particularly those of weak minds, secretly enjoy in talking or writing
of public executions, like that they derive from the subject of miracles
and sorceries. In Calmet's "Dictionary of the Bible" you may find a
number of fine engravings of the punishments in use among the Hebrews.
These prints are absolutely sufficient to strike every person of feeling
with horror. We will take this opportunity to observe that neither the
Jews nor any other people ever thought of fixing persons to the cross by
nails; and that there is not even a single instance of it. It is the
fiction of some painter, built upon an opinion completely erroneous.
SECTION III.
Ye sages who are scattered over the world--for some sages there
are--join the philosophic Beccaria, and proclaim with all your strength
that punishments ought to be proportioned to crimes:
That after shooting through the head a young man of the age of twenty,
who has spent six months with his father and mother or his mistress,
instead of rejoining his regiment, he can no longer be of any service to
his country:
That if you hang on the public gallows the servant girl who stole a
dozen napkins from her mistress, she will be unable to add to the number
of your citizens a dozen children, whom you may be considered as
strangling in embryo with their parent; that there is no proportion
between a dozen napkins and human life; and, finally, that you really
encourage domestic theft, because no master will be so cruel as to get
his coachman hanged for stealing a few of his oats; but every master
would prosecute to obtain the infliction of a punishment which should be
simply proportioned to the offence:
That all judges and legislators are guilty of the death of all the
children which unfortunate, seduced women desert, expose, or even
strangle, from a similar weakness to that which gave them birth.
On this subject I shall without scruple relate what has just occurred in
the capital of a wise and powerful republic, which however, with all its
wisdom, has unhappily retained some barbarous laws from those old,
unsocial, and inhuman ages, called by some the ages of purity of
manners. Near this capital a new-born infant was found dead; a girl was
apprehended on suspicion of being the mother; she was shut up in a
dungeon; she was strictly interrogated; she replied that she could not
have been the mother of that child, as she was at the present time
pregnant. She was ordered to be visited by a certain number of what are
called (perfectly malapropos in the present instance) wise women--by a
commission of matrons. These poor imbecile creatures declared her not to
be with child, and that the appearance of pregnancy was occasioned by
improper retention. The unfortunate woman was threatened with the
torture; her mind became alarmed and terrified; she confessed that she
had killed her supposed child; she was capitally convicted; and during
the actual passing of her sentence was seized with the pains of
childbirth. Her judges were taught by this most impressive case not
lightly to pass sentences of death.
With respect to the numberless executions which weak fanatics have
inflicted upon other fanatics equally weak, I will say nothing more
about them; although it is impossible to say too much.
There are scarcely any highway robberies committed in Italy without
assassinations, because the punishment of death is equally awarded to
both crimes.
It cannot be doubted that M. de Beccaria, in his "Treatise on Crimes and
Punishments" has noticed this very important fact.
EXECUTIONER.
It may be thought that this word should not be permitted to degrade a
dictionary of arts and sciences; it has a connection however with
jurisprudence and history. Our great poets have not disdained frequently
to avail themselves of this word in tragedy: Clytemnestra, in Iphigenia,
calls Agamemnon the executioner of his daughter.
In comedy it is used with great gayety; Mercury in the "Amphitryon" (act
i. scene 2), says: "_Comment, bourreau! tu fais des cris_!"--"How,
hangman! thou bellowest!"
And even the Romans permitted themselves to say: "_Quorsum vadis,
carnifex?_"--"Whither goest thou, hangman?"
The Encyclopædia, under the word "Executioner," details all the
privileges of the Parisian executioner; but a recent author has gone
farther. In a romance on education, not altogether equal to Xenophon's
"Cyropædia" or Fénelon's "Telemachus," he pretends that the monarch of a
country ought, without hesitation, to bestow the daughter of an
executioner in marriage on the heir apparent of the crown, if she has
been well educated, and if she is of a sufficiently congruous
disposition with the young prince. It is a pity that he has not
mentioned the precise sum she should carry with her as a dower, and the
honors that should be conferred upon her father on the day of marriage.
It is scarcely possible, with due _congruity_, to carry further the
profound morality, the novel rules of decorum, the exquisite paradoxes,
and divine maxims with which the author I speak of has favored and
regaled the present age. He would undoubtedly feel the perfect
_congruity_ of officiating as bridesman at the wedding. He would compose
the princess's epithalamium, and not fail to celebrate the grand
exploits of her father. The bride may then possibly impart some acrid
kisses; for be it known that this same writer, in another romance called
"_Héloise_," introduces a young Swiss, who had caught a particular
disorder in Paris, saying to his mistress, "Keep your kisses to
yourself; they are too acrid."
A time will come when it will scarcely be conceived possible that such
works should have obtained a sort of celebrity; had the celebrity
continued, it would have done no honor to the age. Fathers of families
soon made up their minds that it was not exactly decorous to marry their
eldest sons to the daughters of executioners, whatever congruity might
appear to exist between the lover and the lady. There is a rule in all
things, and certain limits which cannot be rationally passed.
_Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines,_
_Quos ultra citraque nequit consistere rectum._
EXPIATION.
_Dieu fit du repentir la vertu des mortels._
The repentance of man is accepted by God as virtue, and perhaps the
finest institution of antiquity was that solemn ceremony which repressed
crimes by announcing that they would be punished, and at the same time
soothed the despair of the guilty by permitting them to redeem their
transgressions by appointed modes of penance. Remorse, it is to be
remembered, must necessarily have preceded expiation, for diseases are
older than medicine, and necessities than relief.
There was, then, previously to all public and legal forms of worship, a
natural and instinctive religion which inflicted grief upon the heart of
any one who, through ignorance or passion, had committed an inhuman
action. A man in a quarrel has killed his friend, or his brother, or a
jealous and frantic lover has taken the life of her without whom he felt
as if it were impossible to live. The chief of a nation has condemned to
death a virtuous man and useful citizen. Such men, if they retain their
senses and sensibility, become overwhelmed by despair. Their consciences
pursue and haunt them; two courses only are open to them, reparation or
to become hardened in guilt. All who have the slightest feeling
remaining choose the former; monsters adopt the latter.
As soon as religion was established, expiations were admitted. The
ceremonies attending them were, unquestionably, ridiculous; for what
connection is there between the water of the Ganges and a murder? How
could a man repair homicide by bathing? We have already commented on the
excess of absurdity and insanity which can imagine that what washes the
body, washes the soul also, and expunges from it the stain of evil
actions.
The water of the Nile had afterwards the same virtue as that of the
Ganges; other ceremonies were added to these ablutions. The Egyptians
took two he-goats and drew lots which of the two should be cast out
loaded with the sins of the guilty. This goat was called Hazazel, the
expiator. What connection is there, pray, between a goat and the crime
of a human being?
It is certainly true that in after times this ceremony was sanctified
among our fathers the Jews, who adopted many of the Egyptian rites; but
the souls of the Jews were undoubtedly purified, not by the goat but by
repentance.
Jason, having killed Absyrtus, his brother-in-law, went, we are told,
with Medea, who was more guilty than himself, to be absolved by Circe,
the queen and priestess of Æa, who passed in those days for a most
powerful sorceress. Circe absolved them with a sucking pig and salt
cakes. This might possibly be a very good dish, but it could neither
compensate for the blood of Absyrtus, nor make Jason and Medea more
worthy people, unless while eating their pig they also manifested the
sincerity of their repentance.
The expiation of Orestes, who had avenged his father by the murder of
his mother, consisted in going and stealing a statue from the Tartars of
the Crimea. The statue was probably extremely ill executed, and there
appeared nothing to be gained by such an enterprise. In later times
these things were contrived better: mysteries were invented, and the
offenders might obtain absolution at these mysteries by submitting to
certain painful trials, and swearing to lead a new life. It is from this
oath that the persons taking it had attached to them, among all nations,
a name corresponding to that of initiated "_qui ineunt vitam
novam_,"--who begin a new career, who enter upon the path of virtue.
We have seen under the article on "Baptism" that the Christian
catechumens were not called initiated till after they had been baptized.
It is indisputable, that persons had not their sins washed away in these
mysteries, but by virtue of their oath to become virtuous: the
hierophant in all the Grecian mysteries, when dismissing the assembly,
pronounced the two Egyptian words, "_Koth, ompheth_," "watch, be pure";
which at once proves that the mysteries came originally from Egypt, and
that they were invented solely for the purpose of making mankind better.
Wise men, we thus see, have, in every age, done all in their power to
inspire the love of virtue, and to prevent the weakness of man from
sinking under despair; but, at the same time there have existed crimes
of such magnitude and horror that no mystery could admit of their
expiation. Nero, although an emperor, could not obtain initiation into
the mysteries of Ceres. Constantine, according to the narrative of
Zosimus, was unable to procure the pardon of his crimes: he was polluted
with the blood of his wife, his son, and all his relations. It was
necessary, for the protection of the human race, that crimes so
flagitious should be deemed incapable of expiation, that the prospect of
absolution might not invite to their committal, and that hideous
atrocity might be checked by universal horror.
The Roman Catholics have expiations which they call penances. We have
seen, under the article on "Austerities," how grossly so salutary an
institution has been abused.
According to the laws of the barbarians who subverted the Roman Empire,
crimes were expiated by money. This was called compounding: "Let the
offender compound by paying ten, twenty, thirty shillings." Two hundred
sous constituted the composition price for killing a priest, and four
hundred for killing a bishop; so that a bishop was worth exactly two
priests.
After having thus compounded with men, God Himself was compounded with,
when the practice of confession became generally established. At length
Pope John XXII. established a tariff of sins.
The absolution of incest, committed by a layman, cost four livres
tournois: "_Ab incestu pro laico in foro conscienticæ turonenses
quatuor_." For a man and woman who have committed incest, eighteen
livres tournois, four ducats, and nine carlines. This is certainly
unjust; if one person pays only four livres tournois, two persons ought
not to pay more than eight.
Even crimes against nature have actually their affixed rates, amounting
to ninety livres tournois, twelve ducats, and six carlines: "_Cum
inhibitione turonenses 90, ducatos 12, carlinos 90_," etc.
It is scarcely credible that Leo X. should have been so imprudent as to
print this book of rates or indulgences in 1514, which, however, we are
assured he did; at the same time it must be considered that no spark
had then appeared of that conflagration, kindled afterwards by the
reformers; and that the court of Rome reposed implicitly upon the
credulity of the people, and neglected to throw even the slightest veil
over its impositions. The public sale of indulgences, which soon
followed, shows that that court took no precaution whatever to conceal
its gross abominations from the various nations which had been so long
accustomed to them. When the complaints against the abuses of the Romish
church burst forth, it did all in its power to suppress this
publication, but all was in vain.
If I may give my opinion upon this book of rates, I must say that I do
not believe the editions of it are genuine; the rates are not in any
kind of proportion and do not at all coincide with those stated by
d'Aubigné, the grandfather of Madame de Maintenon, in the confession of
de Sancy. Depriving a woman of her virginity is estimated at six gros,
and committing incest with a mother or a sister, at five gros. This is
evidently ridiculous. I think that there really was a system of rates or
taxes established for those who went to Rome to obtain absolution or
purchase dispensations, but that the enemies of the Holy See added
largely, in order to increase the odium against it. Consult Bayle, under
the articles on "Bank," "Dupinet," "Drelincourt."
It is at least positively certain that these rates were never authorized
by any council; that they constituted an enormous abuse, invented by
avarice, and respected by those who were interested in its not being
abolished. The sellers and the purchasers equally found their account in
it; and accordingly none opposed it before the breaking out of the
disturbances attending the Reformation. It must be acknowledged that an
exact list of all these rates or taxes would be eminently useful in the
formation of a history of the human mind.
EXTREME.
We will here attempt to draw from the word "extreme" an idea that may be
attended with some utility.
It is every day disputed whether in war success is ascribable to conduct
or to fortune.
Whether in diseases, nature or medicine is most operative in healing or
destroying.
Whether in law it is not judicious for a man to compromise, although he
is in the right, and to defend a cause although he is in the wrong.
Whether the fine arts contribute to the glory or to the decline of a
state.
Whether it is wise or injudicious to encourage superstition in a people.
Whether there is any truth in metaphysics, history, or morals.
Whether taste is arbitrary, and whether there is in reality a good and a
bad taste.
In order to decide at once all these questions, take an advantage of
the extreme cases under each, compare these two extremes, and you will
immediately discover the truth.
You wish to know whether success in war can be infallibly decided by
conduct; consider the most extreme case, the most opposed situations in
which conduct alone will infallibly triumph. The hostile army must
necessarily pass through a deep mountain gorge; your commander knows
this circumstance; he makes a forced march, gets possession of the
heights, and completely encloses the enemy in the defile; there they
must either perish or surrender. In this extreme case fortune can have
no share in the victory. It is demonstrable, therefore, that skill may
decide the success of a campaign, and it hence necessarily follows that
war is an art.
Afterwards imagine an advantageous but not a decisive position; success
is not certain, but it is exceedingly probable. And thus, from one
gradation to another, you arrive at what may be considered a perfect
equality between the two armies. Who shall then decide? Fortune; that
is, some unexpected circumstance or event; the death of a general
officer going to execute some important order; the derangement of a
division in consequence of a false report, the operation of sudden
panic, or various other causes for which prudence can find no remedy;
yet it is still always certain that there is an art, that there is a
science in war.
The same must be observed concerning medicine; the art of operating
with the head or hand to preserve the life which appears likely to be
lost.
The first who applied bleeding as speedily as possible to a patient
under apoplexy; the first who conceived the idea of plunging a bistoury
into the bladder to extract the stone from it, and of closing up the
wound; the first who found out the method of stopping gangrene in any
part of the human frame, were undoubtedly men, almost divine, and
totally unlike the physicians of Molière.
Descend from this strong and decisive example to cases less striking and
more equivocal; you perceive fevers and various other maladies cured
without its being possible to ascertain whether this is done by the
physician or by nature; you perceive diseases, the issue of which cannot
be judged; various physicians are mistaken in their opinions of the seat
or nature of them; he who has the acutest genius, the keenest eye,
develops the character of the complaint. There is then an art in
medicine, and the man of superior mind is acquainted with its niceties.
Thus it was that La Peyronie discovered that one of the courtiers had
swallowed a sharp bone, which had occasioned an ulcer and endangered his
life; and thus also did Boerhaave discover the complaint, as unknown as
it was dreadful, of a countess of Wassenaer. There is, therefore, it
cannot be doubted, an art in medicine, but in every art there are
Virgils and Mæviuses.
In jurisprudence, take a case that is clear, in which the law
pronounces decisively; a bill of exchange correctly drawn and regularly
accepted; the acceptor is bound to pay it in every country in the world.
There is, therefore, a useful jurisprudence, although in innumerable
cases sentences are arbitrary, because, to the misery of mankind, the
laws are ill-framed.
Would you wish to know whether the fine arts are beneficial to a nation?
Compare the two extremes: Cicero and a perfect ignoramus. Decide whether
the fall of Rome was owing to Pliny or to Attila.
It is asked whether we should encourage superstition in the people.
Consider for a moment what is the greatest extreme on this baleful
subject, the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the massacres of Ireland, or
the Crusades; and the question is decided.
Is there any truth in metaphysics? Advert to those points which are most
striking and true. Something exists; something, therefore, has existed
from all eternity. An eternal being exists of himself; this being cannot
be either wicked or inconsistent. To these truths we must yield; almost
all the rest is open to disputation, and the clearest understanding
discovers the truth.
It is in everything else as it is in colors; bad eyes can distinguish
between black and white; better eyes, and eyes much exercised, can
distinguish every nicer gradation: "_Usque adeo quod tangit idem est,
tamen ultima distant._"
EZEKIEL.
_Of Some Singular Passages in This Prophet, and of Certain Ancient
Usages._
It is well known that we ought not to judge of ancient usages by modern
ones; he that would reform the court of Alcinous in the "Odyssey," upon
the model of the Grand Turk, or Louis XIV., would not meet with a very
gentle reception from the learned; he who is disposed to reprehend
Virgil for having described King Evander covered with a bear's skin and
accompanied by two dogs at the introduction of ambassadors, is a
contemptible critic.
The manners of the ancient Egyptians and Jews are still more different
from ours than those of King Alcinous, his daughter Nausicáa, and the
worthy Evander. Ezekiel, when in slavery among the Chaldæans, had a
vision near the small river Chobar, which falls into the Euphrates.
We ought not to be in the least astonished at his having seen animals
with four faces, four wings, and with calves' feet; or wheels revolving
without aid and "instinct with life"; these images are pleasing to the
imagination; but many critics have been shocked at the order given him
by the Lord to eat, for a period of three hundred and ninety days, bread
made of barley, wheat, or millet, covered with human ordure.
The prophet exclaimed in strong disgust, "My soul has not hitherto been
polluted"; and the Lord replied, "Well, I will allow you instead of
man's ordure to use that of the cow, and with the latter you shall knead
your bread."
As it is now unusual to eat a preparation of bread of this description,
the greater number of men regard the order in question as unworthy of
the Divine Majesty. Yet it must be admitted that cow-dung and all the
diamonds of the great Mogul are perfectly equal, not only in the eyes of
a Divine Being, but in those of a true philosopher; and, with regard to
the reasons which God might have for ordering the prophet this repast,
we have no right to inquire into them. It is enough for us to see that
commands which appear to us very strange, did not appear so to the Jews.
It must be admitted that the synagogue, in the time of St. Jerome, did
not suffer "Ezekiel" to be read before the age of thirty; but this was
because, in the eighteenth chapter, he says that the son shall not bear
the iniquity of his father, and it shall not be any longer said the
fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on
edge.
This expression was considered in direct contradiction to Moses, who, in
the twenty-eighth chapter of "Numbers," declares that the children bear
the iniquity of the fathers, even to the third and fourth generation.
Ezekiel, again, in the twentieth chapter, makes the Lord say that He has
given to the Jews precepts which are not good. Such are the reasons for
which the synagogue forbade young people reading an author likely to
raise doubts on the irrefragability of the laws of Moses.
The censorious critics of the present day are still more astonished with
the sixteenth chapter of Ezekiel. In that chapter he thus takes it upon
him to expose the crimes of the city of Jerusalem. He introduces the
Lord speaking to a young woman; and the Lord said to her, "When thou
wast born, thy navel string was not cut, thou wast not salted, thou wast
quite naked, I had pity on thee; thou didst increase in stature, thy
breasts were fashioned, thy hair was grown, I passed by thee, I observed
thee, I knew that the time of lovers was come, I covered thy shame, I
spread my skirt over thee; thou becamest mine; I washed and perfumed
thee, and dressed and shod thee well; I gave thee a scarf of linen, and
bracelets, and a chain for thy neck; I placed a jewel in thy nose,
pendants in thy ears, and a crown upon thy head."
"Then, confiding in thy beauty, thou didst in the height of thy renown,
play the harlot with every passer-by.... And thou hast built a high
place of profanation ... and thou hast prostituted thyself in public
places, and opened thy feet to every one that passed ... and thou hast
committed fornication with the Egyptians ... and finally thou hast paid
thy lovers and made them presents, that they might lie with thee ... and
by hiring them, instead of being hired, thou hast done differently from
other harlots.... The proverb is, as is the mother, so is the daughter,
and that proverb is used of thee," etc.
Still more are they exasperated on the subject of the twenty-third
chapter. A mother had two daughters, who early lost their virginity. The
elder was called Ahola, and the younger Aholibah.... "Aholah committed
fornication with young lords and captains, and lay with the Egyptians
from her early youth.... Aholibah, her sister, committed still greater
fornication with officers and rulers and well-made cavaliers; she
discovered her shame, she multiplied her fornications, she sought
eagerly for the embraces of those whose flesh was as that of asses, and
whose issue was as that of horses."
These descriptions, which so madden weak minds, signify, in fact, no
more than the iniquities of Jerusalem and Samaria; these expressions,
which appear to us licentious, were not so then. The same vivacity is
displayed in many other parts of Scripture without the slightest
apprehension. Opening the womb is very frequently mentioned. The terms
made use of to express the union of Boaz with Ruth, and of Judah with
his daughter-in-law, are not indelicate in the Hebrew language, but
would be so in our own.
People who are not ashamed of nakedness, never cover it with a veil. In
the times under consideration, no blush could have been raised by the
mention of particular parts of the frame of man, as they were actually
touched by the person who bound himself by any promise to another; it
was a mark of respect, a symbol of fidelity, as formerly among
ourselves, feudal lords put their hands between those of their
sovereign.
We have translated the term adverted to by the word "thigh." Eliezer
puts his hand under Abraham's thigh. Joseph puts his hand under the
thigh of Jacob. This custom was very ancient in Egypt. The Egyptians
were so far from attaching any disgrace to what we are desirous as much
as possible to conceal and avoid the mention of, that they bore in
procession a large and characteristic image, called Phallus, in order to
thank the gods for making the human frame so instrumental in the
perpetuation of the human species.
All this affords sufficient proof that our sense of decorum and
propriety is different from that of other nations. When do the Romans
appear to have been more polished than in the time of Augustus? Yet
Horace scruples not to say, in one of his moral pieces: "_Nec metuo, ne
dum futuo vir rure recurrat_" (Satire II., book i., v. 127.) Augustus
uses the same expression in an epigram on Fulvia.
The man who should among us pronounce the expression in our language
corresponding to it, would be regarded as a drunken porter; that word,
as well as various others used by Horace and other authors, appears to
us even more indecent than the expressions of Ezekiel. Let us then do
away with our prejudices when we read ancient authors, or travel among
distant nations. Nature is the same everywhere, and usages are
everywhere different.
I once met at Amsterdam a rabbi quite brimful of this chapter. "Ah! my
friend," says he, "how very much we are obliged to you. You have
displayed all the sublimity of the Mosaic law, Ezekiel's breakfast; his
delightful left-sided attitudes; Aholah and Aholibah are admirable
things; they are types, my brother--types which show that one day the
Jewish people will be masters of the whole world; but why did you admit
so many others which are nearly of equal strength? Why did not you
represent the Lord saying to the sage Hosea, in the second verse of the
first chapter, 'Hosea, take to thyself a harlot, and make to her the
children of a harlot?' Such are the very words. Hosea takes the young
woman and has a son by her, and afterwards a daughter, and then again a
son; and it was a type, and that type lasted three years. That is not
all; the Lord says in the third chapter, 'Go and take to thyself a woman
who is not merely a harlot, but an adulteress.' Hosea obeyed, but it
cost him fifteen crowns and eighteen bushels of barley; for, you know,
there was very little wheat in the land of promise--but are you aware of
the meaning of all this?" "No," said I to him. "Nor I neither," said the
rabbi.
A grave person then advanced towards us and said they were ingenious
fictions and abounding in exquisite beauty. "Ah, sir," remarked a young
man, "if you are inclined for fictions, give the preference to those of
Homer, Virgil, and Ovid." He who prefers the prophecies of Ezekiel
deserves to breakfast with him.
FABLE.
It is very likely that the more ancient fables, in the style of those
attributed to Æsop, were invented by the first subjugated people. Free
men would not have had occasion to disguise the truth; a tyrant can
scarcely be spoken to except in parables; and at present, even this is a
dangerous liberty.
It might also very well happen that men naturally liking images and
tales, ingenious persons amused themselves with composing them, without
any other motive. However that may be, fable is more ancient than
history.
Among the Jews, who are quite a modern people in comparison with the
Chaldæans and Tyrians, their neighbors, but very ancient by their own
accounts, fables similar to those of Æsop existed in the time of the
Judges, 1233 years before our era, if we may depend upon received
computations.
It is said in the Book of Judges that Gideon had seventy sons born of
his many wives; and that, by a concubine, he had another son named
Abimelech.
Now, this Abimelech slew sixty-nine of his brethren upon one stone,
according to Jewish custom, and in consequence the Jews, full of
respect and admiration, went to crown him king, under an oak near
Millo, a city which is but little known in history.
Jotham alone, the youngest of the brothers, escaped the carnage--as it
always happens in ancient histories--and harangued the Israelites,
telling them that the trees went one day to choose a king; we do not
well see how they could march, but if they were able to speak, they
might just as well be able to walk. They first addressed themselves to
the olive, saying, "Reign thou over us." The olive replied, "I will not
quit the care of my oil to be promoted over you." The fig-tree said that
he liked his figs better than the trouble of the supreme power. The vine
gave the preference to its grapes. At last the trees addressed
themselves to the bramble, which answered: "If in truth ye anoint one
king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow; and if not,
let fire come out of the bramble and devour the cedars of Lebanon."
It is true that this fable falsifies throughout, because fire cannot
come from a bramble, but it shows the antiquity of the use of fables.
That of the belly and the members, which calmed a tumult in Rome about
two thousand three hundred years ago, is ingenious and without fault.
The more ancient the fables the more allegorical they were.
Is not the ancient fable of Venus, as related by Hesiod, entirely a
fable of nature? This Venus is the goddess of beauty. Beauty ceases to
be lovely if unaccompanied by the graces. Beauty produces love. Love has
features which pierce all hearts; he wears a bandage, which conceals the
faults of those beloved. He has wings; he comes quickly and flies away
the same.
Wisdom is conceived in the brain of the chief of the gods, under the
name of Minerva. The soul of man is a divine fire, which Minerva shows
to Prometheus, who makes use of this divine fire to animate mankind.
It is impossible, in these fables, not to recognize a lively picture of
pure nature. Most other fables are either corruptions of ancient
histories or the caprices of the imagination. It is with ancient fables
as with our modern tales; some convey charming morals, and others very
insipid ones.
The ingenious fables of the ancients have been grossly imitated by an
unenlightened race--witness those of Bacchus, Hercules, Prometheus,
Pandora, and many others, which were the amusement of the ancient world.
The barbarians, who confusedly heard them spoken of, adopted them into
their own savage mythology, and afterwards it is pretended that they
invented them. Alas! poor unknown and ignorant people, who knew no art
either useful or agreeable--to whom even the name of geometry was
unknown--dare you say that you have invented anything? You have not
known either how to discover truth, or to lie adroitly.
The most elegant Greek fable was that of Psyche; the most pleasant, that
of the Ephesian matron. The prettiest among the moderns is that of
Folly, who, having put out Love's eyes, is condemned to be his guide.
The fables attributed to Æsop are all emblems; instructions to the weak,
to guard them as much as possible against the snares of the strong. All
nations, possessing a little wisdom, have adopted them. La Fontaine has
treated them with the most elegance. About eighty of them are
masterpieces of simplicity, grace, finesse, and sometimes even of
poetry. It is one of the advantages of the age of Louis XIV. to have
produced a La Fontaine. He has so well discovered, almost without
seeking it, the art of making one read, that he has had a greater
reputation in France than genius itself.
Boileau has never reckoned him among those who did honor to the great
age of Louis XIV.; his reason or his pretext was that he had never
invented anything. What will better bear out Boileau is the great number
of errors in language and the incorrectness of style; faults which La
Fontaine might have avoided, and which this severe critic could not
pardon. His grasshopper, for instance, having sung all the summer, went
to beg from the ant, her neighbor, in the winter, telling her, on the
word of an animal, that she would pay her principal and interest before
midsummer. The ant replies: "You sang, did you? I am glad of it; then
now dance."
His astrologer, again, who falling into a ditch while gazing at the
stars, was asked: "Poor wretch! do you expect to be able to read things
so much above you?" Yet Copernicus, Galileo, Cassini, and Halley have
read the heavens very well; and the best astronomer that ever existed
might fall into a ditch without being a poor wretch.
Judicial astrology is indeed ridiculous charlatanism, but the
ridiculousness does not consist in regarding the heavens; it consists in
believing, or in making believe, that you read what is not there.
Several of these fables, either ill chosen or badly written, certainly
merit the censure of Boileau.
Nothing is more insipid than the fable of the drowned woman, whose
corpse was sought contrary to the course of the river, because in her
lifetime she had always been contrary.
The tribute sent by the animals to King Alexander is a fable, which is
not the better for being ancient. The animals sent no money, neither did
the lion advise them to steal it.
The satyr who received a peasant into his hut should not have turned him
out on seeing that he blew his fingers because he was cold; and
afterwards, on taking the dish between his teeth, that he blew his
pottage because it was hot. The man was quite right, and the satyr was a
fool. Besides, we do not take hold of dishes with our teeth.
The crab-mother, who reproached her daughter with not walking straight;
and the daughter, who answered that her mother walked crooked, is not
an agreeable fable.
The bush and the duck, in commercial partnership with the bat, having
counters, factors, agents, paying principal and interest, etc., has
neither truth, nature, nor any kind of merit.
A bush which goes with a bat into foreign countries to trade is one of
those cold and unnatural inventions which La Fontaine should not have
adopted. A house full of dogs and cats, living together like cousins and
quarrelling for a dish of pottage, seems also very unworthy of a man of
taste.
The chattering magpie is still worse. The eagle tells her that he
declines her company because she talks too much. On which La Fontaine
remarks that it is necessary at court to wear two faces.
Where is the merit of the fable of the kite presented by a bird-catcher
to a king, whose nose he had seized with his claws? The ape who married
a Parisian girl and beat her is an unfortunate story presented to La
Fontaine, and which he has been so unfortunate as to put into verse.
Such fables as these; and some others, may doubtless justify Boileau; it
might even happen that La Fontaine could not distinguish the bad fables
from the good.
Madame de la Sablière called La Fontaine a fabulist, who bore fables as
naturally as a plum-tree bears plums. It is true that he had only one
style, and that he wrote an opera in the style of his fables.
Notwithstanding all this, Boileau should have rendered justice to the
singular merit of the good man, as he calls him, and to the public, who
are right in being enchanted with the style of many of his fables.
La Fontaine was not an original or a sublime writer, a man of
established taste, or one of the first geniuses of a brilliant era; and
it is a very remarkable fault in him that he speaks not his own language
correctly. He is in this respect very inferior to Phaedrus, but he was a
man unique in the excellent pieces that he has left us. They are very
numerous, and are in the mouths of all those who have been respectably
brought up; they contribute even to their education. They will descend
to posterity; they are adapted for all men and for all times, while
those of Boileau suit only men of letters.
_Of Those Fanatics Who Would Suppress the Ancient Fables._
There is among those whom we call Jansenists a little sect of hard and
empty heads, who would suppress the beautiful fables of antiquity, to
substitute St. Prosper in the place of Ovid, and Santeuil in that of
Horace. If they were attended to, our pictures would no longer represent
Iris on the rainbow, or Minerva with her aegis; but instead of them, we
should have Nicholas and Arnauld fighting against the Jesuits and
Protestants; Mademoiselle Perrier cured of sore eyes by a thorn from the
crown of Jesus Christ, brought from Jerusalem to Port Royal; Counsellor
Carré de Montgeron presenting the account of St. Médard to Louis XV.;
and St. Ovid resuscitating little boys.
In the eyes of these austere sages, Fénelon was only an idolater, who,
following the example of the impious poem of the "Æneid," introduced the
child Cupid with the nymph Eucharis.
Pluche, at the end of his fable of the Heavens, entitled "Their
History," writes a long dissertation to prove that it is shameful to
have tapestry worked in figures taken from Ovid's "Metamorphoses"; and
that Zephyrus and Flora, Vertumnus and Pomona, should be banished from
the gardens of Versailles. He exhorts the school of belles-lettres to
oppose itself to this bad taste; which reform alone, he says, is capable
of re-establishing the belles-lettres.
Other puritans, more severe than sage a little time ago, would have
proscribed the ancient mythology as a collection of puerile tales,
unworthy the acknowledged gravity of our manners. It would, however, be
a pity to burn Ovid, Horace, Hesiod, our fine tapestry pictures and our
opera. If we were spared the familiar stories of Æsop, why lay hands on
those sublime fables, which have been respected by mankind, whom they
have instructed? They are mingled with many insipidities, no doubt, but
what good is without an alloy? All ages will adopt Pandora's box, at the
bottom of which was found man's only consolation--hope; Jupiter's two
vessels, which unceasingly poured forth good and evil; the cloud
embraced by Ixion, which is the emblem and punishment of an ambitious
man; and the death of Narcissus, which is the punishment of self-love.
What is more sublime than the image of Minerva, the goddess of wisdom,
formed in the head of the master of the gods? What is more true and
agreeable than the goddess of beauty, always accompanied by the graces?
The goddesses of the arts, all daughters of memory--do they not teach
us, as well as Locke, that without memory we cannot possess either
judgment or wit? The arrows of Love, his fillet, and his childhood;
Flora, caressed by Zephyrus, etc.--are they not all sensible
personifications of pure nature? These fables have survived the
religions which consecrated them. The temples of the gods of Egypt,
Greece, and Rome are no more, but Ovid still exists. Objects of
credulity may be destroyed, but not those of pleasure; we shall forever
love these true and lively images. Lucretius did not believe in these
fabulous gods, but he celebrated nature under the name of Venus.
_Alma Venus cœli subter labentia signa_
_Quæ mare navigerum, quæ terras frugiferentes_
_Concelebras, per te quoniam genus omne animantum_
_Concipitur, visitque exortum lumina solis_, etc.
Kind Venus, glory of the blest abodes,
Parent of Rome, and joy of men and gods;
Delight of all, comfort of sea and earth,
To whose kind power all creatures owe their birth, etc.
--CREECH.
If antiquity in its obscurity was led to acknowledge divinity in its
images, how is it to be blamed? The productive soul of the world was
adored by the sages; it governed the sea under the name of Neptune, the
air under the image of Juno, and the country under that of Pan. It was
the divinity of armies under the name of Mars; all these attributes were
animated personifications. Jupiter was the only _god_. The golden chain
with which he bound the inferior gods and men was a striking image of
the unity of a sovereign being. The people were deceived, but what are
the people to us?
It is continually asked why the Greek and Roman magistrates permitted
the divinities whom they adored in their temples to be ridiculed on
their stage? This is a false supposition. The gods were not mocked in
their theatres, but the follies attributed to these gods by those who
had corrupted the ancient mythology. The consuls and prætors found it
good to treat the adventure of the two Sosias wittily, but they would
not have suffered the worship of Jupiter and Mercury to be attacked
before the people. It is thus that a thousand things which appear
contradictory are not so in reality. I have seen, in the theatre of a
learned and witty nation, pieces taken from the Golden Legend; will it,
on that account, be said that this nation permits its objects of
religion to be insulted? It need not be feared we shall become Pagans
for having heard the opera of Proserpine at Paris, or for having seen
the nuptials of Psyche, painted by Raphael, in the pope's palace at
Rome. Fable forms the taste, but renders no person idolatrous.
The beautiful fables of antiquity have also this great advantage over
history: they are lessons of virtue, while almost all history narrates
the success of vice. Jupiter in the fable descends upon earth to punish
Tantalus and Lycaon; but in history our Tantaluses and Lycaons are the
gods of the earth. Baucis and Philemon had their cabin changed into a
temple; our Baucises and Philemons are obliged to sell, for the
collector of the taxes, those kettles which, in Ovid, the gods changed
into vases of gold.
I know how much history can instruct us and how necessary it is to know
it; but it requires much ingenuity to be able to draw from it any rules
for individual conduct. Those who know politics only through books will
be often reminded of those lines of Corneille, which observe that
examples will seldom suffice for our guidance, as it often happens that
one person perishes by the very expedient which has proved the salvation
of another.
_Les exemples recens suffiraient pour m'instruire_
_Si par l'exemple seul on devait se conduire;_
_Mais souvent l'un se perd où l'autre s'est sauvé,_
_Et par où l'un périt, un autre est conservé._
Henry VIII., the tyrant of his parliament, his ministers and his wives,
of consciences and purses, lived and died peaceably. Charles I. perished
on the scaffold. Margaret of Anjou in vain waged war in person a dozen
times with the English, the subjects of her husband, while William III.
drove James II. from England without a battle. In our days we have seen
the royal family of Persia murdered, and strangers upon the throne.
To look at events only, history seems to accuse Providence, and fine
moral fables justify it. It is clear that both the useful and agreeable
may be discovered in them, however exclaimed against by those who are
neither the one nor the other. Let them talk on, and let us read Homer
and Ovid, as well as Titus Livius and Rapin de Thoyras. Taste induces
preferences and fanaticism exclusions. The arts are united, and those
who would separate them know nothing about them. History teaches us what
we are--fable what we ought to be.
_Tous les arts sont amis, ainsi qu ils sont divins;_
_Qui veut les séparer est loin de les connaître._
_L'histoire nous apprend ce que sont les humains,_
_La fable ce qu ils doivent être._
FACTION.
_On the Meaning of the Word._
The word "faction" comes from the Latin "_facere_"; it is employed to
signify the state of a soldier at his post, on duty (_en faction_),
squadrons or troops of combatants in the circus; green, blue, red, and
white factions.
The acceptation in which the term is generally used is that of a
seditious party in the state. The term "party" in itself implies nothing
that is odious, that of faction is always odious.
A great man, and even a man possessing only mediocrity of talent, may
easily have a party at court, in the army, in the city, or in
literature. A man may have a party in consequence of his merit, in
consequence of the zeal and number of his friends, without being the
head of a party. Marshal Catinat, although little regarded at court, had
a large party in the army without making any effort to obtain it.
A head of a party is always a head of a faction; such were Cardinal
Retz, Henry, duke of Guise, and various others. A seditious party, while
it is yet weak and has no influence in the government, is only a
faction.
Cæsar's faction speedily became a dominant party, which swallowed up the
republic. When the emperor Charles VI. disputed the throne of Spain with
Philip V. he had a party in that kingdom, and at length he had no more
than a faction in it. Yet we may always be allowed to talk of the
"party" of Charles VI.
It is different with respect to private persons. Descartes for a long
time had a party in France; it would be incorrect to say he had a
faction. Thus we perceive that words in many cases synonymous cease to
be so in others.
FACULTY.
All the powers of matter and mind are faculties; and, what is still
worse, faculties of which we know nothing, perfectly occult qualities;
to begin with motion, of which no one has discovered the origin.
When the president of the faculty of medicine in the "_Malade
Imaginaire_," asks Thomas Diafoirus: "_Quare opium facit dormire_?"--Why
does opium cause sleep? Thomas very pertinently replies, "_Quia est in
eo virtus dormitiva quæ facit sopire."_--Because it possesses a
dormitive power producing sleep. The greatest philosophers cannot speak
more to the purpose.
The honest chevalier de Jaucourt acknowledges, under the article on
"Sleep," that it is impossible to go beyond conjecture with respect to
the cause of it. Another Thomas, and in much higher reverence than his
bachelor namesake in the comedy, has, in fact, made no other reply to
all the questions which are started throughout his immense volumes.
It is said, under the article on "Faculty," in the grand "Encyclopædia,"
"that the vital faculty once established in the intelligent principle by
which we are animated, it may be easily conceived that the faculty,
stimulated by the expressions which the vital _sensorium_ transmits to
part of the common _sensorium,_ determines the alternate influx of the
nervous fluid into the fibres which move the vital organs in order to
produce the alternate contradiction of those organs."
This amounts precisely to the answer of the young physician Thomas:
"_Quia est in eo virtus alterniva quæ facit alternare_." And Thomas
Diafoirus has at least the merit of being shortest.
The faculty of moving the foot when we wish to do so, of recalling to
mind past events, or of exercising our five senses; in short, any and
all of our faculties will admit of no further or better explanation than
that of Diafoirus.
But consider thought! say those who understand the whole secret.
Thought, which distinguishes man from all animals besides: "_Sanctius
his animal, mentisque capacius altæ_." (Ovid's Metamorph. i. 76.)--More
holy man, of more exalted mind!
As holy as you like; it is on this subject, that of thought or mind,
that Diafoirus is more triumphant than ever. All would reply in
accordance with him: "_Quia est in eo virtus pensativa quæ facit
pensare."_ No one will ever develop the mysterious process by which he
thinks.
The case we are considering then might be extended to everything in
nature. I know not whether there may not be found in this profound and
unfathomable gulf of mystery an evidence of the existence of a Supreme
Being. There is a secret in the originating or conservatory principles
of all beings, from a pebble on the seashore to Saturn's Ring and the
Milky Way. But how can there be a secret which no one knows? It would
seem that some being must exist who can develop all.
Some learned men, with a view to enlighten our ignorance, tell us that
we must form systems; that we shall at last find the secret out. But we
have so long sought without obtaining any explanation that disgust
against further search has very naturally succeeded. That, say they, is
the mere indolence of philosophy; no, it is the rational repose of men
who have exerted themselves and run an active race in vain. And after
all, it must be admitted that indolent philosophy is far preferable to
turbulent divinity and metaphysical delusion.
FAITH.
SECTION I.
What is faith? Is it to believe that which is evident? No. It is
perfectly evident to my mind that there exists a necessary, eternal,
supreme, and intelligent being. This is no matter of faith, but of
reason. I have no merit in thinking that this eternal and infinite
being, whom I consider as virtue, as goodness itself, is desirous that I
should be good and virtuous. Faith consists in believing not what seems
true, but what seems false to our understanding. The Asiatics can only
by faith believe the journey of Mahomet to the seven planets, and the
incarnations of the god Fo, of Vishnu, Xaca, Brahma, and Sommonocodom.
They submit their understandings; they tremble to examine: wishing to
avoid being either impaled or burned, they say: "I believe."
We do not here intend the slightest allusion to the Catholic faith. Not
only do we revere it, but we possess it. We speak of the false, lying
faith of other nations of the world, of that faith which is not faith,
and which consists only in words.
There is a faith for things that are merely astonishing and prodigious,
and a faith for things contradictory and impossible.
Vishnu became incarnate five hundred times; this is extremely
astonishing, but it is not, however, physically impossible; for if
Vishnu possessed a soul, he may have transferred that soul into five
hundred different bodies, with a view to his own felicity. The Indian,
indeed, has not a very lively faith; he is not intimately and decidedly
persuaded of these metamorphoses; but he will nevertheless say to his
bonze, "I have faith; it is your will and pleasure that Vishnu has
undergone five hundred incarnations, which is worth to you an income of
five hundred rupees: very well; you will inveigh against me, and
denounce me, and ruin my trade if I have not faith; but I have faith,
and here are ten rupees over and above for you." The Indian may swear to
the bonze that he believes without taking a false oath, for, after all,
there is no demonstration that Vishnu has not actually made five hundred
visits to India.
But if the bonze requires him to believe what is contradictory or
impossible, as that two and two make five, or that the same body may be
in a thousand different places, or that to be and not to be are
precisely one and the same thing; in that case, if the Indian says he
has faith he lies, and if he swears that he believes he commits perjury.
He says, therefore, to the bonze: "My reverend father, I cannot declare
that I believe in these absurdities, even though they should be worth to
you an income of ten thousand rupees instead of five hundred."
"My son," the bonze answers, "give me twenty rupees and God will give
you grace to believe all that you now do not believe."
"But how can you expect or desire," rejoins the Indian, "that God should
do that by me which He cannot do even by Himself? It is impossible that
God should either perform or believe contradictions. I am very willing
to say, in order to give you satisfaction, that I believe what is
obscure, but I cannot say that I believe what is impossible. It is the
will of God that we should be virtuous, and not that we should be
absurd. I have already given you ten rupees; here are twenty more;
believe in thirty rupees; be an honest man if you can and do not trouble
me any more."
It is not thus with Christians. The faith which they have for things
which they do not understand is founded upon that which they do
understand; they have grounds of credibility. Jesus Christ performed
miracles in Galilee; we ought, therefore, to believe all that He said.
In order to know what He said we must consult the Church. The Church has
declared the books which announce Jesus Christ to us to be authentic. We
ought, therefore, to believe those books. Those books inform us that he
who will not listen to the Church shall be considered as a tax-gatherer
or a Pagan; we ought, therefore, to listen to the Church that we may not
be disgraced and hated like the farmers-general. We ought to submit our
reason to it, not with infantile and blind credulity, but with a docile
faith, such as reason itself would authorize. Such is Christian faith,
particularly the Roman faith, which is "_the_ faith" par excellence. The
Lutheran, Calvinistic, or Anglican faith is a wicked faith.
SECTION II.
Divine faith, about which so much has been written, is evidently nothing
more than incredulity brought under subjection, for we certainly have no
other faculty than the understanding by which we can believe; and the
objects of faith are not those of the understanding. We can believe only
what appears to be true; and nothing can appear true but in one of the
three following ways: by intuition or feeling, as I exist, I see the
sun; by an accumulation of probability amounting to certainty, as there
is a city called Constantinople; or by positive demonstration, as
triangles of the same base and height are equal.
Faith, therefore, being nothing at all of this description, can no more
be a belief, a persuasion, than it can be yellow or red. It can be
nothing but the annihilation of reason, a silence of adoration at the
contemplation of things absolutely incomprehensible. Thus, speaking
philosophically, no person believes the Trinity; no person believes that
the same body can be in a thousand places at once; and he who says, I
believe these mysteries, will see, beyond the possibility of a doubt, if
he reflects for a moment on what passes in his mind, that these words
mean no more than, I respect these mysteries; I submit myself to those
who announce them. For they agree with me, that my reason, or their own
reason, believe them not; but it is clear that if my _reason_ is not
persuaded, _I_ am not persuaded. I and my reason cannot possibly be two
different beings. It is an absolute contradiction that I should receive
that as true which my understanding rejects as false. Faith, therefore,
is nothing but submissive or deferential incredulity.
But why should this submission be exercised when my understanding
invincibly recoils? The reason, we well know, is, that my understanding
has been persuaded that the mysteries of my faith are laid down by God
Himself. All, then, that I can do, as a reasonable being, is to be
silent and adore. This is what divines call external faith; and this
faith neither is, nor can be, anything more than respect for things
incomprehensible, in consequence of the reliance I place on those who
teach them.
If God Himself were to say to me, "Thought is of an olive color"; "the
square of a certain number is bitter"; I should certainly understand
nothing at all from these words. I could not adopt them either as true
or false. But I will repeat them, if He commands me to do it; and I will
make others repeat them at the risk of my life. This is not faith; it is
nothing more than obedience.
In order to obtain a foundation then for this obedience, it is merely
necessary to examine the books which require it. Our understanding,
therefore, should investigate the books of the Old and New Testament,
just as it would Plutarch or Livy; and if it finds in them incontestable
and decisive evidences--evidences obvious to all minds, and such as
would be admitted by men of all nations--that God Himself is their
author, then it is our incumbent duty to subject our understanding to
the yoke of faith.
SECTION III.
We have long hesitated whether or not to publish the following article,
"Faith," which we met with in an old book. Our respect for the chair of
St. Peter restrained us. But some pious men having satisfied us that
Alexander VI. and St. Peter had nothing in common, we have at last
determined to publish this curious little production, and do it without
the slightest scruple.
Prince Pico della Mirandola once met Pope Alexander VI. at the house of
the courtesan Emilia, while Lucretia, the holy father's daughter, was
confined in childbirth, and the people of Rome were discussing whether
the child of which she was delivered belonged to the pope, to his son
the Duke de Valentinois, or to Lucretia's husband, Alphonso of Aragon,
who was considered by many as impotent. The conversation immediately
became animated and gay. Cardinal Bembo relates a portion of it. "My
little Pico," says the pope, "whom do you think the father of my
grandson?" "I think your son-in-law," replied Pico. "What! how can you
possibly believe such nonsense?" "I believe it by faith." "But surely
you know that an impotent man cannot be a father." "Faith," replied
Pico, "consists in believing things because they are impossible; and,
besides, the honor of your house demands that Lucretia's son should not
be reputed the offspring of incest. You require me to believe more
incomprehensible mysteries. Am I not bound to believe that a serpent
spoke; that from that time all mankind were damned; that the ass of
Balaam also spoke with great eloquence; and that the walls of Jericho
fell down at the sound of trumpets?" Pico thus proceeded with a long
train of all the prodigious things in which he believed. Alexander
absolutely fell back upon his sofa with laughing. "I believe all that as
well as you," says he, "for I well know that I can be saved only by
faith, as I can certainly never be so by works." "Ah, holy father!" says
Pico, "you need neither works nor faith; they are well enough for such
poor, profane creatures as we are; but you, who are absolutely a
vice-god--you may believe and do just whatever you please.
"You have the keys of heaven; and St. Peter will certainly never shut the
door in your face. But with respect to myself, who am nothing but a poor
prince, I freely confess that I should have found some very powerful
protection necessary, if I had lain with my own daughter, or had
employed the stiletto and night-shade as often as your holiness."
Alexander VI. understood raillery. "Let us speak seriously," says he to
the prince. "Tell me what merit there can be in a man's saying to God
that he is persuaded of things of which, in fact, he cannot be
persuaded? What pleasure can this afford to God? Between ourselves, a
man who says that he believes what is impossible to be believed, is--a
liar."
Pico della Mirandola at this crossed himself in great agitation. "My
God!" says he, "I beg your holiness' pardon; but you are not a
Christian." "I am not," says the pope, "upon my faith." "I suspected
so," said Pico della Mirandola.
FALSITY.
Falsity, properly speaking, is the contrary to truth; not intentional
lying.
It is said that there were a hundred thousand men destroyed by the great
earthquake at Lisbon; this is not a lie--it is a falsity. Falsity is
much more common than error; falsity falls more on facts, and error on
opinions. It is an error to believe that the sun turns round the earth;
but it is a falsity to advance that Louis XIV. dictated the will of
Charles II.
The falsity of a deed is a much greater crime than a simple lie; it is a
legal imposture--a fraud committed with the pen.
A man has a false mind when he always takes things in a wrong sense,
when, not considering the whole, he attributes to one side of an object
that which belongs to the other, and when this defect of judgment has
become habitual.
Falseheartedness is, when a person is accustomed to flatter, and to
utter sentiments which he does not possess; this is worse than
dissimulation, and is that which the Latins call _simulatio._
There is much falsity in historians; error among philosophers. Falsities
abound in all polemical writings, and still more in satirical ones.
False minds are insufferable, and false hearts are horrible.
FALSITY OF HUMAN VIRTUES.
When the Duke de la Rochefoucauld wrote his "Thoughts on Self-Love," and
discovered this great spring of human action, one M. Esprit of the
Oratory, wrote a book entitled "Of the Falsity of Human Virtues." This
author says that there is no virtue but by grace; and he terminates each
chapter by referring to Christian charity. So that, according to M.
Esprit, neither Cato, Aristides, Marcus Aurelius, nor Epictetus were
good men, who can be found only among the Christians. Among the
Christians, again, there is no virtue except among the Catholics; and
even among the Catholics, the Jesuits must be excepted as the enemies of
the Oratory; ergo, virtue is scarcely to be found anywhere except among
the enemies of the Jesuits.
This M. Esprit commences by asserting that prudence is not a virtue; and
his reason is that it is often deceived. It is as if he had said that
Cæsar was not a great captain because he was conquered at Dyrrachium.
If M. Esprit had been a philosopher, he would not have examined prudence
as a virtue, but as a talent--as a useful and happy quality; for a great
rascal may be very prudent, and I have known many such. Oh the age of
pretending that "_Nul n'aura de vertu que nous et nos amis_!"--None are
virtuous but ourself and friends!
What is virtue, my friend? It is to do good; let us then do it, and that
will suffice. But we give you credit for the motive. What, then!
according to you, there is no difference between the President de Thou
and Ravaillac? between Cicero and that Popilius whose life he saved, and
who afterwards cut off his head for money; and thou wilt pronounce
Epictetus and Porphyrius rogues because they did not follow our dogmas?
Such insolence is disgusting; but I will say no more, for I am getting
angry.