say.
If you consult the clergy, they will not fail to set forth the antiquity
of their doctrine, which has always maintained itself, notwithstanding
the continual attacks of the Heretics, the Mecreans, and the Impious
generally, and also in spite of the persecutions of the Pagans. You
have, Madam, too much good sense not to perceive at once that the
antiquity of an opinion proves nothing in its favor. If antiquity was a
proof of truth, Christianity must yield to Judaism, and that in its turn
to the religion of the Egyptians and Chaldeans, or, in other words, to
the idolatry which was greatly anterior to Moses. For thousands of years
it was universally believed that the sun revolved round the earth, which
remained immovable; and yet it is not the less true that the sun is
fixed, and the earth moves around that. Besides, it is evident--that
the Christianity of to-day is not what it formerly was. The continual
attacks that this religion has suffered from heretics, commencing with
its earliest history, proves that there never could have existed any
harmony between the partisans of a pretended divine system, which
offended all rules of consistency and logic in its very first
principles. Some parts of this celestial system were always denied
by devotees who admitted other parts. If infidels have often attacked
religion without apparent effect, it is because the best reasons become
useless against the blindness of a superstition sustained by the public
authority, or against the torrent of opinion and custom which sways
the minds of most men. With regard to the persecutions which the church
suffered on the part of the pagans, he is but slightly acquainted with
the effects of fanaticism and religious obstinacy who does not perceive
that tyranny is calculated to excite and extend what it persecutes most
violently.
You are not formed to be the dupe of names and authorities. The
defenders of the popular superstition will endeavor to overwhelm you by
the multiplied testimony of many illustrious and learned men, who not
only admitted the Christian religion, but who were also its most zealous
supporters.
They will adduce holy divines, great philosophers, powerful reasoners,
fathers of the church, and learned interpreters, who have successively
advocated the system. I will not contest the understanding of the
learned men who are cited, which, however, was often faulty, but will
content myself with repeating that frequently the greatest geniuses
are not more clear sighted in matters of religion than the people
themselves. They did not examine the religious opinions they taught; it
may be because they regarded them as sacred, or it may be because
they never went back to first principles, which they would have found
altogether unsound, if they had considered them without prejudice. It
may also have happened because they, were interested in defending a
cause with which their own position was allied. Thus their testimony is
exceptionable, and their authority carries no great weight.
With regard to the interpreters and commentators, who for so many ages
have painfully toiled to elucidate the divine laws, to explain the
sacred books, and to fix the dogmas of Christianity, their very labors
ought to inspire us with suspicion concerning a religion which is
founded upon such books and which preaches such dogmas. They prove that
works emanating from the Supreme Being, are obscure, unintelligible,
and need human assistance in order to be understood by those to whom
the Divinity wished to reveal his will. The laws of a wise God would be
simple and clear. Defective laws alone need interpreters.
It is not, then, Madam, upon these interpreters that you should rely; it
is upon yourself; it is your own reason that you should consult. It is
_your_ happiness, it is _your_ repose, that is in question; and these
objects are too serious to allow their decision to be delegated to any
others than yourself. If religion is as important as we are assured, it
undoubtedly merits the greatest attention. If it is upon this religion
that depends the happiness of men both in this world and in another,
there is no subject which interests us so strongly, and which
consequently demands a more thorough, careful, and considerate
examination. Can there be any thing, then, more strange than the conduct
of the great majority of men? Entirely convinced of the necessity and
importance of religion, they still never give themselves the trouble to
examine it thoroughly; they follow it in a spirit of routine and from
habit; they never give any reason for its dogmas; they revere it, they
submit to it, and they groan under its weight, without ever inquiring
wherefore. In fine, they rely upon others to examine it; and they whose
judgment they so blindly receive are precisely those persons upon whose
opinions they should look with the most suspicion. The priests arrogate
the possession of judging exclusively and without appeal of a system
evidently invented for their own utility. And what is the language of
these priests? Visibly interested in maintaining the received opinions,
they exhibit them as necessary to the public good, as useful and
consoling for us all, as intimately connected with morality, as
indispensable to society, and, in a word, as of the very greatest
importance. After having thus prepossessed our minds, they next prohibit
our examining the things so important to be known. What must be thought
of such conduct? You can only conclude that they desire to deceive you,
that they fear examination only because religion cannot sustain it, and
that they dread reason because it is able to unveil the incalculably
dangerous projects of the priesthood against the human race.
For these reasons, Madam, as I cannot too often repeat, examine for
yourself; make use of your own understanding; seek the truth in the
sincerity of your heart; reduce prejudice to silence; throw off the
base servitude of custom; be suspicious of imagination; and with
these precautions, in good faith with yourself, you can weigh with an
impartial hand the various opinions concerning religion. From whatever
source an opinion may come, acquiesce only in that which shall
be convincing to your understanding, satisfactory to your heart,
conformable to a healthy morality, and approved by virtue. Reject with
disdain whatever shocks your reason, and repulse with horror those
notions so criminal and injurious to morality which religion endeavors
to palm off for supernatural and divine virtues.
What do I say? Amiable and wise Eugenia, examine rigorously the ideas
that, by your own desire, I shall hereafter present you. Let not your
confidence in me, or your deference to my weak understanding, blind you
in regard to my opinions. I submit them to your judgment. Discuss them,
combat them, and never give them your assent until you are convinced
that in them you recognize the truth. My sentiments are neither divine
oracles nor theological opinions which it is not permitted to canvass.
If what I say is true, adopt my ideas. If I am deceived, point out
my errors, and I am ready to recognize them and to subscribe my own
condemnation. It will be very pleasant, Madam, to learn truths of you
which, up to the present time, I have vainly sought in the writings of
our divines. If I have at this moment any advantage over you, it is due
entirely to that tranquillity which I enjoy, and of which at present you
are unhappily deprived. The agitations of your mind, the inquietudes of
your body, and the attacks of an exacting and ceremonious devotion, with
which your soul is perplexed, prevent you, for the moment, from seeing
things coolly, and hinder you from making use of your own understanding;
but I have no doubt that soon your intellect, strengthened by reason
against vain chimeras, will regain its natural vigor and the superiority
which belongs to it. In awaiting this moment that I foresee and so much
desire, I shall esteem myself extremely happy if my reflections shall
contribute to render you that tranquillity of spirit so necessary
to judge wisely of things, and without which there can be no true
happiness.
I perceive, Madam, though rather tardily, the length of this letter; but
I hope you will pardon it, as well as my frankness. They will at least
prove the lively interest I take in your painful situation, the sincere
desire I feel to bring it to a termination, and the strong inclination
which actuates me to restore you to your accustomed serenity. Less
pressing motives would never have been sufficient to make me break
silence. Your own positive orders were necessary to lead me to speak of
objects which, once thoroughly examined, give no uneasiness to a healthy
mind. It has been a law with me never to explain myself upon the subject
of religion. Experience has often convinced me that the most useless of
enterprises is to seek to undeceive a prejudiced mind. I was very far
from believing that I ought ever to write upon these subjects. You
alone, Madam, had the power to conquer my indolence, and to impel me to
change my resolution. Eugenia afflicted, tormented with scruples, and
ready to plunge herself into gloomy austerities and superstitions,
calculated to render her unamiable to others, without contributing
happiness to herself, honored me with her confidence, and requested
counsel of her friend. She exacted that I should speak. "It is enough,"
I said; "let me write for Eugenia; let me endeavor to restore the repose
she has lost; let me labor with ardor for her upon whose happiness that
of so many others is dependent."
Such, Madam, are the motives which induce me to take my pen in hand. In
looking forward to the time when you will be undeceived, I shall dare at
least to flatter myself that you will not regard me with the same eyes
with which priests and devotees look upon every one who has the temerity
to contradict their ideas. To believe them, every man who declares
himself against religion is a bad citizen, a madman armed to justify
his passions, a perturbator of the public repose, and an enemy of his
fellow-citizens, that cannot be punished with too much rigor. My
conduct is known to you; and the confidence with which you honor me is
sufficient for my apology. It is for you alone that I write. It is to
dissipate the clouds that obscure your mental horizon that I communicate
reflections which, but for reasons so pressing, I should have always
enclosed in my own bosom. If by chance they shall hereafter fall into
other hands than yours, and be found of some utility, I shall felicitate
myself for having contributed to the establishment of happiness by
leading back to reason minds which had wandered from it, by making truth
to be felt and known, and by unmasking impostures which have caused so
many misfortune? upon the earth.
In a word, I submit my reasoning to your judgment, I confide fully in
your discretion, and I allow myself to conclude that my ideas, after you
are disabused of the vain terrors with which you are now oppressed, will
fully convince you that this religion, which is exhibited to men as a
concern the most important, the most true, the most interesting, and the
most useful, is only a tissue of absurdities, is calculated to confound
reason, to disturb the understanding, and can be advantageous to
none save those who make use of it to govern the human race. I shall
acknowledge myself in the wrong if I do not prove, in the clearest
manner, that religion is false, useless, and dangerous, and that
morality, in its stead, should occupy the spirits and animate the souls
of all men.
I shall enter more particularly into the subject in my next letter.
I shall go back to first principles, and in the course of this
correspondence I flatter myself I shall completely demonstrate that
these objects, which theology endeavors to render intricate, and to
envelop with clouds, in order to make them more respectable and sacred,
are not only entirely susceptible of being understood by you, but that
they are likewise within the comprehension of every one who possesses
even an ordinary share of good sense. If my frankness shall appear too
undisguised, I beg you to consider, Madam, that it is necessary I
should address you explicitly and clearly. I now consider it my duty to
administer an energetic and prompt remedy for the malady with which I
perceive you to be attacked. Besides, I venture to hope that in a short
time you will feel gratified that I have shown you the truth in all its
integrity and brilliancy. You will pardon me for having dissipated the
unreal and yet harassing phantoms which infested your mind. But let my
success be what it may, my efforts to confer tranquillity upon you will
at least be evidences of the interest I take in your happiness, of my
zeal to serve you, and of the respect with which I am your sincere and
attached friend.