Enthusiasm, from its derivation, might in strictness be called a _fixity
of idea in divinity_; but Locke has given a better definition of this
morbid state of our intellectual faculties in considering it as a heated
state of the imagination, "_founded neither on reason nor divine
revelation, but arising from the conceits of a warmed or overweening
brain_." I shall not venture to take the field of controversy to support
this doctrine against that of some metaphysicians, who most probably would
consider this mental aberration as an original and natural judgment
inspired by the Almighty, founded not on reason or reflection, but an
instinctive impulse of the powers of the mind.
The Hebrews named this impulse _Nabi_ [Hebrew], (plural _Nebiim_,) "to
approach or enter," on the surmise that the spirit pervaded the prophets,
who were called _Roeh_ [Hebrew], or _Seeing_, hence _Seers_.
Plato divided enthusiasm into four classes. I. _The Poetical_, inspired by
the Muses. II. _The Mystic_, under the influence of Bacchus. III. _The
Prophetic_, a gift of Apollo; and IV. _The Enthusiasm of love_, a blessing
from Venus Urania. This immortal philosopher was not the visionary
speculatist which some writers have represented him; his logic did not
consist of frivolous investigations, but embraced the more useful subject
of correct definition and division, as he sought to reconcile practical
doctrines of morality with the mysticism of theology by the study of
Divine attributes. Whatever some of the Eclectic philosophers might have
asserted, Plato considered that our ideas were derived from external
objects, and never contemplated the extravagant doctrine of imbodying
metaphysical abstractions, or personifying intellectual ideas.
To this day, the attentive observer will find Plato's classification of
enthusiasm to be correct. The ecstatic exaltation of religion and of love
are not dissimilar; only the latter can be cured, the former seldom or
never admits of mitigation: the fantastic visions of the lover may be
dispelled by infidelity in the object of his misplaced affection; the
phantasies of fanaticism can only yield to an improbable state of
infidelity. Shaftesbury has justly observed, "There is a melancholy which
accompanies all enthusiasm, be it of love or religion; nothing can put a
stop to the growing mischief of either, till the melancholy be removed,
and the mind be at liberty to hear what can be said against the
ridiculousness of an extreme in either way."
Our poet Rowe has beautifully pointed out the facility with which a noble
and martial soul can free itself from love's ignoble trammels.
Rouse to the combat,
And thou art sure to conquer; war shall restore thee:
The sound of arms shall wake thy martial ardour,
And cure this amorous sickness of thy soul,
Begot by sloth, and nurs'd by too much ease.
The idle God of Love supinely dreams
Amidst inglorious shades and purling streams;
In rosy fetters and fantastic chains
He binds deluded maids and simple swains;
With soft enjoyment woos them to forget
The hardy toils and labours of the great:
But if the warlike trumpet's loud alarms
To virtuous acts excite, and manly arms,
The coward Boy avows his abject fear,
On silken wings sublime he cuts the air,
Scar'd at the noble horse and thunder of the war.
The only trumpet that can arouse the religious enthusiast from his ascetic
meditations is the war-whoop that calls him to destroy all those who
impugn his doctrines in a battle-field, where each champion seeks
pre-eminence in cruelty, and rancorous persecution.
When we contemplate the miseries that have arisen from fanaticism, or
fervid enthusiasm, although it is but a sad consolation, yet it affords
some gratification in our charitable view of mankind, to think, nay to
know, that this fearful state of mind is a disease, a variety of madness,
which may in many instances be referred to a primary physical
predisposition, and a natural idiosyncrasy. It is as much a malady as
melancholy and hypochondriacism. In peculiar constitutions it grows
imperceptibly. Lord Shaftesbury has made the following true observation:
"Men are wonderfully happy in a faculty of deceiving themselves whenever
they set heartily about it. A very small foundation of any passion will
serve us not only to act it well, but even to work ourselves in it beyond
our own reach; a man of tolerable goodnature, who happens to be a little
piqued, may, by improving his resentment, become a very fury for revenge."
Thus it is with enthusiasm, a malady which in its dreadful progress has
been known to become contagious, one might even say epidemic. Vain terrors
have seized whole populations in cities and in provinces; when every
accident that happened to a neighbour was deemed a just punishment of his
sins, and every calamity that befel the fanatic was considered the hostile
act of others. Jealousy and dark revenge were the natural results of such
a state of mind, when the furious fire of bigotry was fanned by ambition
until monomania became daemonomania of the most hideous nature, and every
maniac bore in his pale and emaciated visage the characteristic of that
temperament which predisposes to the disease. Seldom do we observe it in
the _sanguineous temperament_, remarkable for mental tranquillity, yet
determined courage when roused to action. The _choleric_ and _bilious_,
impetuous, violent, ambitious, ever ready to carry their point by great
virtues or great crimes, may no doubt rush into a destructive career; but
then they lead to the onset the atrabilious, men saturated with black
bile, and constituting the _melancholy temperament_. Here we behold the
countenance sallow and sad; the visage pale and emaciated, of an unearthly
hue; gloom, suspicion, hate, depicted in every lineament; the mirror of a
soul unfitted for any kind sentiment of affection, pity, or forgiveness.
Detesting mankind, and detested, they seek solitude, to brood upon their
wretchedness, or to derive from it the means to make others as miserable
as themselves. Such do we usually find the enthusiastic monomaniac. His
ideas are concentrated into a burning focus, which consumes him like an
ardent mirror. His life of relation is nearly extinguished. His external
senses are rendered so obtuse and callous that he becomes insensible to
hunger and thirst, to heat and cold however intense; and bodily injuries,
which would occasion excruciating agonies in others, he bears without any
apparent feeling. On this subject of religious enthusiasm the remarks of
Evagrius are worthy of notice. "Contrarieties," he says, "are in
themselves so tempered, and the grace of God maketh in them such an union
of discordant things, that life and death, which are in essence so
opposite to each other, seem to join hands and dwell together in them.
Happy are they while they live, and happier still when they depart." It
has been known amongst these rigid ascetics that when a stranger visited
them, they mortified themselves by entertaining him and partaking of the
good cheer. Thus inventing a novel kind of fasting--eating and drinking
against their will.
It is related of St. Macarius, that one day having killed a gnat that had
stung him, he was struck with such compunction at the sight of blood, that
by way of atonement, he threw off his clothes, and remained in a state of
nudity for six months in a marsh exposed to the bites of every noxious
insect. Sozomen in praising this mortification, assures us that this
exposure to the inclemency of the weather, did so harden and tan him that
his beard could not make its way through the skin.
It has been erroneously supposed that such individuals, being hostile to
mankind, are prone to do evil,--this is not generally the case; they seem
satisfied with their own sufferings, and only seek to inflict them upon
others when roused from their concentration by fanaticism.
A late ingenious writer, in his work entitled "The Natural History of
Enthusiasm," has somewhat overdrawn the portrait of these unfortunate but
dangerous beings when labouring under the disease, which he thus defines:
"It will be found that the elementary idea attached to the term in its
manifold applications, is that of fictitious fervour in religion, rendered
turbulent, morose, or rancorous by junction with some one or more of the
unsocial emotions; or, if a definition as brief as possible were demanded,
we should say that fanaticism is enthusiasm inflamed by hatred. Fanaticism
supposes three elements of belief: the supposition of malignity on the
part of the object of our worship; a consequent detestation of mankind at
large, as the subjects of malignant power; and then, a credulous conceit
of the favour of Heaven shown to the few, in contempt of the rules of
virtue."
Shaftesbury had already said, that "nothing besides ill-humour, either
natural or forced, can bring a man to think seriously that the world is
governed by any devilish or malicious power." Such a fearful conviction
constitutes a clear case of daemonomania. Patients labouring under that
malady are ever prone to injure themselves and others, prompted, as they
constantly avow, by an evil spirit; but enthusiasts, who live in solitary
mortification until a paroxysm of fanaticism draws them from their
retreat, seldom or never meditate mischief to others, or indeed that
hatred to mankind which our author considers a feature of their condition.
Society may become irksome, and may be shunned for ever, without a
sentiment of hate. The gayest of the gay may be impelled by feelings more
or less morbid to seek a voluntary endurance, to expiate real or imaginary
offences, without experiencing a desire of a uselessly vindictive
sentiment towards the former companions of their vices or follies.
Extremes of depravity and contrition do not infrequently meet; and it has
been remarked in Eastern countries, where asceticism arose, that the gates
of the most splendid and luxurious cities open upon desert wilds or
mountainous solitudes, to which the penitent may flee from his former
scenes of ambition and enjoyment.
Such enthusiasts, excepting when enjoying the beatitude of ecstatic
exaltation, are more to be pitied than feared. Persecution would most
probably drive them to a dangerous state of fanatic rage; and the noble
philosopher whom I have already quoted, very justly observes, "They are
certainly ill physicians in the body politic who would needs be tampering
with these mental eruptions, and, under the specious pretence of healing
the itch of superstition, and saving souls from the contagion of
enthusiasm, should set all nature in an uproar, and turn a few innocent
carbuncles into an inflammation and a mortal gangrene."
Enthusiasts are supposed by their followers to be gifted with the faculty
of prophecy; and it is somewhat strange that the ancients considered
certain temperaments as best fitted for this inspiration. The atrabilious
temperament took the lead; and this melancholy state was to be increased
by abstinence, mortification, and more especially rigid continence. The
latter privation, indeed, was deemed indispensable for prophets; and the
Jewish Rabbins inform us that Moses abandoned his wife Zipporah the very
moment that he was prophetically inspired. A physical reason has been
adduced to prove the necessity of a chaste life, which I here must be
allowed to pass over; but upon the same principle, emasculation was
considered as rendering man totally unfit for prophetic revelation, or
indeed any holy inspiration; and we find in the first of Deuteronomy that
such subjects were not admissible to the service of the Temple.
Jesaias, and some other Jewish writers, have affirmed that Daniel belonged
to that class of beings; but it has been shown that the name of _Spado_,
which he bore, merely gave him the high rank that eunuchs held at the
Assyrian court. Potiphar bore the same title among the Pharaohs. Baruch
Spinosa maintained that temperaments should vary according to the nature
of the prophecy; thus, a gay prophet would predict victory and happiness,
a gloomy one misery and wars; peace and concord, if he is human;
destruction and merciless events, if he were sanguinary: and, in support
of his doctrine, he quotes the passage in Kings, where Elisha, when
brought before Jehosophat, called for a minstrel ere he predicted that
victory should crown the arms of Judah.
Various artificial means have been resorted to at all periods to prepare
the intellects for inspirations, by creating a heated imagination. Pliny
informs us that, in his days, the root of the _Halicacabum_, supposed to
be a species of hyoscyamus, was chewed by soothsayers. Christopher
D'Acosta relates that the Indians employ a kind of hemp called _Bangue_
for the same purpose: and in St. Domingo their supposed prophets masticate
a plant called _Cohaba_. The priestesses of Delphi were also in the habit
of chewing laurel-leaves before they ascended the tripod, which it is
stated was originally formed of a laurel-tree root with three branches.
Sophocles calls the Sibyls [Greek: daphnephagos], laurel-eaters; and thus
Tibullus,
Vera cano, sic usque sacras innoxia lauros
Vescar, et aeternum sit mihi virginitas.
Auguries were drawn from the burning of the laurel-leaf. If it crackled
and sparkled during combustion, the inference was favourable; the
reverse, if it was consumed in silence. Propertius alludes to this belief:
Et tacet extincto laurus adusta foco.
Yet so far from possessing exhilarating qualities, laurel-leaves were
supposed to diminish the excitement produced by wine; and Martial affirms
that the Roman ladies made use of them to drink large potations with
impunity:
Foetere multo Myrtale solet vino;
Sed fallat ut nos, folia devorat lauri,
Merumque, cauta fronde, non aqua miscet.
May it not be inferred that the leaves given to the Pythia might have been
those of the _Lauro-cerasus_, the effects of which are similar to those of
prussic acid, producing vertigo, dizziness, and various convulsive
symptoms? This tree was first observed by Belon, who discovered it in his
eastern voyages in 1546; but it might have been well known to the
ancients. We may thus account for the violent convulsions in which the
priestesses of Apollo were thrown on these mystic occasions, and which
were said to arise from the gas over which they were seated. Although the
tree from which the leaves were gathered grew near the temple, and was the
common _Lauros nobilis_, yet the leaves of the _Lauro-cerasus_ might have
easily been substituted on the occasion; since, always green and shining,
they are not very unlike each other, and the flowers of both trees are
pedunculate; and, no doubt, the priests well knew to what extent they
could carry the dose to serve their purposes; possibly the modern
preparation of _noyau_ might have been a Pythian dram.
The effects of enthusiasm in rendering its victims insensible to all
external agents is truly surprising, and cannot be better illustrated than
by a relation of the horrors which the famous Convulsionists of Paris and
other parts of France underwent, not only voluntarily, but at their most
earnest prayer and solicitation.
This work of miracles, as it was called, was first performed by a priest
of the name of Paris, in 1724, and strange to say, the aberration
continued for upwards of twelve years. Paris having departed this life in
the odour of sanctity, (at least according to the conviction of the
Jansenists, who had opposed with no little violence the famous bull
_Unigenitus_), the Appellants, for such they thought proper to denominate
their sect, appealed to the remains of their beatified companion to
operate miracles in support of their common cause. The Appellants were
absurdly persecuted, therefore miracles became manifestations easy to
obtain. Having succeeded in finding credulous dupes, the next step was to
work their credulity into a useful state of enthusiasm. They therefore
summoned all the sick, lame, and halt of their sectarians to repair to the
tomb of St. Paris for radical relief. Crowds were soon collected round his
blessed sepulchre. It is now generally supposed that animal magnetism was
resorted to in these curative operations, or rather religious ceremonies.
Had not the means thus employed for the purpose been recorded and
authenticated by the most irrefragable authorities, the sceptic might long
pause before he would yield them credence.
The patient (a female) was stretched on the ground, and the stoutest men
that could be found were directed to trample with all their might and main
upon her body; kicking the chest and stomach, and attempting to tread down
the ribs with their heels. So violent were these exertions, that it is
related a hunchbacked girl was thus kicked and trampled into a goodly
shape.
The next exercise was what they called the plank, and consisted in laying
a deal board upon the patient while extended on the back, and then getting
as many athletic men as could stand upon it, to press the body down; and
in this endeavour they seldom showed sufficient energy to satisfy the
supposed sufferer, who was constantly calling for more pressure.
Next came the experiment of the pebble, a diminutive name they were
pleased to give to a paving-stone weighing two-and-twenty pounds, which
was discharged by the operator upon the patient's stomach and bosom, from
as great a height as he could well raise the weighty body. This terrific
blow was frequently inflicted upwards of a hundred times, and with such
violence, that the house, and the furniture of the room, vibrated under
the concussion, while the astonished bystanders were terrified by the
hollow sound re-echoed by the enthusiast at every blow.
Carre de Montgeron affirms that the _pebble_ was not found sufficiently
powerful, and the operator was obliged in one case to procure an iron
fire-dog (_chenet_), weighing about thirty pounds, which was discharged as
violently as possible on the pit of the patient's stomach at least a
hundred times. This instrument having for the sake of curiosity been
hurled against a wall, brought part of it down at the twenty-fifth blow.
The operator further states, that he had commenced according to the usual
practice, by inflicting moderate blows, until he was induced by her
lamentable entreaties to redouble his vigour, but all to no purpose; his
strength was unavailing and he was obliged to employ a more athletic
surgeon, who fell to work with such energy that he shook the whole house.
The convulsionist, who was of the gentle sex, would not allow sixty blows
she had received from her first doctor to be included in the calculation
of the dose, but insisted upon having her whole hundred as prescribed. It
further appears, that at each stroke the delighted enthusiast would
exclaim in ecstacy, "Oh, how nice!" "Oh, what good it does me!" "Oh, dear
brother, hit away--again--again!" For be it known, these operators were
called by the affectionate name of brothers, whose claims to fraternal
affection were in the ratio of the weight of their kindness towards the
sisterhood.
One of these young ladies, who was not easily satisfied, wanted to try her
own skill, and jumped with impunity into the fire, an exploit which
obtained her the glorious epithet of Sister Salamander. The names that
these amiable devotees gave to each other were somewhat curious. They all
strove to imitate the whining and wheedling of spoiled children, or petted
infants; one was called _L'Imbecile_, another _L'Aboyeuse_, a third _La
Nisette_, and they used to beg and cry for barley-sugar and cakes;
barley-sugar signified a stick big enough to fell an ox, and cakes meant
paving-stones. The excesses of these maniacs were at last carried to so
fearful an extent, and their religious ceremonies were so debased by
obscenities that the police was obliged to interfere, and forbid these
detestable practices; hence it was affirmed that the following somewhat
impious notice was suspended over the church-door:
De par le Roi, defense a Dieu,
De faire miracle en ce lieu.
These lunatics, for such they must be considered, were not impostors. They
had been worked to this degraded state by the plastic power of
superstition, and implicit reliance was placed in their assertions; for,
as Pascal said, "we must believe people who are ready to have their
throats cut." Whether the Jansenist priests belonged to the same class, I
leave to the reader to decide.
Cabanis, in his interesting work, "Rapports du Physique et du Moral de
l'Homme," offers the following remarks on this most curious subject:
"Sensibility may be considered in the light of a fluid the quality of
which is determined, and which, when carried to certain channels in
greater proportion than to others, must of course be diminished in the
latter ones. This is evident in all violent affections, but more
especially in those ecstasies where the brain and other sympathetic organs
are possessed of the highest degree of energetic action, while the faculty
of feeling and of motion--in short, the vital powers--seem to have fled
from the other parts of the system. In this violent state, fanatics have
received with impunity severe wounds, which, if inflicted in a healthy
condition, would have proved fatal or most dangerous; for the danger that
results from the violent action of external agents on our organs depends
on their sensibility, and we daily see poisons, which would be deleterious
to a healthy man, innocuous in a state of illness. It was by availing
themselves of this physical disposition that impostors of every
description, and of every country operated most of their miracles; and it
was by these means that the Convulsionists of St. Medard amazed weak
imaginations with the blows they received from swords and hatchets, and
which in their ascetic language they called _consolations_. This was the
magic wand with which Mesmer overcame habitual sufferings, by giving a
fresh direction to the attention, and establishing in constitutions
possessed of great mobility a sense of action to which they had been
unaccustomed. It was thus also that the _Illuminati_ of France and Germany
succeeded in destroying external sensations amongst their adepts,
depriving them in fact of their relative existence."
In these phenomena we do not witness miracles or supernatural agency.
Enthusiasts are simply maniacs. Like maniacs, their vital endowments are
deranged; they lose the faculty of feeling, of reasoning, of comparing, of
associating their ideas; their volition, their memory have fled, and all
the functions of organic life are more or less disturbed. Rousseau never
proved more clearly that his own intellectual faculties were occasionally
impaired, than when he stated "that the state of reflection is unnatural,
and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal."
Insanity may be divided into four species:
1st, _Monomania_, and _melancholy_, in which the delirium is confined to
one or few objects.
2nd, _Mania_, where the delirium embraces a variety of impressions, and is
accompanied with violence.
3rd, _Dementia_, or insanity in the full acceptation of the word, where
the senses are totally bewildered, and the faculty of thinking destroyed.
4th, _Imbecility_ or _idiotcy_, where, from imperfect organisation,
ratiocination cannot be correct.
To the first of these categories enthusiasts generally belong. Delirium,
or wandering, is to a certain extent applicable to all, being a want of
correspondence between judgment and perception. Locke and Condillac
characterize madness as a _false judgment_, or a disposition to associate
ideas incorrectly, and to mistake them for truths. Hence it is observed by
Locke that "Madmen err, as men do that argue right from wrong principles."
Dr. Beattie refers madness to _false perception_; and Dr. Mason Good,
justly remarks, that "the perceptions in madness seem, for anything we
know to the contrary, to be frequently as correct as in health, the
judgment or reasoning being alone diseased or defective."
I hope that I may not be accused of _materialism_ when I venture to affirm
that all these enthusiasts labour under a physical disease; but whether
this state was originally brought on by a morbid condition of the
intellectual or the empassioned faculties of the mind, or, in other words,
whether a diseased state of the mind brought on a diseased state of the
body, I shall not at present venture to decide, as the disquisition would
be foreign to the nature of this work, and lead us into investigations of
little interest to the generality of readers.
In the German Psychological Magazine we meet with a curious case of a
patient who believed that he was supernaturally endowed with the power of
working miracles. The man was a gend'arme of the name of Gragert, of a
harmless and quiet disposition, but rather of a superstitious turn of
mind. From poverty, family misfortunes, and severe military discipline, a
series of sleepless nights and a mental disquietude were brought on that,
according to his own report, nothing could dissipate but a perusal of
pious works. In reading the Bible he was struck with the book of Daniel,
and was so much pleased with it, that it became his favourite study; from
that moment the idea of miracles so strongly possessed his imagination,
that he began to believe that he could perform some himself. He was
persuaded more especially that if he were to plant an apple-tree with the
view of its becoming a cherry-tree, such was his power that it would bear
cherries. He was wont to answer every question correctly, except when the
subject concerned miracles, in regard to which he ever entertained his old
notions; adding, however, that he would relinquish this thought if he
could be convinced that the event of his trials did not correspond with
his expectations.
That many enthusiasts, although incurable in their peculiar aberration,
have possessed some amiable qualities, is undeniable. Such rare
occurrences remind one of the curious case of madness recorded by Tidemann
of a lunatic of the name of Moses, who was insane on one side, and who
observed his insanity with the other; his better half constantly rebuking
his worse half for its absurdities. This case was certainly typical of the
married state.
In vain have physicians endeavoured to break through this morbid
catenation of incongruous ideas by diversions, or what the French call
_distractions_, which in general answered to our literal translation of
the word, and _distracted_ their patients. Dramatic performances were once
allowed in a mad-house near Paris; but the violence of the maniacs, the
moroseness of the melancholy, and the stupidity of the idiots, rendered
the exertions of the actors perilous to some, and idle to all. Mr.
D'Esquirol once took one of his patients to a play, and the man swore that
every performer who came on was making love to his wife; and a young lady,
placed in a similar situation, exclaimed that all the people were going to
fight about her. Jealousy and vanity were, no doubt, the ruling passions
in both these cases. Travel has been recommended both by the ancients and
the moderns. Seneca on this subject quotes Socrates, who replied to a
melancholy wight who complained that his journeys had afforded him no
amusement, "_I am not surprised at it, since you were travelling in your
own company_."
The contagion of enthusiasm is a marvellous fact. Pausanias relates that
the malady of the daughters of Proetus, who ran about the country
fancying that they were transformed into cows, was common amongst the
women of Argos. Plutarch states that a disease reigned in Miletium, in
which most of the young girls hung themselves; recent observations have
confirmed this singular circumstance. Dr. Deslages, of St. Maurice,
relates that a woman having hanged herself in a neighbouring village, most
of her companions felt an invincible desire to follow her example.
Primrose and Bonet tell us that at one period it was found difficult to
prevent the young girls in Lyons from casting themselves into the river.
Simon Goulard has recorded the prevalent madness amongst the nuns of the
States of Saxony and Brandenburg, and which soon extended its influence to
Holland, during which these religious ladies "predicted, capered, climbed
up walls, spoke various languages, bleated like sheep, and amused
themselves by biting each other." History has recorded the horrible
judicial murder of Urbain Grandier, at Laudun, who was sacrificed for
bedevilling a nunnery. The recent gift of tongues amongst the _Irvingites_
is still in full vigour, and the _Southcotians_ are still on the look-out
in London, as the _Sebastianists_ are in Lisbon.
Addison has remarked that an enthusiast in religion is like an obstinate
clown, and a superstitious man like an insipid courtier. On this subject
he quotes the following old heathen saying recorded by Aulus
Gellius--_Religentem esse oportet, religiosum nefas_; for, as the author
tells us, Nigidius observed upon this passage, that the Latin words which
terminate in _osus_ generally imply vicious characters, or the having any
quality to excess. That we should enthusiastically admire all that is
holy, sublime, or endowed with uncommon superiority in religion, in
poetry, in the fine arts, is not only justifiable but praiseworthy. Genius
cannot exist without a certain degree of fervour; its inspiration is a
gift divine, naturally associated with a religious feeling. The man thus
inspired must bend in humble admiration before the wondrous harmony that
surrounds him. The poet, the painter, the musician, can only seek
excellence by studying primitive perfection. Nothing that is not natural
can be truly sublime or beautiful. A rigid observation of nature can alone
lead to superiority, and we can only be taught to create by, endeavouring
to imitate the beauties of the creation. How distant are these generous
feelings from the low grovelling prejudices of bigotry! We admire
perfection even in our enemies; and Erasmus was not a truant to his faith
when, transported with Socrates's dying speech, he exclaimed, "O Socrates!
I can scarce forbear kneeling down to thee, and praying,
_Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis_."
While considering this interesting subject, a curious question arises: is
enthusiasm more frequently excited by truth than by error? I sadly fear
that the latter influence will in general be found to predominate,
although falsehood then assumes the deceptive garb of veracity. The noble
writer whom I have already cited,[19] has justly said, "that truth is the
most powerful thing in the world, since even fiction itself must be
governed by it, and can only please by its resemblance."
To what then are we to attribute this power that fallacy possesses of
inspiring the mind with visionary hopes and fears? Simply because we cease
to reason upon matter of fact, and soar in fanciful regions in search of a
flittering phantom, a creature of our own imaginative faculties. What
falls every day under our personal observation ceases to amaze, and one
might even become familiarized to miracles were they of frequent
occurrence. Man is naturally disposed to admire what he cannot understand,
and to venerate what is incomprehensible. The nature of the divinity being
essentially incomprehensible, a religious character is attached to all
other subjects that are equally beyond the limits of our understanding.
Sir Thomas Brown has said, "Methinks there be not impossibilities enough
in religion for an active faith. I love to lose myself in a mystery, to
pursue my reason to an _O altitudo_! I can answer all the objections of
Satan and my rebellious reason, with that odd resolution I learned from
Tertullian, _Certum est quia impossibile est_." From our earliest infancy
we are delighted with fictions, which we verily fancy to be relations of
true facts, and whether we believe with the ancients in the metamorphoses
of heathen mythology, the absurd papal stories of the miracles of their
saints, or the wondrous incidents of a fairy tale, we listen to these
rhapsodies with avidity; whether Jupiter is turned into a shower of gold,
St. Denis and St. Livarius travel with their heads under their arm, or Tom
Thumb pulls on his seven-league boots. These absurdities are our day
thoughts, our night dreams--nay, busy fancy does so dwell on these
enchanting phantasies, that, in some cases, the intellectual faculties
become deranged, and I have at present under my care, a female who lost
her reason by constantly reading the Arabian Nights, and who in her
hallucinations, describes as many marvellous voyages as could have done
the sailor Sinbad.
The foundation of incredulity no doubt is ignorance, but too often we find
men of refined education and feeling the most easily imposed upon by
incredible assertions; we seldom experience as much enthusiasm in the
possession of any object as in the pursuit, more especially if that
pursuit be vain. The merchant who has realized a splendid fortune in his
commercial ventures, is satiated with his business, and becomes careless
in the pursuit of greater riches, but let him for one moment contemplate
the possibility of discovering the philosopher's stone, he will lose, and
cheerfully too, all his past earnings in the chimerical pursuit, and the
man who would doze over his ledger, will spend his sleepless nights
contemplating his crucibles, and studying the black art.
What is there of an exciting nature in the common events of life and the
usual course and uniformity of nature? Very little. However wondrous the
works of the creation may be, habit has so accustomed us to behold them,
that they are familiar to our eyes; they become matter of fact, and
science has taught us to comprehend the nature of many phenomena, which
might otherwise have appeared incredible: but when we seek for an
unattainable object, however fallacious its attraction may be, the mind is
roused to energetic action: if we strive to excel all others in the fine
arts, in poetical productions, we become fired with an exalted zeal, which
age and experience alone can temper. In our vain pursuit of ideal
perfection, the mind may be compared to a focus in which our burning
thoughts are concentrated, until we are consumed by disappointment: the
love of Pygmalion was probably the most ardent passion that could fire the
breast of man. Enthusiasm laughs to scorn the suggestion of the senses and
common understanding, therefore all its priests and votaries are
surrounded with a deceptive halo; and Plotinus maintained that a proper
worship of the gods consisted in a mysterious self annihilation and a
total extinction of every faculty. The same may be said of love, which,
like all other enthusiastic passions, may be considered a temporary
hallucination.
Moreover the language of fiction is not required to maintain the
self-evident testimonies of facts.
As true as truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth.
Whereas false doctrines and fallacious opinions need all the aid of
imagination's vivid colours to disguise their real form with a goodly
outside. We may in general conclude that enthusiasts are at first deceived
themselves to become in turn deceivers. Seldom does man display sufficient
humility to admit that he has erred in his favourite doctrines, and how
much less will he be disposed to confess his deviation from rectitude,
when imposture becomes the source of wealth and power, and hypocrisy a
trade: to the ghostly speculator we may well apply the lines of Massinger:
Oh, now your hearts make ladders of your eyes,
In show to climb to heaven, where your devotion
Walks upon crutches.
It is, however, fortunate that errors generally assist the development of
truth. The progress of the Christian faith was materially forwarded by the
absurdities and fallacies of all other religions; and Helvetius has truly
observed that if we could for a moment doubt the truth of Christianity,
its divine origin would be proved by its having survived the horrors of
popery. False theories led Columbus to correct geographic conclusions, and
Galileo's discoveries overthrew his own former theories.