SECTION I.

A PHILOSOPHICAL DICTIONARY

VOLUME V

By

VOLTAIRE

EDITION DE LA PACIFICATION

THE WORKS OF VOLTAIRE

A CONTEMPORARY VERSION

With Notes by Tobias Smollett, Revised and Modernized

New Translations by William F. Fleming, and an

Introduction by Oliver H.G. Leigh

A CRITIQUE AND BIOGRAPHY

BY

THE RT. HON. JOHN MORLEY

FORTY-THREE VOLUMES

One hundred and sixty-eight designs, comprising reproductions

of rare old engravings, steel plates, photogravures,

and curious fac-similes

VOLUME IX

E.R. DuMONT

PARIS--LONDON--NEW YORK--CHICAGO

1901

_The WORKS of VOLTAIRE_

_"Between two servants of Humanity, who appeared eighteen hundred

years apart, there is a mysterious relation. * * * * Let us say it

with a sentiment of profound respect: JESUS WEPT: VOLTAIRE SMILED.

Of that divine tear and of that human smile is composed the

sweetness of the present civilization."_

_VICTOR HUGO._

LIST OF PLATES--VOL. V

SANS SOUCI _Frontispiece_

A LAND STORM

THE TEMPTATION OF ADAM

DESCARTES

[Illustration: SANS SOUCI]

* * * * *

A PHILOSOPHICAL DICTIONARY.

IN TEN VOLUMES

Vol. V

FANATICISM--GREGORY VII

* * * * *

FANATICISM.

SECTION I.

Fanaticism is the effect of a false conscience, which makes religion

subservient to the caprices of the imagination, and the excesses of the

passions.

It arises, in general, from legislators entertaining too narrow views,

or from their extending their regulations beyond the limits within which

alone they were intended to operate. Their laws are made merely for a

select society. When extended by zeal to a whole people, and transferred

by ambition from one climate to another, some changes of institution

should take place, some accommodation to persons, places, and

circumstances. But what, in fact, has been the case? Certain minds,

constituted in a great degree like those of the small original flock,

have received a system with equal ardor, and become its apostles, and

even its martyrs, rather than abate a single iota of its demands.

Others, on the contrary, less ardent, or more attached to their

prejudices of education, have struggled with energy against the new

yoke, and consented to receive it only after considerable softenings and

mitigations: hence the schism between rigorists and moderates, by which

all are urged on to vehemence and madness--the one party for servitude

and the other for freedom.

Let us imagine an immense rotunda, a pantheon, with innumerable altars

placed under its dome. Let us figure to ourselves a devotee of every

sect, whether at present existing or extinct, at the feet of that

divinity which he worships in his own peculiar way, under all the

extravagant forms which human imagination has been able to invent. On

the right we perceive one stretched on his back upon a mat, absorbed in

contemplation, and awaiting the moment when the divine light shall come

forth to inform his soul. On the left is a prostrate energumen striking

his forehead against the ground, with a view to obtain from it an

abundant produce. Here we see a man with the air and manner of a

mountebank, dancing over the grave of him whom he invokes. There we

observe a penitent, motionless and mute as the statue before which he

has bent himself in humiliation. One, on the principle that God will not

blush at his own resemblance, displays openly what modesty universally

conceals; another, as if the artist would shudder at the sight of his

own work, covers with an impenetrable veil his whole person and

countenance; another turns his back upon the south, because from that

quarter blows the devil's tempest. Another stretches out his arms

towards the east, because there God first shows His radiant face. Young

women, suffused with tears, bruise and gash their lovely persons under

the idea of assuaging the demon of desire, although by means tending in

fact rather to strengthen his influence; others again, in opposite

attitudes, solicit the approaches of the Divinity. One young man, in

order to mortify the most urgent of his feelings, attaches to particular

parts of his frame large iron rings, as heavy as he can bear; another

checks still more effectually the tempter's violence by inhuman

amputation, and suspends the bleeding sacrifice upon the altar.

Let us observe them quit the temple, and, full of the inspiration of

their respective deities, spread the terror and delusion over the face

of the earth. They divide the world between them; and the four

extremities of it are almost instantly in flames: nations obey them, and

kings tremble before them. That almost despotic power which the

enthusiasm of a single person exercises over a multitude who see or hear

him; the ardor communicated to each other by assembled minds; numberless

strong and agitating influences acting in such circumstances, augmented

by each individual's personal anxiety and distress, require but a short

time to operate, in order to produce universal delirium. Only let a

single people be thus fascinated and agitated under the guidance of a

few impostors, the seduction will spread with the speed of wild-fire,

prodigies will be multiplied beyond calculation, and whole communities

be led astray forever. When the human mind has once quitted the luminous

track pointed out by nature, it returns to it no more; it wanders round

the truth, but never obtains of it more than a few faint glimmerings,

which, mingling with the false lights of surrounding superstition, leave

it, in fact, in complete and palpable obscurity.

It is dreadful to observe how the opinion that the wrath of heaven might

be appeased by human massacre spread, after being once started, through

almost every religion; and what various reasons have been given for the

sacrifice, as though, in order to preclude, if possible, the escape of

any one from extirpation. Sometimes they are enemies who must be

immolated to Mars the exterminator. The Scythians slay upon the altars

of this deity a hundredth part of their prisoners of war; and from this

usage attending victory, we may form some judgment of the justice of

war: accordingly, among other nations it was engaged in solely to supply

these human sacrifices, so that, having first been instituted, as it

would seem, to expiate the horrors of war, they at length came to serve

as a justification of them.

Sometimes a barbarous deity requires victims from among the just and

good. The Getæ eagerly dispute the honor of personally conveying to

Zamolxis the vows and devotions of their country. He whose good fortune

has destined him to be the sacrifice is thrown with the greatest

violence upon a range of spears, fixed for the purpose. If on falling

he receives a mortal wound, it augurs well as to the success of the

negotiation and the merit of the envoy; but if he survives the wound, he

is a wretch with whom the god would not condescend to hold any

communication.

Sometimes children are demanded, and the respective divinities recall

the life they had but just imparted: "Justice," says Montaigne,

"thirsting for the blood of innocence!" Sometimes the call is for the

dearest and nearest blood: the Carthaginians sacrificed their own sons

to Saturn, as if Time did not devour them with sufficient speed.

Sometimes the demand was for the blood of the most beautiful. That

Amestris, who had buried twelve men alive in order to obtain from Pluto,

in return for so revolting an offering, a somewhat longer life--that

same Amestris further sacrifices to that insatiable divinity twelve

daughters of the highest personages in Persia; as the sacrificing

priests have always taught men that they ought to offer on the altar the

most valuable of their possessions. It is upon this principle that among

some nations the first-born were immolated, and that among others they

were redeemed by offerings more valuable to the ministers of sacrifice.

This it is, unquestionably, which introduced into Europe the practice

prevalent for centuries of devoting children to celibacy at the early

age of five years, and shutting up in a cloister the brothers of an

hereditary prince, just as in Asia the practice is to murder them.

Sometimes it is the purest blood that is demanded. We read of certain

Indians, if I recollect rightly, who hospitably entertain all who visit

them and make a merit of killing every sensible and virtuous stranger

who enters their country, that his talents and virtues may remain with

them. Sometimes the blood required is that which is most sacred. With

the majority of idolaters, priests perform the office of executioner at

the altar; and among the Siberians, it is the practice to kill the

priests in order to despatch them to pray in the other world for the

fulfilment of the wishes of the people.

But let us turn our attention to other frenzies and other spectacles.

All Europe passes into Asia by a road inundated with the blood of Jews,

who commit suicide to avoid falling into the hands of their enemies.

This epidemic depopulates one-half of the inhabited world: kings,

pontiffs, women, the young and the aged, all yield to the influence of

the holy madness which, for a series of two hundred years, instigated

the slaughter of innumerable nations at the tomb of a god of peace. Then

were to be seen lying oracles, and military hermits, monarchs in

pulpits, and prelates in camps. All the different states constitute one

delirious populace; barriers of mountains and seas are surmounted;

legitimate possessions are abandoned to enable their owners to fly to

conquests which were no longer, in point of fertility, the land of

promise; manners become corrupted under foreign skies; princes, after

having exhausted their respective kingdoms to redeem a country which

had never been theirs, complete the ruin of them for their personal

ransom; thousands of soldiers, wandering under the banners of many

chieftains, acknowledge the authority of none and hasten their defeat by

their desertion; and the disease terminates only to be succeeded by a

contagion still more horrible and desolating.

The same spirit of fanaticism cherished the rage for distant conquests:

scarcely had Europe repaired its losses when the discovery of a new

world hastened the ruin of our own. At that terrible injunction, "Go and

conquer," America was desolated and its inhabitants exterminated; Africa

and Europe were exhausted in vain to repeople it; the poison of money

and of pleasure having enervated the species, the world became nearly a

desert and appeared likely every day to advance nearer to desolation by

the continual wars which were kindled on our continent, from the

ambition of extending its power to foreign lands.

Let us now compute the immense number of slaves which fanaticism has

made, whether in Asia, where uncircumcision was a mark of infamy, or in

Africa, where the Christian name was a crime, or in America, where the

pretext of baptism absolutely extinguished the feelings of humanity. Let

us compute the thousands who have been seen to perish either on

scaffolds in the ages of persecution, or in civil wars by the hands of

their fellow citizens, or by their own hands through excessive

austerities, and maceration. Let us survey the surface of the earth, and

glance at the various standards unfurled and blazing in the name of

religion; in Spain against the Moors, in France against the Turks, in

Hungary against the Tartars; at the numerous military orders, founded

for converting infidels by the point of the sword, and slaughtering one

another at the foot of the altar they had come to defend. Let us then

look down from the appalling tribunal thus raised on the bodies of the

innocent and miserable, in order to judge the living, as God, with a

balance widely different, will judge the dead.

In a word, let us contemplate the horrors of fifteen centuries, all

frequently renewed in the course of a single one; unarmed men slain at

the feet of altars; kings destroyed by the dagger or by poison; a large

state reduced to half its extent by the fury of its own citizens; the

nation at once the most warlike and the most pacific on the face of the

globe, divided in fierce hostility against itself; the sword unsheathed

between the sons and the father; usurpers, tyrants, executioners,

sacrilegious robbers, and bloodstained parricides violating, under the

impulse of religion, every convention divine or human--such is the

deadly picture of fanaticism.

SECTION II.

If this term has at present any connection with its original meaning it

is exceedingly slight.

"_Fanaticus_" was an honorable designation. It signified the minister or

benefactor of a temple. According to the dictionary of Trévoux some

antiquaries have discovered inscriptions in which Roman citizens of

considerable consequence assumed the title of "_fanaticus_."

In Cicero's oration "_pro domo sua_," a passage occurs in which the word

"_fanaticus_" appears to me of difficult explanation. The seditious and

libertine Clodius, who had brought about the banishment of Cicero for

having saved the republic, had not only plundered and demolished the

houses of that great man, but in order that Cicero might never be able

to return to his city residence he procured the consecration of the land

on which it stood; and the priests had erected there a temple to

liberty, or rather to slavery, in which Cæsar, Pompey, Crassus, and

Clodius then held the republic. Thus in all ages has religion been

employed as an instrument in the persecution of great men. When at

length, in a happier period, Cicero was recalled, he pleaded before the

people in order to obtain the restoration of the ground on which his

house had stood, and the rebuilding of the house at the expense of the

Roman people. He thus expresses himself in the speech against Clodius

(_Oratio pro Domo sua_, chap. xl): "_Adspicite, adspicite, pontifices,

hominem religiosum.... monete eum, modum quemdam esse religionis; nimium

esse superstitiosum non oportere. Quid tibi necesse fuit anili

superstitione, homo fanatice, sacrificium, quod aliænæ domi fieret

invisere?_"

Does the word "_fanaticus_," as used above, mean senseless, pitiless,

abominable fanatic, according to the present acceptation, or does it

rather imply the pious, religious man, the frequenter and consecrator of

temples? Is it used here in the meaning of decided censure or ironical

praise? I do not feel myself competent to determine, but will give a

translation of the passage:

"Behold, reverend pontiffs, behold the pious man.... suggest to him that

even religion itself has its limits, that a man ought not to be so

over-scrupulous. What occasion was there for a sacred person, a fanatic

like yourself, to have recourse to the superstition of an old woman, in

order to assist at a sacrifice performed in another person's house?"

Cicero alludes here to the mysteries of the _Bona Dea_, which had been

profaned by Clodius, who, in the disguise of a female, and accompanied

by an old woman, had obtained an introduction to them, with a view to an

assignation with Cæsar's wife. The passage is, in consequence, evidently

ironical.

Cicero calls Clodius a religious man, and the irony requires to be kept

up through the whole passage. He employs terms of honorable meaning,

more clearly to exhibit Clodius's infamy. It appears to me, therefore,

that he uses the word in question, "_fanaticus_" in its respectable

sense, as a word conveying the idea of a sacrificer, a pious man, a

zealous minister of a temple.

The term might be afterwards applied to those who believed themselves

inspired by the gods, who bestowed a somewhat curious gift on the

interpreters of their will, by ordaining that, in order to be a prophet,

the loss of reason is indispensable.

_Les Dieux à leur interprète_

_Ont fait un étrange don;_

_Ne peut on être prophète_

_Sans qu'on perde la raison?_

The same dictionary of Trévoux informs us that the old chronicles of

France call Clovis fanatic and pagan. The reader would have been pleased

to have had the particular chronicles specified. I have not found this

epithet applied to Clovis in any of the few books I possess at my house

near Mount Krapak, where I now write.

We understand by fanaticism at present a religious madness, gloomy and

cruel. It is a malady of the mind, which is taken in the same way as

smallpox. Books communicate it much less than meetings and discourses.

We seldom get heated while reading in solitude, for our minds are then

tranquil and sedate. But when an ardent man of strong imagination

addresses himself to weak imaginations, his eyes dart fire, and that

fire rapidly spreads; his tones, his gestures, absolutely convulse the

nerves of his auditors. He exclaims, "The eye of God is at this moment

upon you; sacrifice every mere human possession and feeling; fight the

battles of the Lord"--and and they rush to the fight.

Fanaticism is, in reference to superstition, what delirium is to fever,

or rage to anger. He who is involved in ecstasies and visions, who takes

dreams for realities, and his own imaginations for prophecies, is a

fanatical novice of great hope and promise, and will probably soon

advance to the highest form, and kill man for the love of God.

Bartholomew Diaz was a fanatical monk. He had a brother at Nuremberg

called John Diaz, who was an enthusiastic adherent to the doctrines of

Luther, and completely convinced that the pope was Antichrist, and had

the sign of the beast. Bartholomew, still more ardently convinced that

the pope was god upon earth, quits Rome, determined either to convert or

murder his brother; he accordingly murdered him! Here is a perfect case

of fanaticism. We have noticed and done justice to this Diaz elsewhere.

Polyeuctes, who went to the temple on a day of solemn festival, to throw

down and destroy the statues and ornaments, was a fanatic less horrible

than Diaz, but not less foolish. The assassins of Francis, duke of

Guise, of William, prince of Orange, of King Henry III., of King Henry

IV., and various others, were equally possessed, equally laboring under

morbid fury, with Diaz.

The most striking example of fanaticism is that exhibited on the night

of St. Bartholomew, when the people of Paris rushed from house to house

to stab, slaughter, throw out of the window, and tear in pieces their

fellow citizens not attending mass. Guyon, Patouillet, Chaudon,

Nonnotte, and the ex-Jesuit Paulian, are merely fanatics in a

corner--contemptible beings whom we do not think of guarding against.

They would, however, on a day of St. Bartholomew, perform wonders.

There are some cold-blooded fanatics; such as those judges who sentence

men to death for no other crime than that of thinking differently from

themselves, and these are so much the more guilty and deserving of the

execration of mankind, as, not laboring under madness like the Clements,

Châtels, Ravaillacs, and Damiens, they might be deemed capable of

listening to reason.

There is no other remedy for this epidemical malady than that spirit of

philosophy, which, extending itself from one to another, at length

civilizes and softens the manners of men and prevents the access of the

disease. For when the disorder has made any progress, we should, without

loss of time, fly from the seat of it, and wait till the air has become

purified from contagion. Law and religion are not completely efficient

against the spiritual pestilence. Religion, indeed, so far from

affording proper nutriment to the minds of patients laboring under this

infectious and infernal distemper, is converted, by the diseased process

of their minds, into poison. These malignant devotees have incessantly

before their eyes the example of Ehud, who assassinated the king of

Eglon; of Judith, who cut off the head of Holofernes while in bed with

him; of Samuel, hewing in pieces King Agag; of Jehoiada the priest, who

murdered his queen at the horse-gate. They do not perceive that these

instances, which are respectable in antiquity, are in the present day

abominable. They derive their fury from religion, decidedly as religion

condemns it.

Laws are yet more powerless against these paroxysms of rage. To oppose

laws to cases of such a description would be like reading a decree of

council to a man in a frenzy. The persons in question are fully

convinced that the Holy Spirit which animates and fills them is above

all laws; that their own enthusiasm is, in fact, the only law which they

are bound to obey.

What can be said in answer to a man who says he will rather obey God

than men, and who consequently feels certain of meriting heaven by

cutting your throat?

When once fanaticism has gangrened the brain of any man the disease may

be regarded as nearly incurable. I have seen Convulsionaries who, while

speaking of the miracles of St. Paris, gradually worked themselves up to

higher and more vehement degrees of agitation till their eyes became

inflamed, their whole frames shook, their countenances became distorted

by rage, and had any man contradicted them he would inevitably have been

murdered.

Yes, I have seen these wretched Convulsionaries writhing their limbs and

foaming at their mouths. They were exclaiming, "We must have blood."

They effected the assassination of their king by a lackey, and ended

with exclaiming against philosophers.

Fanatics are nearly always under the direction of knaves, who place the

dagger in their hands. These knaves resemble Montaigne's "Old Man of the

Mountain," who, it is said, made weak persons imagine, under his

treatment of them, that they really had experienced the joys of

paradise, and promised them a whole eternity of such delights if they

would go and assassinate such as he should point out to them. There has

been only one religion in the world which has not been polluted by

fanaticism and that is the religion of the learned in China. The

different sects of ancient philosophers were not merely exempt from this

pest of human society, but they were antidotes to it: for the effect of

philosophy is to render the soul tranquil, and fanaticism and

tranquillity are totally incompatible. That our own holy religion has

been so frequently polluted by this infernal fury must be imputed to the

foil and madness of mankind. Thus Icarus abused the wings which he

received for his benefit. They were given him for his salvation and they

insured his destruction:

_Ainsi du plumage qu'il eut_

_Icare pervertit l'usage;_

_Il le reçut pour son salut,_

_Il s'en servit pour son dommage._

--BERTAUT, bishop of Séez.

SECTION III.

Fanatics do not always fight the battles of the Lord. They do not always

assassinate kings and princes. There are tigers among them, but there

are more foxes.

What a tissue of frauds, calumnies, and robberies has been woven by

fanatics of the court of Rome against fanatics of the court of Calvin,

by Jesuits against Jansenists, and _vice versa_! And if you go farther

back you will find ecclesiastical history, which is the school of

virtues, to be that of atrocities and abominations, which have been

employed by every sect against the others. They all have the same

bandage over their eyes whether marching out to burn down the cities and

towns of their adversaries, to slaughter the inhabitants, or condemn

them to judicial execution; or when merely engaged in the comparatively

calm occupation of deceiving and defrauding, of acquiring wealth and

exercising domination. The same fanaticism blinds them; they think that

they are doing good. Every fanatic is a conscientious knave, but a

sincere and honest murderer for the good cause.

Read, if you are able, the five or six thousand volumes in which, for a

hundred years together, the Jansenists and Molinists have dealt out

against each other their reproaches and revilings, their mutual

exposures of fraud and knavery, and then judge whether Scapin or

Trevelin can be compared with them.

One of the most curious theological knaveries ever practised is, in my

opinion, that of a small bishop--the narrative asserts that he was a

Biscayan bishop; however, we shall certainly, at some future period find

out both his name and his bishopric--whose diocese was partly in Biscay

and partly in France.

In the French division of his diocese there was a parish which had

formerly been inhabited by some Moors. The lord of the parish or manor

was no Mahometan; he was perfectly catholic, as the whole universe

should be, for the meaning of catholic is universal. My lord the bishop

had some suspicions concerning this unfortunate seigneur, whose whole

occupation consisted in doing good, and conceived that in his heart he

entertained bad thoughts and sentiments savoring not a little of heresy.

He even accused him of having said, in the way of pleasantry, that there

were good people in Morocco as well as in Biscay, and that an honest

inhabitant of Morocco might absolutely not be a mortal enemy of the

Supreme Being, who is the father of all mankind.

The fanatic, upon this, wrote a long letter to the king of France, the

paramount sovereign of our little manorial lord. In this letter he

entreated his majesty to transfer the manor of this stray and

unbelieving sheep either to Lower Brittany or Lower Normandy, according

to his good pleasure, that he might be no longer able to diffuse the

contagion of heresy among his Biscayan neighbors, by his abominable

jests. The king of France and his council smiled, as may naturally be

supposed, at the extravagance and folly of the demand.

Our Biscayan pastor learning, some time afterwards, that his French

sheep was sick, ordered public notices to be fixed up at the church

gates of the canton, prohibiting any one from administering the

communion to him, unless he should previously give in a bill of

confession, from which it might appear that he was not circumcised; that

he condemned with his whole heart the heresy of Mahomet, and every other

heresy of the like kind--as, for example, Calvinism and Jansenism; and

that in every point he thought like him, the said Biscayan bishop.

Bills of confession were at that time much in fashion. The sick man sent

for his parish priest, who was a simple and sottish man, and threatened

to have him hanged by the parliament of Bordeaux if he did not instantly

administer the viaticum to him. The priest was alarmed, and accordingly

celebrated the sacred ordinance, as desired by the patient; who, after

the ceremony, declared aloud, before witnesses, that the Biscayan pastor

had falsely accused him before the king of being tainted with the

Mussulman religion; that he was a sincere Christian, and that the

Biscayan was a calumniator. He signed this, after it had been written

down, in presence of a notary, and every form required by law was

complied with. He soon after became better, and rest and a good

conscience speedily completed his recovery.

The Biscayan, quite exasperated that the old patient should have thus

exposed and disappointed him, resolved to have his revenge, and thus he

set about it.

He procured, fifteen days after the event just mentioned, the

fabrication, in his own language or patois, of a profession of faith

which the priest pretended to have heard and received. It was signed by

the priest and three or four peasants, who had not been present at the

ceremony; and the forged instrument was then passed through the

necessary and solemn form of verification and registry, as if this form

could give it authenticity.

An instrument not signed by the party alone interested, signed by

persons unknown, fifteen days after the event, an instrument disavowed

by the real and credible witnesses of that event, involved evidently the

crime of forgery; and, as the subject of the forgery was a matter of

faith, the crime clearly rendered both the priest and the witnesses

liable to the galleys in this world, and to hell in the other.

Our lord of the manor, however, who loved a joke, but had no gall or

malice in his heart, took compassion both upon the bodies and souls of

these conspirators. He declined delivering them over to human justice,

and contented himself with giving them up to ridicule. But he declared

that after the death of the Biscayan he would, if he survived, have the

pleasure of printing an account of all his proceedings and manœuvres

on this business, together with the documents and evidences, just to

amuse the small number of readers who might like anecdotes of that

description; and not, as is often pompously announced, with a view to

the instruction of the universe. There are so many authors who address

themselves to the universe, who really imagine they attract, and perhaps

absorb, the attention of the universe, that he conceived he might not

have a dozen readers out of the whole who would attend for a moment to

himself. But let us return to fanaticism.

It is this rage for making proselytes, this intensely mad desire which

men feel to bring others over to partake of their own peculiar cup or

communion, that induced the Jesuit Châtel and the Jesuit Routh to rush

with eagerness to the deathbed of the celebrated Montesquieu. These two

devoted zealots desired nothing better than to be able to boast that

they had persuaded him of the merits of contrition and of sufficing

grace. We wrought his conversion, they said. He was, in the main, a

worthy soul: he was much attached to the society of Jesus. We had some

little difficulty in inducing him to admit certain fundamental truths;

but as in these circumstances, in the crisis of life and death, the

mind is always most clear and acute, we soon convinced him.

This fanatical eagerness for converting men is so ardent, that the most

debauched monk in his convent would even quit his mistress, and walk to

the very extremity of the city, for the sake of making a single convert.

We have all seen Father Poisson, a Cordelier of Paris, who impoverished

his convent to pay his mistresses, and who was imprisoned in consequence

of the depravity of his manners. He was one of the most popular

preachers at Paris, and one of the most determined and zealous of

converters.

Such also was the celebrated preacher Fantin, at Versailles. The list

might be easily enlarged; but it is unnecessary, if not also dangerous,

to expose the freaks and freedoms of constituted authorities. You know

what happened to Ham for having revealed his father's shame. He became

as black as a coal.

Let us merely pray to God, whether rising or lying down, that he would

deliver us from fanatics, as the pilgrims of Mecca pray that they may

meet with no sour faces on the road.

SECTION IV.

Ludlow, who was rather an enthusiast for liberty than a fanatic in

religion--that brave man, who hated Cromwell more than he did Charles

I., relates that the parliamentary forces were always defeated by the

royal army in the beginning of the civil war; just as the regiment of

porters (_portes-cochères_) were unable to stand the shock of conflict,

in the time of the Fronde against the great Condé. Cromwell said to

General Fairfax: "How can you possibly expect a rabble of London porters

and apprentices to resist a nobility urged on by the principle, or

rather the phantom, of honor? Let us actuate them by a more powerful

phantom--fanaticism! Our enemies are fighting only for their king; let

us persuade our troops they are fighting for their God.

"Give me a commission, and I will raise a regiment of brother murderers,

whom I will pledge myself soon to make invincible fanatics!"

He was as good as his word; he composed his regiment of red-coated

brothers, of gloomy religionists, whom he made obedient tigers. Mahomet

himself was never better served by soldiers.

But in order to inspire this fanaticism, you must be seconded and

supported by the spirit of the times. A French parliament at the present

day would attempt in vain to raise a regiment of such porters as we have

mentioned; it could, with all its efforts, merely rouse into frenzy a

few women of the fish-market.

Only the ablest men have the power to make and to guide fanatics. It is

not, however, sufficient to possess the profoundest dissimulation and

the most determined intrepidity; everything depends, after these

previous requisites are secured, on coming into the world at a proper

time.

SECTION V.

Geometry then, it seems, is not always connected with clearness and

correctness of understanding. Over what precipices do not men fall,

notwithstanding their boasted leading-strings of reason! A celebrated

Protestant, who was esteemed one of the first mathematicians of the age,

and who followed in the train of the Newtons, the Leibnitzes, and

Bernouillis, at the beginning of the present century, struck out some

very singular corollaries. It is said that with a grain of faith a man

may remove mountains; and this man of science, following up the method

of pure geometrical analysis, reasoned thus with himself: I have many

grains of faith, and can, therefore, remove many mountains. This was the

man who made his appearance at London in 1707; and, associating himself

with certain men of learning and science, some of whom, moreover, were

not deficient in sagacity, they publicly announced that they would raise

to life a dead person in any cemetery that might be fixed upon. Their

reasoning was uniformly synthetical. They said, genuine disciples must

have the power of performing miracles; we are genuine disciples, we

therefore shall be able to perform as many as we please. The mere

unscientific saints of the Romish church have resuscitated many worthy

persons; therefore, _a fortiori_, we, the reformers of the reformed

themselves, shall resuscitate as many as we may desire.

These arguments are irrefragable, being constructed according to the

most correct form possible. Here we have at a glance the explanation why

all antiquity was inundated with prodigies; why the temples of

Æsculapius at Epidaurus, and in other cities, were completely filled

with _ex-votos_; the roofs adorned with thighs straightened, arms

restored, and silver infants: all was miracle.

In short, the famous Protestant geometrician whom I speak of appeared so

perfectly sincere; he asserted so confidently that he would raise the

dead, and his proposition was put forward with so much plausibility and

strenuousness, that the people entertained a very strong impression on

the subject, and Queen Anne was advised to appoint a day, an hour, and a

cemetery, such as he should himself select, in which he might have the

opportunity of performing his miracle legally, and under the inspection

of justice. The holy geometrician chose St. Paul's cathedral for the

scene of his exertion: the people ranged themselves in two rows;

soldiers were stationed to preserve order both among the living and the

dead; the magistrates took their seats; the register procured his

record; it was impossible that the new miracles could be verified too

completely. A dead body was disinterred agreeably to the holy man's

choice and direction; he then prayed, he fell upon his knees, and made

the most pious and devout contortions possible; his companions imitated

him; the dead body exhibited no sign of animation; it was again

deposited in its grave, and the professed resuscitator and his adherents

were slightly punished. I afterwards saw one of these misled creatures;

he declared to me that one of the party was at the time under the stain

of a venial sin, for which the dead person suffered, and but for which

the resurrection would have been infallible.

Were it allowable for us to reveal the disgrace of those to whom we owe

the sincerest respect, I should observe here, that Newton, the great

Newton himself, discovered in the "Apocalypse" that the pope was

Antichrist, and made many other similar discoveries. I should also

observe that he was a decided Arian. I am aware that this deviation of

Newton, compared to that of the other geometrician, is as unity to

infinity. But if the exalted Newton imagined that he found the modern

history of Europe in the "Apocalypse," we may say: Alas, poor human

beings!

It seems as if superstition were an epidemic disease, from which the

strongest minds are not always exempt. There are in Turkey persons of

great and strong sense, who would undergo empalement for the sake of

certain opinions of Abubeker. These principles being once admitted, they

reason with great consistency; and the Navaricians, the Radarists, and

the Jabarites mutually consign each other to damnation in conformity to

very shrewd and subtle argument. They all draw plausible consequences,

but they never dare to examine principles.

A report is publicly spread abroad by some person, that there exists a

giant seventy feet high; the learned soon after begin to discuss and

dispute about the color of his hair, the thickness of his thumb, the

measurement of his nails; they exclaim, cabal, and even fight upon the

subject. Those who maintain that the little finger of the giant is only

fifteen lines in diameter burn those who assert that it is a foot thick.

"But, gentlemen," modestly observes a stranger passing by, "does the

giant you are disputing about really exist?" "What a horrible doubt!"

all the disputants cry out together. "What blasphemy! What absurdity!" A

short truce is then brought about to give time for stoning the poor

stranger; and, after having duly performed that murderous ceremony, they

resume fighting upon the everlasting subject of the nails and little

finger.

FANCY.

Fancy formerly signified imagination, and the term was used simply to

express that faculty of the soul which receives sensible objects.

Descartes and Gassendi, and all the philosophers of their day, say that

"the form or images of things are painted in the fancy." But the greater

part of abstract terms are, in the course of time, received in a sense

different from their original one, like tools which industry applies to

new purposes.

Fancy, at present, means "a particular desire, a transient taste"; he

has a fancy for going to China; his fancy for gaming and dancing has

passed away. An artist paints a fancy portrait, a portrait not taken

from any model. To have fancies is to have extraordinary tastes, but of

brief duration. Fancy, in this sense, falls a little short of oddity

(_bizarrerie_) and caprice.

Caprice may express "a sudden and unreasonable disgust." He had a fancy

for music, and capriciously became disgusted with it. Whimsicality gives

an idea of inconsistency and bad taste, which fancy does not; he had a

fancy for building, but he constructed his house in a whimsical taste.

There are shades of distinction between having fancies and being

fantastic; the fantastic is much nearer to the capricious and the

whimsical. The word "fantastic" expresses a character unequal and

abrupt. The idea of charming or pleasant is excluded from it; whereas

there are agreeable fancies.

We sometimes hear used in conversation "odd fancies" (_des fantasies

musquées_); but the expression was never understood to mean what the

"Dictionary of Trévoux" supposes--"The whims of men of superior rank

which one must not venture to condemn;" on the contrary, that expression

is used for the very object and purpose of condemning them; and

_musquée_, in this connection, is an expletive adding force to the term

"fancies," as we say, _Sottise pommée_, _folie fieffée_, to express

nonsense and folly.

FASTI.

_Of the Different Significations of this Word._

The Latin word "_fasti_" signifies festivals, and it is in this sense

that Ovid treats of it in his poem entitled "The Fasti."

Godeau has composed the Fasti of the church on this model, but with less

success. The religion of the Roman Pagans was more calculated for poetry

than that of the Christians; to which it may be added, that Ovid was a

better poet than Godeau.

The consular fasti were only the list of consuls.

The fasti of the magistrates were the days in which they were permitted

to plead; and those on which they did not plead were called _nefasti_,

because then they could not plead for justice.

The word "_nefastus_" in this sense does not signify unfortunate; on the

contrary, _nefastus_ and _nefandus_ were the attributes of unfortunate

days in another sense, signifying days in which people must not plead;

days worthy only to be forgotten; _"ille nefasto te posuit die."_

Besides other fasti, the Romans had their _fasti urbis_, _fasti

rustici_, which were calendars of the particular usages, and ceremonies

of the city and the country.

On these days of solemnity, every one sought to astonish by the grandeur

of his dress, his equipage, or his banquet. This pomp, invisible on

other days, was called _fastus_. It expresses magnificence in those who

by their station can afford it, but vanity in others.

Though the word "_fastus_" may not be always injurious, the word

"pompous" is invariably so. A devotee who makes a parade of his virtue

renders humility itself pompous.

FATHERS--MOTHERS--CHILDREN.

_Their Duties._

The "Encyclopædia" has been much exclaimed against in France; because it

was produced in France, and has done France honor. In other countries,

people have not cried out; on the contrary, they have eagerly set about

pirating or spoiling it, because money was to be gained thereby.

But we, who do not, like the encyclopædists of Paris, labor for glory;

we, who are not, like them, exposed to envy; we, whose little society

lies unnoticed in Hesse, in Würtemberg, in Switzerland, among the

Grisons, or at Mount Krapak; and have, therefore, no apprehension of

having to dispute with the doctor of the _Comédie Italienne_, or with a

doctor of the Sorbonne; we, who sell not our sheets to a bookseller, but

are free beings, and lay not black on white until we have examined, to

the utmost of our ability, whether the said black may be of service to

mankind; we, in short, who love virtue, shall boldly declare what we

think.

"Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long--" I would

venture to say, "Honor thy father and thy mother, _though this day shall

be thy last_."

Tenderly love and joyfully serve the mother who bore you in her womb,

fed you at her breast, and patiently endured all that was disgusting in

your infancy. Discharge the same duties to your father, who brought you

up.

What will future ages say of a Frank, named Louis the Thirteenth, who,

at the age of sixteen, began the exercise of his authority with having

the door of his mother's apartment walled up, and sending her into

exile, without giving the smallest reason for so doing, and solely

because it was his favorite's wish?

"But, sir, I must tell you in confidence that my father is a drunkard,

who begot me one day by chance, not caring a jot about me; and gave me

no education but that of beating me every day when he came home

intoxicated. My mother was a coquette, whose only occupation was

love-making. But for my nurse, who had taken a liking to me, and who,

after the death of her son, received me into her house for charity, I

should have died of want."

"Well, then, honor your nurse; and bow to your father and mother when

you meet them. It is said in the Vulgate, '_Honora patrem tuum et

matrem tuam_'--not _dilige_."

"Very well, sir, I shall love my father and my mother if they do me

good; I shall honor them if they do me ill. I have thought so ever since

I began to think, and you confirm me in my maxims."

"Fare you well, my child, I see you will prosper, for you have a grain

of philosophy in your composition."

"One word more, sir. If my father were to call himself Abraham, and me

Isaac, and were to say to me, 'My son, you are tall and strong; carry

these fagots to the top of that hill, to burn you with after I have cut

off your head; for God ordered me to do so when He came to see me this

morning,'--what would you advise me to do in such critical

circumstances?"

"Critical, indeed! But what would you do of yourself? for you seem to be

no blockhead."

"I own, sir, that I should ask him to produce a written order, and that

from regard for himself, I should say to him--'Father, you are among

strangers, who do not allow a man to assassinate his son without an

express condition from God, duly signed, sealed and delivered. See what

happened to poor Calas, in the half French, half Spanish town of

Toulouse. He was broken on the wheel; and the _procureur-général_ Riquet

decided on having Madame Calas, the mother, burned--all on the bare and

very ill-conceived suspicion, that they had hung up their son, Mark

Antony Calas, for the love of God. I should fear that his conclusions

would be equally prejudicial to the well-being of yourself and your

sister or niece, Madame Sarah, my mother. Once more I say, show me a

_lettre de cachet_ for cutting my throat, signed by God's own hand, and

countersigned by Raphael, Michael, or Beelzebub. If not, father--your

most obedient: I will go to Pharaoh of Egypt, or to the king of the

desert of Gerar, who both have been in love with my mother, and will

certainly be kind to me. Cut my brother Ishmael's throat, if you like;

but rely upon it, you shall not cut mine.'"

"Good; this is arguing like a true sage. The 'Encyclopædia' itself could

not have reasoned better. I tell you, you will do great things. I admire

you for not having said an ill word to your father Abraham--for not

having been tempted to beat him. And tell me: had you been that Cram,

whom his father, the Frankish King Clothaire, had burned in a barn; a

Don Carlos, son of that fox, Philip the Second; a poor Alexis, son of

that Czar Peter, half hero, half tiger--"

"Ah, sir, say no more of those horrors; you will make me detest human

nature."

FAVOR.

_Of What is Understood by the Word._

Favor, from the Latin word "_favor_," rather signifies a benefit than a

recompense.

We earnestly beg a favor; we merit and loudly demand a recompense. The

god Favor, according to the Roman mythologists, was the son of Beauty

and Fortune. All favor conveys the idea of something gratuitous; he has

done me the favor of introducing me, of presenting me, of recommending

my friend, of correcting my work. The favor of princes is the effect of

their fancy, and of assiduous complaisance. The favor of the people

sometimes implies merit, but is more often attributable to lucky

accident.

Favor differs much from kindness. That man is in favor with the king,

but he has not yet received any kindnesses from him. We say that he has

been received into the good graces of a person, not he has been received

into favor; though we say to be in favor, because favor is supposed to

be an habitual taste; while to receive into grace is to pardon, or, at

least, is less than to bestow a favor.

To obtain grace is the effect of a moment; to obtain favor is a work of

time. Nevertheless, we say indifferently, do me the kindness and do me

the favor, to recommend my friend.

Letters of recommendation were formerly called letters of favor. Severus

says, in the tragedy of Polyeuctes:

_Je mourrais mille fois plutôt que d'abuser_

_Des lettres de faveur que j'ai pour l'épouser._

"Letters of favor," though I have to wed her,

I'd rather die a thousand times than use them.

We have the favor and good-will, not the kindness of the prince and the

public. We may obtain the favor of our audience by modesty, but it will

not be gracious if we are tedious.

This expression "favor," signifies a gratuitous good-will, which we seek

to obtain from the prince or the public. Gallantry has extended it to

the complaisance of the ladies; and though we do not say that we have

the favors of the king, we say that we have the favors of a lady.

The equivalent to this expression is unknown in Asia, where the women

possess less influence. Formerly, ribbons, gloves, buckles, and

sword-knots given by a lady, were called favors. The earl of Essex wore

a glove of Queen Elizabeth's in his hat, which he called the queen's

favor.

FAVORITE.

This word has sometimes a bounded and sometimes an extended sense.

"Favorite" sometimes conveys the idea of power; and sometimes it only

signifies a man who pleases his master.

Henry III. had favorites who were only play-things, and he had those who

governed the state, as the dukes of Joyeuse and Épernon. A favorite may

be compared to a piece of gold, which is valued at whatever the prince

pleases.

An ancient writer has asked, "Who ought to be the king's favorite?--the

people!" Good poets are called the favorites of the muses, as prosperous

men are called the favorites of fortune, because both are supposed to

receive these gifts without laboring for them. It is thus, that a

fertile and well-situated land is called the favorite of nature.

The woman who pleases the sultan most is called the favorite sultana.

Somebody has written the history of favorites; that is to say, the

mistresses of the greatest princes.

Several princes in Germany have country houses which they call

favorites.

A lady's favorite is now only to be found in romances and stories of the

last century.

FEASTS.

SECTION I.

A poor gentleman of the province of Hagenau, cultivated his small

estate, and St. Ragonda, or Radegonda, was the patron of his parish.

Now it happened, on the feast of St. Ragonda, that it was necessary to

do something to this poor gentleman's field, without which great loss

would be incurred. The master, with all his family, after having

devoutly assisted at mass, went to cultivate his land, on which depended

the subsistence of his family, while the rector and the other

parishioners went to tipple as usual.

The rector, while enjoying his glass, was informed of the enormous

offence committed in his parish by this profane laborer, and went,

burning with wine and anger, to seek the cultivator. "Sir, you are very

insolent and very impious to dare to cultivate your field, instead of

going to the tavern like other people." "I agree, sir," replied the

gentleman, "that it is necessary to drink to the honor of the saint; but

it is also necessary to eat, and my family would die of hunger if I did

not labor." "Drink and die, then," said the vicar. "In what law, in what

book is it so written?" said the laborer. "In Ovid," replied the vicar.

"I think you are mistaken," said the gentleman; "in what part of Ovid

have you read that I should go to the tavern rather than cultivate my

field on St. Ragonda's day?"

It should be remarked that both the gentleman and the pastor were well

educated men. "Read the metamorphoses of the daughters of Minyas," said

the vicar. "I have read it," replied the other, "and I maintain that

they have no relation to my plough." "How, impious man! do you not

remember that the daughters of Minyas were changed into bats for having

spun on a feast day?" "The case is very different," replied the

gentleman, "these ladies had not rendered any homage to Bacchus. I have

been at the mass of St. Ragonda, you can have nothing to say to me; you

cannot change me into a bat." "I will do worse," said the priest, "I

will fine you." He did so. The poor gentleman was ruined: he quitted the

country with his family--went into a strange one--became a Lutheran--and

his ground remained uncultivated for several years.

This affair was related to a magistrate of good sense and much piety.

These are the reflections which he made upon it:

"They were no doubt innkeepers," said he, "that invented this prodigious

number of feasts; the religion of peasants and artisans consists in

getting tipsy on the day of a saint, whom they only know by this kind of

worship. It is on these days of idleness and debauchery that all crimes

are committed; it is these feasts which fill the prisons, and which

support the police officers, registers, lieutenants of police, and

hangmen; the only excuse for feast-days among us. From this cause

Catholic countries are scarcely-cultivated at all; whilst heretics, by

daily cultivating their lands, produce abundant crops."

It is all very well that the shoemakers should go in the morning to mass

on St. Crispin's day, because _crepido_ signifies the upper leather of a

shoe; that the brush-makers should honor St. Barbara their patron; that

those who have weak eyes should hear the mass of St. Clara: that St.----

should be celebrated in many provinces; but after having paid their

devoirs to the saints they should become serviceable to men, they should

go from the altar to the plough; it is the excess of barbarity, and

insupportable slavery, to consecrate our days to idleness and vice.

Priests, command, if it be necessary that the saints Roche, Eustace, and

Fiacre, be prayed to in the morning; but, magistrates, order your fields

to be cultivated as usual. It is labor that is necessary; the greater

the industry the more the day is sanctified.

SECTION II.

Letter from a Weaver of Lyons to the Gentlemen of the Commission

established at Paris, for the Reformation of Religious Orders, printed

in the public papers in 1768.

"Gentlemen: I am a silk-weaver, and have worked at Lyons for

nineteen years. My wages have increased insensibly; at present I

get thirty-five sous per day. My wife, who makes lace, would get

fifteen more, if it were possible for her to devote her time to it;

but as the cares of the house, illness, or other things,

continually hinder her, I reduce her profit to ten sous, which

makes forty-five sous daily. If from the year we deduct eighty-two

Sundays, or holidays, we shall have two hundred and eighty-four

profitable days, which at forty-five sous make six hundred and

thirty-nine livres. That is my revenue; the following are my

expenses:

"I have eight living children, and my wife is on the point of being

confined with the eleventh; for I have lost two. I have been

married fifteen years: so that I annually reckon twenty-four livres

for the expenses of her confinements and baptisms, one hundred and

eight livres for two nurses, having generally two children out at

nurse, and sometimes even three. I pay fifty-seven livres rent and

fourteen taxes.

"My income is then reduced to four hundred and thirty-six livres,

or twenty-five sous three deniers a day, with which I have to

clothe and furnish my family, buy wood and candles, and support my

wife and six children.

"I look forward to holidays with dismay. I confess that I often

almost curse their institution. They could only have been

instituted by usurers and innkeepers.

"My father made me study hard in my youth, and wished me to become

a monk, showing me in that state a sure asylum against want; but I

always thought that every man owes his tribute to society, and that

monks are useless drones who live upon the labor of the bees.

Notwithstanding, I acknowledge that when I see John C----, with

whom I studied, and who was the most idle boy in the college,

possessing the first place among the _prémontrés_, I cannot help

regretting that I did not listen to my father's advice.

"This is the third holiday in Christmas, I have pawned the little

furniture I had, I am in a week's debt with my tradesman, and I

want bread--how are we to get over the fourth? This is not all; I

have the prospect of four more next week. Great God! Eight holidays

in ten days; you cannot have commanded it!

"One year I hoped that rents would diminish by the suppression of

one of the monasteries of the Capuchins and Cordeliers. What

useless houses in the centre of Lyons are those of the Jacobins,

nuns of St. Peter, etc. Why not establish them in the suburbs if

they are thought necessary? How many more useful inhabitants would

supply their places!

"All these reflections, gentlemen, have induced me to address

myself to you who have been chosen by the king for the task of

rectifying abuses. I am not the only one who thinks thus. How many

laborers in Lyons and other places, how many laborers in the

kingdom are reduced to the same extremities as myself? It is

evident that every holiday costs the state several millions

(livres). These considerations will lead you to take more to heart

the interests of the people, which are rather too little attended

to.

"I have the honor to be, etc.,

"BOCEN."

This request, which was really presented, will not be misplaced in a

work like the present.

SECTION III.

The feast given to the Roman people by Julius Cæsar and the emperors who

succeeded him are well known. The feast of twenty-two thousand tables

served by twenty-two thousand purveyors; the naval fights on artificial

lakes, etc., have not, however, been imitated by the Herulian, Lombard,

and Frankish chieftains, who would have their festivity equally

celebrated.

FERRARA.

What we have to say of Ferrara has no relation to literature, but it has

a very great one to justice, which is much more necessary than the

belles-lettres, and much less cultivated, at least in Italy.

Ferrara was constantly a fief of the empire, like Parma and Placentia.

Pope Clement VIII. robbed Cæsar d'Este of it by force of arms, in 1597.

The pretext for this tyranny was a very singular one for a man who

called himself the humble vicar of Jesus Christ.

Alphonso d'Este, the first of the name, sovereign of Ferrara, Modena,

Este, Carpio, and Rovigno, espoused a simple gentlewoman of Ferrara,

named Laura Eustochia, by whom he had three children before marriage.

These children he solemnly acknowledged in the face of the Church. None

of the formalities prescribed by the laws were wanting at this

recognition. His successor, Alphonso d'Este, was acknowledged duke of

Ferrara; he espoused Julia d'Urbino, the daughter of Francis, duke

d'Urbino, by whom he had the unfortunate Cæsar d'Este, the incontestable

heir of all the property of all the family, and declared so by the last

duke, who died October 27, 1597. Pope Clement VIII., surnamed

Aldobrandino, and originally of the family of a merchant of Florence,

dared to pretend that the grandmother of Cæsar d'Este was not

sufficiently noble, and that the children that she had brought into the

world ought to be considered bastards. The first reason is ridiculous

and scandalous in a bishop, the second is unwarrantable in every

tribunal in Europe. If the duke was not legitimate, he ought to have

lost Modena and his other states also; and if there was no flaw in his

title, he ought to have kept Ferrara as well as Modena.

The acquisition of Ferrara was too fine a thing for the pope not to

procure all the decretals and decisions of those brave theologians, who

declare that the pope can render just that which is unjust. Consequently

he first excommunicated Cæsar d'Este, and as excommunication necessarily

deprives a man of all his property, the common father of the faithful

raised his troops against the excommunicated, to rob him of his

inheritance in the name of the Church. These troops were defeated, but

the duke of Modena soon saw his finances exhausted, and his friends

become cool.

To make his case still more deplorable, the king of France, Henry IV.,

believed himself obliged to take the side of the pope, in order to

balance the credit of Philip II. at the court of Rome; in the same

manner that good King Louis XII. less excusably dishonored himself by

uniting with that monster Alexander VI., and his execrable bastard, the

duke of Borgia. The duke was obliged to return, and the pope caused

Ferrara to be invaded by Cardinal Aldobrandino, who entered this

flourishing city at the head of a thousand horse and five thousand foot

soldiers.

It is a great pity that such a man as Henry IV. descended to this

unworthiness which is called politic. The Catos, Metelluses, Scipios,

and Fabriciuses would not thus have betrayed justice to please a

priest--and such a priest!

From this time Ferrara became a desert; its uncultivated soil was

covered with standing marshes. This province, under the house of Este,

had been one of the finest in Italy; the people always regretted their

ancient masters. It is true that the duke was indemnified; he was

nominated to a bishopric and a benefice; he was even furnished with some

measures of salt from the mines of Servia. But it is no less true that

the house of Modena has incontestable and imprescriptable rights to the

duchy of Ferrara, of which it was thus shamefully despoiled.

Now, my dear reader, let us suppose that this scene took place at the

time in which Jesus Christ appeared to his apostles after his

resurrection, and that Simon Barjonas, surnamed Peter, wished to possess

himself of the states of this poor duke of Ferrara. Imagine the duke

coming to Bethany to demand justice of the Lord Jesus. Our Lord sends

immediately for Peter and says to him, "Simon, son of Jonas, I have

given thee the keys of heaven, but I have not given thee those of the

earth. Because thou hast been told that the heavens surround the globe,

and that the contained is in the containing, dost thou imagine that

kingdoms here below belong to thee, and that thou hast only to possess

thyself of whatever thou likest? I have already forbidden thee to draw

the sword. Thou appearest to me a very strange compound; at one time

cutting off the ear of Malchus, and at another even denying me. Be more

lenient and decorous, and take neither the property nor the ears of any

one for fear of thine own."

FEVER.

It is not as a physician, but as a patient, that I wish to say a word or

two on fever. We cannot help now and then speaking of our enemies; and

this one has been attacking me for more than twenty years; not Fréron

himself has been more implacable.

I ask pardon of Sydenham, who defined fever to be "an effort of nature,

laboring with all its power to expel the peccant matter." We might thus

define smallpox, measles, diarrhœa, vomitings, cutaneous eruptions,

and twenty other diseases. But, if this physician defined ill, he

practised well. He cured, because he had experience, and he knew how to

wait.

Boerhaave says, in his "Aphorisms": "A more frequent opposition, and an

increased resistance about the capillary vessels, give an absolute idea

of an acute fever." These are the words of a great master; but he sets

out with acknowledging that the nature of fever is profoundly hidden.

He does not tell us what that secret principle is which develops itself

at regular periods in intermittent fever--what that internal poison is,

which, after the lapse of a day, is renewed--where that flame is, which

dies and revives at stated moments.

We know fairly well that we are liable to fever after excess, or in

unseasonable weather. We know that quinine, judiciously administered,

will cure it. This is quite enough; the _how_ we do not know.

Every animal that does not perish suddenly dies by fever. The fever

seems to be the inevitable effect of the fluids that compose the blood,

or that which is in the place of blood. The structure of every animal

proves to natural philosophers that it must, at all times, have enjoyed

a very short life.

Theologians have held, as have promulgated other opinions. It is not for

us to examine this question. The philosophers and physicians have been

right _in sensu humano_, and the theologians, _in sensu divino_. It is

said in Deuteronomy, xxviii, 22, that if the Jews do not serve the law

they shall be smitten "with a consumption, and with a fever, and with an

inflammation, and with an extreme burning." It is only in Deuteronomy,

and in Molière's "Physician in Spite of Himself," that people have been

threatened with fever.

It seems impossible that fever should not be an accident natural to an

animate body, in which so many fluids circulate; just as it is

impossible for an animate body not to be crushed by the falling of a

rock.

Blood makes life; it furnishes the viscera, the limbs, the skin, the

very extremities of the hairs and nails with the fluids, the humors

proper for them.

This blood, by which the animal has life, is formed by the chyle. During

pregnancy this chyle is transmitted from the uterus to the child, and,

after the child is born, the milk of the nurse produces this same chyle.

The greater diversity of aliments it afterwards receives, the more the

chyle is liable to be soured. This alone forming the blood, and this

blood, composed of so many different humors so subject to corruption,

circulating through the whole human body more than five hundred and

fifty times in twenty-four hours, with the rapidity of a torrent, it is

not only astonishing that fever is not more frequent, it is astonishing

that man lives. In every articulation, in every gland, in every passage,

there is danger of death; but there are also as many succors as there

are dangers. Almost every membrane extends or contracts as occasion

requires. All the veins have sluices which open and shut, giving passage

to the blood and preventing a return, by which the machine would be

destroyed. The blood, rushing through all these canals, purifies itself.

It is a river that carries with it a thousand impurities; it discharges

itself by perspiration, by transpiration, by all the secretions. Fever

is itself a succor; it is a rectification when it does not kill.

Man, by his reason, accelerates the cure by administering bitters, and,

above all, by regimen. This reason is an oar with which he may row for

some time on the sea of the world when disease does not swallow him up.

It is asked: How is it that nature has abandoned the animals, her work,

to so many horrible diseases, almost always accompanied by fever? How

and why is it that so many disorders exist with so much order,

formation, and destruction everywhere, side by side? This is a

difficulty that often gives me a fever, but I beg you will read the

letters of Memmius. Then, perhaps, you will be inclined to suspect that

the incomprehensible artificer of vegetables, animals, and worlds,

having made all for the best, could not have made anything better.

FICTION.

Is not a fiction, which teaches new and interesting truths, a fine

thing? Do you not admire the Arabian story of the sultan who would not

believe that a little time could appear long, and who disputed with his

dervish on the nature of duration? The latter to convince him of it,

begged him only to plunge his head for a moment into the basin in which

he was washing. Immediately the sultan finds himself transported into a

frightful desert; he is obliged to labor to get a livelihood; he

marries, and has children who grow up and ill treat him; finally he

returns to his country and his palace and he there finds the dervish who

has caused him to suffer so many evils for five and twenty years. He is

about to kill him, and is only appeased when he is assured that all

passed in the moment in which, with his eyes shut, he put his head into

the water.

You still more admire the fiction of the loves of Dido and Æneas, which

caused the mortal hatred between Carthage and Rome, as also that which

exhibits in Elysium the destinies of the great men of the Roman Empire.

You also like that of Alcina, in Ariosto, who possesses the dignity of

Minerva with the beauty of Venus, who is so charming to the eyes of her

lovers, who intoxicates them with voluptuous delights, and unites all

the loves and graces, but who, when she is at last reduced to her true

self and the enchantment has passed away, is nothing more than a little

shrivelled, disgusting, old woman.

As to fictions which represent nothing, teach nothing, and from which

nothing results, are they anything more than falsities? And if they are

incoherent and heaped together without choice, are they anything better

than dreams?

You will possibly tell me that there are ancient fictions which are very

incoherent, without ingenuity, and even absurd, which are still admired;

but is it not rather owing to the fine images which are scattered over

these fictions than to the inventions which introduce them? I will not

dispute the point, but if you would be hissed at by all Europe, and

afterwards forgotten forever, write fictions similar to those which you

admire.

FIERTÉ.

Fierté is one of those expressions, which, having been originally

employed in an offensive sense, are afterwards used in a favorable one.

It is censure when this word signifies high-flown, proud, haughty, and

disdainful. It is almost praise when it means the loftiness of a noble

mind.

It is a just eulogium on a general who marches towards the enemy with

_fierté_. Writers have praised the _fierté_ of the gait of Louis XIV.;

they should have contented themselves with remarking its nobleness.

_Fierté_, without dignity, is a merit incompatible with modesty. It is

only _fierté_ in air and manners which offends; it then displeases, even

in kings.

_Fierté_ of manner in society is the expression of pride; _fierté_ of

soul is greatness. The distinctions are so nice that a proud spirit is

deemed blamable, while a proud soul is a theme of praise. By the former

is understood one who thinks advantageously of himself while the latter

denotes one who entertains elevated sentiments.

_Fierté_, announced by the exterior, is so great a fault that the weak,

who abjectly praise it in the great are obliged to soften it, or rather

to extol it, by speaking of "this noble _fierté_." It is not simply

vanity, which consists in setting a value upon little things; it is not

presumption, which believes itself capable of great ones; it is not

disdain, which adds contempt of others to a great opinion of self; but

it is intimately allied to all these faults.

This word is used in romances, poetry, and above all, in operas, to

express the severity of female modesty. We meet with vain _fierté_,

vigorous _fierté_, etc. Poets are, perhaps, more in the right than they

imagine. The _fierté_ of a woman is not only rigid modesty and love of

duty, but the high value which she sets upon her beauty. The _fierté_ of

the pencil is sometimes spoken of to signify free and fearless touches.

FIGURE.

Every one desirous of instruction should read with attention all the

articles in the "_Dictionnaire Encyclopédique_," under the head

"Figure," viz.:

"Figure of the Earth," by M. d'Alembert--a work both clear and profound,

in which we find all that can be known on the subject.

"Figure of Rhetoric," by César Dumarsais--a piece of instruction which

teaches at once to think and to write; and, like many other articles,

make us regret that young people in general have not a convenient

opportunity of reading things so useful.

"Human Figure," as relating to painting and sculpture--an excellent

lesson given to every artist, by M. Watelet.

"Figure," in physiology--a very ingenious article, by M. de Caberoles.

"Figure," in arithmetic and in algebra--by M. Mallet.

"Figure," in logic, in metaphysics, and in polite literature, by M. le

Chevalier de Jaucourt--a man superior to the philosophers of antiquity,

inasmuch as he has preferred retirement, real philosophy, and

indefatigable labor, to all the advantages that his birth might have

procured him, in a country where birth is set above all beside,

excepting money.

_Figure or Form of the Earth._

Plato, Aristotle, Eratosthenes, Posidonius, and all the geometricians of

Asia, of Egypt, and of Greece, having acknowledged the sphericity of our

globe, how did it happen that we, for so long a time, imagined that the

earth was a third longer than it was broad, and thence derived the terms

"_longitude_" and "_latitude_," which continually bear testimony to our

ancient ignorance?

The reverence due to the "Bible," which teaches us so many truths more

necessary and more sublime, was the cause of this, our almost universal

error. It had been found, in Psalm ciii, that God had stretched the

heavens over the earth like a skin; and as a skin is commonly longer

than it is wide, the same was concluded of the earth.

St. Athanasius expresses himself as warmly against good astronomers as

against the partisans of Arius and Eusebius. "Let us," says he, "stop

the mouths of those barbarians, who, speaking without proof, dare to

assert that the heavens also extend under the earth." The fathers

considered the earth as a great ship, surrounded by water, with the prow

to the east, and the stern to the west. We still find, in "Cosmos," a

work of the fourth century, a sort of geographical chart, in which the

earth has this figure.

Tortato, bishop of Avila, near the close of the fifteenth century,

declares in his commentary on Genesis, that the Christian faith is

shaken, if the earth is believed to be round. Columbus, Vespucius, and

Magellan, not having the fear of excommunication by this learned bishop

before their eyes, the earth resumed its rotundity in spite of him.

Then man went from one extreme to the other, and the earth was regarded

as a perfect sphere. But the error of the perfect sphere was the mistake

of philosophers, while that of a long, flat earth was the blunder of

idiots.

When once it began to be clearly known that our globe revolves on its

own axis every twenty-four hours, it might have been inferred from that

alone that its form could not be absolutely round. Not only does the

centrifugal zone considerably raise the waters in the region of the

equator, by the motion of the diurnal rotation, but they are moreover

elevated about twenty-five feet, twice a day, by the tides; the lands

about the equator must then be perfectly inundated. But they are not so;

therefore the region of the equator is much more elevated, in

proportion, than the rest of the earth: then the earth is a spheroid

elevated at the equator, and cannot be a perfect sphere. This proof,

simple as it is, had escaped the greatest geniuses: because a universal

prejudice rarely permits investigation.

We know that, in 1762, in a voyage to Cayenne, near the line, undertaken

by order of Louis XIV., under the auspices of Colbert, the patron of all

the arts, Richer, among many other observations, found that the

oscillations or vibrations of his timepiece did not continue so frequent

as in the latitude of Paris, and that it was absolutely necessary to

shorten the pendulum one line and something more than a quarter. Physics

and geometry were at that time not nearly so much cultivated as they now

are; what man would have believed that an observation so trivial in

appearance, a line more or less, could lead to the knowledge of the

greatest physical truths? It was first of all discovered that the weight

must necessarily be less on the equator than in our latitudes, since

weight alone causes the oscillation of a pendulum. Consequently, the

weight of bodies being the less the farther they are from the centre of

the earth, it was inferred that the region of the equator must be much

more elevated than our own--much more remote from the centre; so the

earth could not be an exact sphere.

Many philosophers acted, on the occasion of these discoveries, as all

men act when an opinion is to be changed--they disputed on Richer's

experiment; they pretended that our pendulums made their vibrations more

slowly about the equator only because the metal was lengthened by the

heat; but it was seen that the heat of the most burning summer lengthens

it but one line in thirty feet; and here was an elongation of a line and

a quarter, a line and a half, or even two lines, in an iron rod, only

three feet and eight lines long.

Some years after MM. Varin, Deshayes, Feuillée, and Couplet, repeated

the same experiment on the pendulum, near the equator; and it was always

found necessary to shorten it, although the heat was very often less on

the line than fifteen or twenty degrees from it. This experiment was

again confirmed by the academicians whom Louis XV. sent to Peru; and who

were obliged, on the mountains about Quito, where it froze, to shorten

the second pendulum about two lines.

About the same time, the academicians who went to measure an arc of the

meridian in the north, found that at Pello, within the Polar circle, it

was necessary to lengthen the pendulum, in order to have the same

oscillations as at Paris: consequently weight is greater at the polar

circle than in the latitude of France, as it is greater in our latitude

than at the equator. Weight being greater in the north, the north was

therefore nearer the centre of the earth than the equator; therefore the

earth was flattened at the poles.

Never did reasoning and experiment so fully concur to establish a truth.

The celebrated Huygens, by calculating centrifugal forces, had proved

that the consequent diminution of weight on the surface of a sphere was

not great enough to explain the phenomena, and that therefore the earth

must be a spheroid flattened at the poles. Newton, by the principles of

attraction, had found nearly the same relations: only it must be

observed, that Huygens believed this force inherent in bodies

determining them towards the centre of the globe, to be everywhere the

same. He had not yet seen the discoveries of Newton; so that he

considered the diminution of weight by the theory of centrifugal forces

only. The effect of centrifugal forces diminishes the primitive gravity

on the equator. The smaller the circles in which this centrifugal force

is exercised become, the more it yields to the force of gravity; thus,

at the pole itself the centrifugal force being null, must leave the

primitive gravity in full action. But this principle of a gravity always

equal, falls to nothing before the discovery made by Newton, that a body

transported, for instance, to the distance of ten diameters from the

centre of the earth, would weigh one hundred times less than at the

distance of one diameter.

It is then by the laws of gravitation, combined with those of the

centrifugal force, that the real form of the earth must be shown. Newton

and Gregory had such confidence in this theory that they did not

hesitate to advance that experiments on weight were a surer means of

knowing the form of the earth than any geographical measurement.

Louis XIV. had signalized his reign by that meridian which was drawn

through France: the illustrious Dominico Cassini had begun it with his

son; and had, in 1701, drawn from the feet of the Pyrenees to the

observatory a line as straight as it could be drawn, considering the

almost insurmountable obstacles which the height of mountains, the

changes of refraction in the air, and the altering of instruments were

constantly opposing to the execution of so vast and delicate an

undertaking; he had, in 1701, measured six degrees eighteen minutes of

that meridian. But, from whatever cause the error might proceed, he had

found the degrees towards Paris, that is towards the north, shorter than

those towards the Pyrenees and the south. This measurement gave the lie

both to the theory of Norwood and to the new theory of the earth

flattened at the poles. Yet this new theory was beginning to be so

generally received that the academy's secretary did not hesitate, in his

history of 1701, to say that the new measurements made in France proved

the earth to be a spheroid flattened at the poles. The truth was, that

Dominico Cassini's measurement led to a conclusion directly opposite;

but, as the figure of the earth had not yet become a question in France,

no one at that time was at the trouble of combating this false

conclusion. The degrees of the meridian from Collioure to Paris were

believed to be exactly measured; and the pole, which from that

measurement must necessarily be elongated, was believed to be flattened.

An engineer, named M. de Roubais, astonished at this conclusion,

demonstrated that, by the measurements taken in France, the earth must

be an oblate spheroid, of which the meridian passing through the poles

must be longer than the equator, the poles being elongated. But of all

the natural philosophers to whom he addressed his dissertation, not one

would have it printed; because it seemed that the academy had pronounced

it as too bold in an individual to raise his voice. Some time after the

error of 1701 was acknowledged, that which had been said was unsaid; and

the earth was lengthened by a just conclusion drawn from a false

principle. The meridian was continued in the same principle from Paris

to Dunkirk; and the degrees were still found to grow shorter as they

approached the north. People were still mistaken respecting the figure

of the earth, as they had been concerning the nature of light. About the

same time, some mathematicians who were performing the same operations

in China were astonished to find a difference among their degrees,

which they had expected to find alike; and to discover, after many

verifications, that they were shorter towards the north than towards the

south. This accordance of the mathematicians of France with those of

China was another powerful reason for believing in the oblate spheroid.

In France they did still more; they measured parallels to the equator.

It is easily understood that on an oblate spheroid our degrees of

longitude must be shorter than on a sphere. M. de Cassini found the

parallel which passes through St. Malo to be shorter by one thousand and

thirty-seven toises than it would have been on a spherical earth.

All these measurements proved that the degrees had been found as it was

wished to find them. They overturned, for a time, in France, the

demonstrations of Newton and Huygens; and it was no longer doubted that

the poles were of a form precisely contrary to that which had at first

been attributed to them. In short, nothing at all was known about the

matter.

At length, other academicians, who had visited the polar circle in 1736,

having found, by new measurements, that the degree was longer there than

in France, people doubted between them and the Cassinis. But these

doubts were soon after removed: for these same astronomers, returning

from the pole, examined afresh the degree to the north of Paris,

measured by Picard, in 1677, and found it to be a hundred and

twenty-three toises longer than it was according to Picard's

measurement. If, then, Picard, with all his precautions, had made his

degree one hundred and twenty-three toises too short, it was not at all

unlikely that the degrees towards the south had in like manner been

found too long. Thus the first error of Picard, having furnished the

foundations for the measurements of the meridian, also furnished an

excuse for the almost inevitable errors which very good astronomers

might have committed in the course of these operations.

Unfortunately, other men of science found that, at the Cape of Good

Hope, the degrees of the meridian did not agree with ours. Other

measurements, taken in Italy, likewise contradicted those of France, and

all were falsified by those of China. People again began to doubt, and

to suspect, in my opinion quite reasonably, that the earth had

protuberances. As for the English, though they are fond of travelling,

they spared themselves the fatigue, and held fast their theory.

The difference between one diameter and the other is not more than five

or six of our leagues--a difference immense in the eyes of a disputant,

but almost imperceptible to those who consider the measurement of the

globe only in reference to the purposes of utility which it may serve. A

geographer could scarcely make this difference perceptible on a map; nor

would a pilot be able to discover whether he was steering on a spheroid

or on a sphere. Yet there have been men bold enough to assert that the

lives of navigators depended on this question. Oh quackery! will you

spare no degrees--not even those of the meridian?

FIGURED--FIGURATIVE.

We say, a truth "figured" by a fable, by a parable; the church "figured"

by the young spouse in Solomon's Song; ancient Rome "figured" by

Babylon. A figurative style is constituted by metaphorical expressions,

figuring the things spoken of--and disfiguring them when the metaphors

are not correct.

Ardent imagination, passion, desire--frequently deceived--produce the

figurative style. We do not admit it into history, for too many

metaphors are hurtful, not only to perspicuity, but also to truth, by

saying more or less than the thing itself.

In didactic works, this style should be rejected. It is much more out of

place in a sermon than in a funeral oration, because the sermon is a

piece of instruction in which the truth is to be announced; while the

funeral oration is a declaration in which it is to be exaggerated.

The poetry of enthusiasm, as the epopee and the ode, is that to which

this style is best adapted. It is less admissible in tragedy, where the

dialogue should be natural as well as elevated; and still less in

comedy, where the style must be more simple.

The limits to be set to the figurative style, in each kind, are

determined by taste. Baltasar Gracian says, that "our thoughts depart

from the vast shores of memory, embark on the sea of imagination, arrive

in the harbor of intelligence, and are entered at the custom house of

the understanding."

This is precisely the style of Harlequin. He says to his master, "The

ball of your commands has rebounded from the racquet of my obedience."

Must it not be owned that such is frequently that oriental style which

people try to admire? Another fault of the figurative style is the

accumulating of incoherent figures. A poet, speaking of some

philosophers, has called them:

_D'ambitieux pygmées_

_Qui sur leurs pieds vainement redressés_

_Et sur des monts d'argumens entassés_

_De jour en jour superbes Encelades,_

_Vont redoublant leurs folles escalades._

When philosophers are to be written against, it should be done better.

How do ambitious pygmies, reared on their hind legs on mountains of

arguments, continue escalades? What a false and ridiculous image! What

elaborate dulness!

In an allegory by the same author, entitled the "Liturgy of Cytherea,"

we find these lines:

_De toutes parts, autour de l'inconnue,_

_Ils vont tomber comme grêle menue,_

_Moissons des cœurs sur la terre jonchés,_

_Et des Dieux même à son char attachés._

_De par Venus nous venons cette affaire_

_Si s'en retourne aux cieux dans son sérail,_

_En ruminant comment il pourra faire_

_Pour ramener la brebis au bercail._

Here we have harvests of hearts thrown on the ground like small hail;

and among these hearts palpitating on the ground, are gods bound to the

car of the unknown; while love, sent by Venus, ruminates in his seraglio

in heaven, what he shall do to bring back to the fold this lost mutton

surrounded by scattered hearts. All this forms a figure at once so

false, so puerile, and so incoherent--so disgusting, so extravagant, so

stupidly expressed, that we are astonished that a man, who made good

verses of another kind, and was not devoid of taste, could write

anything so miserably bad.

Figures, metaphors, are not necessary in an allegory; what has been

invented with imagination may be told with simplicity. Plato has more

allegories than figures; he often expresses them elegantly and without

ostentation.

Nearly all the maxims of the ancient orientals and of the Greeks were in

the figurative style. All those sentences are metaphors, or short

allegories; and in them the figurative style has great effect in rousing

the imagination and impressing the memory.

We know that Pythagoras said, "In the tempest adore the echo," that is,

during civil broils retire to the country; and "Stir not the fire with

the sword," meaning, do not irritate minds already inflamed. In every

language, there are many common proverbs which are in the figurative

style.

FIGURE IN THEOLOGY.

It is quite certain, and is agreed by the most pious men, that figures

and allegories have been carried too far. Some of the fathers of the

church regard the piece of red cloth, placed by the courtesan Rahab at

her window, for a signal to Joshua's spies, as a figure of the blood of

Jesus Christ. This is an error of an order of mind which would find

mystery in everything.

Nor can it be denied that St. Ambrose made very bad use of his taste for

allegory, when he says, in his book of "Noah and the Ark," that the back

door of the ark was a figure of our hinder parts.

All men of sense have asked how it can be proved that these Hebrew

words, "_maher, salas-has-has_," (take quick the spoils) are a figure of

Jesus Christ? How is Judah, tying his ass to a vine, and washing his

cloak in the wine, also a figure of Him. How can Ruth, slipping into bed

to Boaz, figure the church, how are Sarah and Rachel the church, and

Hagar and Leah the synagogue? How, do the kisses of the Shunamite typify

the marriage of the church? A volume might be made of these enigmas,

which, to the best theologians of later times, have appeared to be

rather far-fetched than edifying.

The danger of this abuse is fully admitted by Abbé Fleury, the author of

the "Ecclesiastical History." It is a vestige of rabbinism; a fault

into which the learned St. Jerome never fell. It is like oneiromancy,

or the explanation of dreams. If a girl sees muddy water, when dreaming,

she will be ill-married; if she sees clear water, she will have a good

husband; a spider denotes money, etc. In short, will enlightened

posterity believe it? The understanding of dreams has, for more than

four thousand years, been made a serious study.

_Symbolical Figures._

All nations have made use of them, as we have said in the article

"emblem." But who began? Was it the Egyptians? It is not likely. We

think we have already more than once proved that Egypt is a country

quite new, and that many ages were requisite to save the country from

inundations, and render it habitable. It is impossible that the

Egyptians should have invented the signs of the zodiac, since the

figures denoting our seed-time and harvest cannot coincide with theirs.

When we cut our corn, their land is covered with water; and when we sow,

their reaping time is approaching. Thus the bull of our zodiac and the

girl bearing ears of corn cannot have come from Egypt.

Here is also an evident proof of the falsity of the new paradox, that

the Chinese are an Egyptian colony. The characters are not the same. The

Chinese mark the course of the sun by twenty-eight constellations and

the Egyptians, after the Chaldæans, reckoned only twelve, like

ourselves.

The figures that denote the planets are in China and in India all

different from those of Egypt and of Europe; so are the signs of the

metals; so is the method of guiding the hand in writing. Nothing could

have been more chimerical than to send the Egyptians to people China.

All these fabulous foundations, laid in fabulous times, have caused an

irreparable loss of time to a prodigious multitude of the learned, who

have all been bewildered in their laborious researches, which might have

been serviceable to mankind if directed to arts of real utility.

Pluche, in his History, or rather his fable, of the Heavens, assures us

that Ham, son of Noah, went and reigned in Egypt, where there was nobody

to reign over; that his son Menes was the greatest of legislators, and

that Thoth was his prime minister.

According to him and his authorities, this Thoth, or somebody else,

instituted feasts in honor of the deluge; and the joyful cry of "_Io

Bacche_," so famous among the Greeks, was, among the Egyptians, a

lamentation. "_Bacche_" came from the Hebrew "_beke_" signifying _sobs_,

and that at a time when the Hebrew people did not exist. According to

this explanation, "_joy_" means "_sorrow_," and "_to sing_" signifies

"_to weep_."

The Iroquois have more sense. They do not take the trouble to inquire

what passed on the shores of Lake Ontario some thousand years ago:

instead of making systems, they go hunting.

The same authors affirm that the sphinxes, with which Egypt was adorned,

signified superabundance, because some interpreters have asserted that

the Hebrew word "_spang_" meant an "excess"; as if the Egyptians had

taken lessons from the Hebrew tongue, which is, in great part, derived

from the Phœnician: besides, what relation has a sphinx to an

abundance of water? Future schoolmen will maintain, with greater

appearance of reason, that the masks which decorate the keystones of our

windows are emblems of our masquerades; and that these fantastic

ornaments announced that balls were given in every house to which they

were affixed.

_Figure, Figurative, Allegorical, Mystical, Topological, Typical, etc._

This is often the art of finding in books everything but what they

really contain. For instance, Romulus killing his brother Remus shall

signify the death of the duke of Berry, brother of Louis XI.; Regulus,

imprisoned at Carthage, shall typify St. Louis captive at Mansurah.

It is very justly remarked in the "Encyclopædia," that many fathers of

the church have, perhaps, carried this taste for allegorical figures a

little too far; but they are to be reverenced, even in their wanderings.

If the holy fathers used and then abused this method, their little

excesses of imagination may be pardoned, in consideration of their holy

zeal.

The antiquity of the usage may also be pleaded in justification, since

it was practised by the earliest philosophers. But it is true that the

symbolical figures employed by the fathers are in a different taste.

For example: When St. Augustine wishes to make it appear that the

forty-two generations of the genealogy of Jesus are announced by St.

Matthew, who gives only forty-one, he says that Jechonias must be

counted twice, because Jechonias is a corner-stone belonging to two

walls; that these two walls figure the old and the new law; and that

Jechonias, being thus the corner-stone, figures Jesus Christ, who is the

real corner-stone.

The same saint, in the same sermon, says that the number forty must

prevail; and at once abandons Jechonias and his corner-stone, counted as

two. The number forty, he says, signifies life; ten, which is perfect

beatitude, being multiplied by four, which, being the number of the

seasons, figures time.

Again, in the same sermon, he explains why St. Luke gives Jesus Christ

seventy-seven ancestors: fifty-six up to the patriarch Abraham, and

twenty-one from Abraham up to God himself. It is true that, according to

the Hebrew text, there would be but seventy-six; for the Hebrew does not

reckon a Cainan, who is interpolated in the Greek translation called

"The Septuagint."

Thus said Augustine: "The number seventy-seven figures the abolition of

all sins by baptism.... the number ten signifies justice and beatitude,

resulting from, the creature, which makes seven with the Trinity, which

is three: therefore it is that God's commandments are ten in number. The

number eleven denotes sin, because it transgresses ten.... This number

seventy-seven is the product of eleven, figuring sin, multiplied by

seven, and not by ten, for seven is the symbol of the creature. Three

represents the soul, which is in some sort an image of the Divinity; and

four represents the body, on account of its four qualities." In these

explanations, we find some trace of the cabalistic mysteries and the

quaternary of Pythagoras. This taste was very long in vogue.

St. Augustine goes much further, concerning the dimensions of matter.

Breadth is the dilatation of the heart, which performs good works;

length is perseverance; depth is the hope of reward. He carries the

allegory very far, applying it to the cross, and drawing great

consequences therefrom. The use of these figures had passed from the

Jews to the Christians long before St. Augustine's time. It is not for

us to know within what bounds it was right to stop.

The examples of this fault are innumerable. No one who has studied to

advantage will hazard the introduction of such figures, either in the

pulpit or in the school. We find no such instances among the Romans or

the Greeks, not even in their poets.

In Ovid's "Metamorphoses" themselves, we find only ingenious deductions

drawn from fables which are given as fables. Deucalion and Pyrrha threw

stones behind them between their legs, and men were produced therefrom.

Ovid says:

_Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum,_

_Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati._

Thence we are a hardened and laborious race,

Proving full well our stony origin.

Apollo loves Daphne, but Daphne does not love Apollo. This is because

love has two kinds of arrows; the one golden and piercing, the other

leaden and blunt. Apollo has received in his heart a golden arrow,

Daphne a leaden one.

_Ecce sagittifera prompsit duo tela pharetra_

_Diversorum operum; fugat hoc, facit illud amorem_

_Quod facit auratum est, et cuspide fulget acuta;_

_Quod fugat obtusum est, et habet sub arundine plumbum...._

Two different shafts he from his quiver draws;

One to repel desire, and one to cause.

One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold,

To bribe the love, and make the lover bold;

One blunt and tipped with lead, whose base allay

Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.--DRYDEN.

These figures are all ingenious, and deceive no one.

That Venus, the goddess of beauty, should not go unattended by the

Graces, is a charming truth. These fables, which were in the mouths of

all--these allegories, so natural and attractive--had so much sway over

the minds of men, that perhaps the first Christians imitated while they

opposed them.

They took up the weapons of mythology to destroy it, but they could not

wield them with the same address. They did not reflect that the sacred

austerity of our holy religion placed these resources out of their

power, and that a Christian hand would have dealt but awkwardly with the

lyre of Apollo.

However, the taste for these typical and prophetic figures was so firmly

rooted that every prince, every statesman, every pope, every founder of

an order, had allegories or allusions taken from the Holy Scriptures

applied to him. Satire and flattery rivalled each other in drawing from

this source.

When Pope Innocent III. made a bloody crusade against the court of

Toulouse, he was told, "_Innocens eris a maledictione_." When the order

of the Minimes was established, it appeared that their founder had been

foretold in Genesis: "_Minimus cum patre nostro_."

The preacher who preached before John of Austria after the celebrated

battle of Lepanto, took for his text, "_Fuit homo missus a Deo, cui

nomen erat Johannes_;" A man sent from God, whose name was John; and

this allusion was very fine, if all the rest were ridiculous. It is said

to have been repeated for John Sobieski, after the deliverance of

Vienna; but this latter preacher was nothing more than a plagiarist.

In short, so constant has been this custom that no preacher of the

present day has ever failed to take an allegory for his text. One of the

most happy instances is the text of the funeral oration over the duke of

Candale, delivered before his sister, who was considered a pattern of

virtue: "_Die, quia soror, mea es, ut mihi bene eveniat propter,

te_."--"Say, I pray thee, that thou art my sister, that it may be well

with me for thy sake."

It is not to be wondered at that the Cordeliers carried these figures

rather too far in favor of St. Francis of Assisi, in the famous but

little-known book, entitled, "Conformities of St. Francis of Assisi with

Jesus Christ." We find in it sixty-four predictions of the coming of St.

Francis, some in the Old Testament, others in the New; and each

prediction contains three figures, which signify the founding of the

Cordeliers. So that these fathers find themselves foretold in the Bible

a hundred and ninety-two times.

From Adam down to St. Paul, everything prefigured the blessed Francis of

Assisi. The Scriptures were given to announce to the universe the

sermons of Francis to the quadrupeds, the fishes, and the birds, the

sport he had with a woman of snow, his frolics with the devil, his

adventures with brother Elias and brother Pacificus.

These pious reveries, which amounted even to blasphemy, have been

condemned. But the Order of St. Francis has not suffered by them, having

renounced these extravagancies so common to the barbarous ages.

FINAL CAUSES.

SECTION I.

Virgil says ("Æneid," book vi. 727):

_Mens agitat molem et magno se corpore miscet._

This active mind infused, through all the space

Unites and mingles with the mighty mass.--DRYDEN.

Virgil said well: and Benedict Spinoza, who has not the brilliancy of

Virgil, nor his merit, is compelled to acknowledge an intelligence

presiding over all. Had he denied this, I should have said to him:

Benedict, you are a fool; you possess intelligence, and you deny it, and

to whom do you deny it?

In the year 1770, there appeared a man, in some respects far superior to

Spinoza, as eloquent as the Jewish Hollander is dry, less methodical,

but infinitely more perspicuous; perhaps equal to him in mathematical

science; but without the ridiculous affectation of applying mathematical

reasonings to metaphysical and moral subjects. The man I mean is the

author of the "System of Nature." He assumed the name of Mirabaud, the

secretary of the French Academy. Alas! the worthy secretary was

incapable of writing a single page of the book of our formidable

opponent. I would recommend all you who are disposed to avail yourselves

of your reason and acquire instruction, to read the following eloquent

though dangerous passage from the "System of Nature." (Part II. v. 153.)

It is contended that animals furnish us with a convincing evidence that

there is some powerful cause of their existence; the admirable

adaptation of their different parts, mutually receiving and conferring

aid towards accomplishing their functions, and maintaining in health and

vigor the entire being, announce to us an artificer uniting power to

wisdom. Of the power of nature, it is impossible for us to doubt; she

produces all the animals that we see by the help of combinations of that

matter, which is in incessant action; the adaptation of the parts of

these animals is the result of the necessary laws of their nature, and

of their combination. When the adaptation ceases, the animal is

necessarily destroyed. What then becomes of the wisdom, the

intelligence, or the goodness of that alleged cause, to which was

ascribed all the honor of this boasted adaptation? Those animals of so

wonderful a structure as to be pronounced the works of an immutable God,

do not they undergo incessant changes; and do not they end in decay and

destruction? Where is the wisdom, the goodness, the fore-sight, the

immutability of an artificer, whose sole object appears to be to derange

and destroy the springs of those machines which are proclaimed to be

masterpieces of his power and skill? If this God cannot act otherwise

than thus, he is neither free nor omnipotent. If his will changes, he is

not immutable. If he permits machines, which he has endowed with

sensibility, to experience pain, he is deficient in goodness. If he has

been unable to render his productions solid and durable, he is deficient

in skill. Perceiving as we do the decay and ruin not only of all

animals, but of all the other works of deity, we cannot but inevitably

conclude, either that everything performed in the course of nature is

absolutely necessary--the unavoidable result of its imperative and

insuperable laws, or that the artificer who impels her various

operations is destitute of plan, of power, of constancy, of skill, and

of goodness.

"Man, who considers himself the master-work of the Divinity, supplies us

more readily and completely than any other production, with evidence of

the incapacity or malignity of his pretended author. In this being,

possessed of feeling, intuition, and reason, which considers itself as

the perpetual object of divine partiality, and forms its God on the

model of itself, we see a machine more changeable, more frail, more

liable to derangement from its extraordinary complication, than that of

the coarsest and grossest beings. Beasts, which are destitute of our

mental powers and acquirements; plants, which merely vegetate; stones,

which are unendowed with sensation, are, in many respects, beings far

more favored than man. They are, at least, exempt from distress of mind,

from the tortures of thought, and corrosions of care, to which the

latter is a victim. Who would not prefer being a mere unintelligent

animal, or a senseless stone, when his thoughts revert to the

irreparable loss of an object dearly beloved? Would it not be infinitely

more desirable to be an inanimate mass, than the gloomy votary and

victim of superstition, trembling under the present yoke of his

diabolical deity, and anticipating infinite torments in a future

existence? Beings destitute of sensation, life, memory, and thought

experience no affliction from the idea of what is past, present, or to

come; they do not believe there is any danger of incurring eternal

torture for inaccurate reasoning; which is believed, however, by many of

those favored beings who maintain that the great architect of the world

has created the universe for themselves.

[Illustration: NATURE IS NOT A WORK]

"Let us not be told that we have no idea of a work without having that

of the artificer distinguished from the work. _Nature is not a work._

She has always existed of herself. Every process takes place in her

bosom. She is an immense manufactory, provided with materials, and she

forms the instruments by which she acts; all her works are effects of

her own energy, and of agents or causes which she frames, contains, and

impels. Eternal, uncreated elements--elements indestructible, ever in

motion, and combining in exquisite and endless diversity, originate all

the beings and all the phenomena that we behold; all the effects, good

or evil, that we feel; the order or disorder which we distinguish,

merely by different modes in which they affect ourselves; and, in a

word, all those wonders which excite our meditation and confound our

reasoning. These elements, in order to effect objects thus comprehensive

and important, require nothing beyond their own properties, individual

or combined, and the motion essential to their very existence; and thus

preclude the necessity of recurring to an unknown artificer, in order to

arrange, mould, combine, preserve, and dissolve them.

"But, even admitting for a moment, that it is impossible to conceive of

the universe without an artificer who formed it, and who preserves and

watches over his work, where shall we place that artificer? Shall he be

within or without the universe? Is he matter or motion? Or is he mere

space, nothingness, vacuity? In each of these cases, he will either be

nothing, or he will be comprehended in nature, and subjected to her

laws. If he is in nature, I think I see in her only matter in motion,

and cannot but thence conclude that the agent impelling her is corporeal

and material, and that he is consequently liable to dissolution. If this

agent is out of nature, then I have no idea of what place he can occupy,

nor of an immaterial being, nor of the manner in which a spirit, without

extension, can operate upon the matter from which it is separated. Those

unknown tracts of space which imagination has placed beyond the visible

world may be considered as having no existence for a being who can

scarcely see to the distance of his own feet; the ideal power which

inhabits them can never be represented to my mind, unless when my

imagination combines at random the fantastic colors which it is always

forced to employ in the world on which I am. In this case, I shall

merely reproduce in idea what my senses have previously actually

perceived; and that God, which I, as it were, compel myself to

distinguish from nature, and to place beyond her circuit, will ever, in

opposition to all my efforts, necessarily withdraw within it.

"It will be observed and insisted upon by some that if a statue or a

watch were shown to a savage who had never seen them, he would

inevitably acknowledge that they were the productions of some

intelligent agent, more powerful and ingenious than himself; and hence

it will be inferred that we are equally bound to acknowledge that the

machine of the universe, that man, that the phenomena of nature, are the

productions of an agent, whose intelligence and power are far superior

to our own.

"I answer, in the first place, that we cannot possibly doubt either the

great power or the great skill of nature; we admire her skill as often

as we are surprised by the extended, varied and complicated effects

which we find in those of her works that we take the pains to

investigate; she is not, however, either more or less skilful in any one

of her works than in the rest. We no more comprehend how she could

produce a stone or a piece of metal than how she could produce a head

organized like that of Newton. We call that man skilful who can perform

things which we are unable to perform ourselves. Nature can perform

everything; and when anything exists, it is a proof that she was able to

make it. Thus, it is only in relation to ourselves that we ever judge

nature to be skilful; we compare it in those cases with ourselves; and,

as we possess a quality which we call intelligence, by the aid of which

we produce works, in which we display our skill, we thence conclude that

the works of nature, which must excite our astonishment and admiration,

are not in fact hers, but the productions of an artificer, intelligent

like ourselves, and whose intelligence we proportion, in our minds, to

the degree of astonishment excited in us by his works; that is, in fact,

to our own weakness and ignorance."

See the reply to these arguments under the articles on "Atheism" and

"God," and in the following section, written long before the "System of

Nature."

SECTION II.

If a clock is not made in order to tell the time of the day, I will then

admit that final causes are nothing but chimeras, and be content to go

by the name of a final-cause-finder--in plain language, fool--to the end

of my life.

All the parts, however, of that great machine, the world, seem made for

one another. Some philosophers affect to deride final causes, which were

rejected, they tell us, by Epicurus and Lucretius. But it seems to me

that Epicurus and Lucretius rather merit the derision. They tell you

that the eye is not made to see; but that, since it was found out that

eyes were capable of being used for that purpose, to that purpose they

have been applied. According to them, the mouth is not formed to speak

and eat, nor the stomach to digest, nor the heart to receive the blood

from the veins and impel it through the arteries, nor the feet to walk,

nor the ears to hear. Yet, at the same time, these very shrewd and

consistent persons admitted that tailors made garments to clothe them,

and masons built houses to lodge them; and thus ventured to deny

nature--the great existence, the universal intelligence--what they

conceded to the most insignificant artificers employed by themselves.

The doctrine of final causes ought certainly to be preserved from being

abused. We have already remarked that M. le Prieur, in the "Spectator of

Nature," contends in vain that the tides were attached to the ocean to

enable ships to enter more easily into their ports, and to preserve the

water from corruption; he might just as probably and successfully have

urged that legs were made to wear boots, and noses to bear spectacles.

In order to satisfy ourselves of the truth of a final cause, in any

particular instance, it is necessary that the effect produced should be

uniform and invariably in time and place. Ships have not existed in all

times and upon all seas; accordingly, it cannot be said that the ocean

was made for ships. It is impossible not to perceive how ridiculous it

would be to maintain that nature had toiled on from the very beginning

of time to adjust herself to the inventions of our fortuitous and

arbitrary arts, all of which are of so late a date in their discovery;

but it is perfectly clear that if noses were not made for spectacles,

they were made for smelling, and there have been noses ever since there

were men. In the same manner, hands, instead of being bestowed for the

sake of gloves, are visibly destined for all those uses to which the

metacarpus, the phalanges of the fingers, and the movements of the

circular muscle of the wrist, render them applicable by us. Cicero, who

doubted everything else, had no doubt about final causes.

It appears particularly difficult to suppose that those parts of the

human frame by which the perpetuation of the species is conducted should

not, in fact, have been intended and destined for that purpose, from

their mechanism so truly admirable, and the sensation which nature has

connected with it more admirable still. Epicurus would be at least

obliged to admit that pleasure is divine, and that that pleasure is a

final cause, in consequence of which beings, endowed with sensibility,

but who could never have communicated it to themselves, have been

incessantly introduced into the world as others have passed away from

it.

This philosopher, Epicurus, was a great man for the age in which he

lived. He saw that Descartes denied what Gassendi affirmed and what

Newton demonstrated--that motion cannot exist without a vacuum. He

conceived the necessity of atoms to serve as constituent parts of

invariable species. These are philosophical ideas. Nothing, however,

was more respectable than the morality of genuine Epicureans; it

consisted in sequestration from public affairs, which are incompatible

with wisdom, and in friendship, without which life is but a burden. But

as to the rest of the philosophy of Epicurus, it appears not to be more

admissible than the grooved or tubular matter of Descartes. It is, as it

appears to me, wilfully to shut the eyes and the understanding, and to

maintain that there is no design in nature; and if there is design,

there is an intelligent cause--there exists a God.

Some point us to the irregularities of our globe, the volcanoes, the

plains of moving sand, some small mountains swallowed up in the ocean,

others raised by earthquakes, etc. But does it follow from the naves of

your chariot wheel taking fire, that your chariot was not made expressly

for the purpose of conveying you from one place to another?

The chains of mountains which crown both hemispheres, and more than six

hundred rivers which flow from the foot of these rocks towards the sea;

the various streams that swell these rivers in their courses, after

fertilizing the fields through which they pass; the innumerable

fountains which spring from the same source, which supply necessary

refreshment, and growth, and beauty to animal and vegetable life; all

this appears no more to result from a fortuitous concourse and an

obliquity of atoms, than the retina which receives the rays of light, or

the crystalline humor which refracts it, or the drum of the ear which

admits sound, or the circulation of the blood in our veins, the systole

and diastole of the heart, the regulating principle of the machine of

life.

SECTION III.

It would appear that a man must be supposed to have lost his senses

before he can deny that stomachs are made for digestion, eyes to see,

and ears to hear.

On the other hand, a man must have a singular partiality for final

causes, to assert that stone was made for building houses, and that

silkworms are produced in China that we may wear satins in Europe.

But, it is urged, if God has evidently done one thing by design, he has

then done all things by design. It is ridiculous to admit Providence in

the one case and to deny it in the others. Everything that is done was

foreseen, was arranged. There is no arrangement without an object, no

effect without a cause; all, therefore, is equally the result, the

product of the final cause; it is, therefore, as correct to say that

noses were made to bear spectacles, and fingers to be adorned with

rings, as to say that the ears were formed to hear sounds, the eyes to

receive light.

All that this objection amounts to, in my opinion, is that everything is

the result, nearer or more remote, of a general final cause; that

everything is the consequence of eternal laws. When the effects are

invariably the same in all times and places, and when these uniform

effects are independent of the beings to which they attach, then there

is visibly a final cause.

All animals have eyes and see; all have ears and hear; all have mouths

with which they eat; stomachs, or something similar, by which they

digest their food; all have suitable means for expelling the fæces; all

have the organs requisite for the continuation of their species; and

these natural gifts perform their regular course and process without any

application or intermixture of art. Here are final causes clearly

established; and to deny a truth so universal would be a perversion of

the faculty of reason.

But stones, in all times and places, do not constitute the materials of

buildings. All noses do not bear spectacles; all fingers do not carry a

ring; all legs are not covered with silk stockings. A silkworm,

therefore, is not made to cover my legs, exactly as your mouth is made

for eating, and another part of your person for the "garderobe." There

are, therefore, we see, immediate effects produced from final causes,

and effects of a very numerous description, which are remote productions

from those causes.

Everything belonging to nature is uniform, immutable, and the immediate

work of its author. It is he who has established the laws by which the

moon contributes three-fourths to the cause of the flux and reflux of

the ocean, and the sun the remaining fourth. It is he who has given a

rotatory motion to the sun, in consequence of which that orb

communicates its rays of light in the short space of seven minutes and a

half to the eyes of men, crocodiles, and cats.

But if, after a course of ages, we started the inventions of shears and

spits, to clip the wool of sheep with the one, and with the other to

roast in order to eat them, what else can be inferred from such

circumstances, but that God formed us in such a manner that, at some

time or other, we could not avoid becoming ingenious and carnivorous?

Sheep, undoubtedly, were not made expressly to be roasted and eaten,

since many nations abstain from such food with horror. Mankind are not

created essentially to massacre one another, since the Brahmins, and the

respectable primitives called Quakers, kill no one. But the clay out of

which we are kneaded frequently produces massacres, as it produces

calumnies, vanities, persecutions, and impertinences. It is not

precisely that the formation of man is the final cause of our madnesses

and follies, for a final cause is universal, and invariable in every age

and place; but the horrors and absurdities of the human race are not at

all the less included in the eternal order of things. When we thresh our

corn, the flail is the final cause of the separation of the grain. But

if that flail, while threshing my grain, crushes to death a thousand

insects, that occurs not by an express and determinate act of my will,

nor, on the other hand, is it by mere chance; the insects were, on this

occasion, actually under my flail, and could not but be there.

It is a consequence of the nature of things that a man should be

ambitious; that he should enroll and discipline a number of other men;

that he should be a conqueror, or that he should be defeated; but it can

never be said that the man was created by God to be killed in war.

The organs with which nature has supplied us cannot always be final

causes in action. The eyes which are bestowed for seeing are not

constantly open. Every sense has its season for repose. There are some

senses that are even made no use of. An imbecile and wretched female,

for example, shut up in a cloister at the age of fourteen years, mars

one of the final causes of her existence; but the cause, nevertheless,

equally exists, and whenever it is free it will operate.

FINESSE, FINENESS, ETC.

_Of the Different Significations of the Word._

Fineness either in its proper or its figurative sense does not signify

either light, slender, fine, or of a rare thin texture; this word

expresses something delicate and finished. Light cloth, soft linen, thin

lace, or slender galloon, are not always fine.

This word has a relation to the verb "to finish," whence come the

finishings of art; thus, we say, the finishings of Vanderwerff's pencil

or of Mieris; we say, a fine horse, fine gold, a fine diamond. A fine

horse is opposed to a clumsy one; the fine diamond to a false one; fine

or refined gold to gold mixed with alloy.

Fineness is generally applied to delicate things and lightness of

manufacture. Although we say a fine horse, we seldom say, "the fineness

of a horse." We speak of the fineness of hair, lace, or stuff. When by

this word we should express the fault or wrong use of anything, we add

the adverb "too"; as--This thread is broken, it was too fine; this stuff

is too fine for the season.

Fineness or finesse, in a figurative sense, applies to conduct, speech,

and works of mind. In conduct, finesse always expresses, as in the arts,

something delicate or subtile; it may sometimes exist without ability,

but it is very rarely unaccompanied by a little deception; politics

admit it, and society reproves it.

Finesse is not exactly subtlety; we draw a person into a snare with

finesse; we escape from it with subtlety. We act with finesse, and we

play a subtle trick. Distrust is inspired by an unsparing use of

finesse; yet we almost always deceive ourselves if we too generally

suspect it.

Finesse, in works of wit, as in conversation, consists in the art of not

expressing a thought clearly, but leaving it so as to be easily

perceived. It is an enigma to which people of sense readily find the

solution.

A chancellor one day offering his protection to parliament, the first

president turning towards the assembly, said: "Gentlemen, thank the

chancellor; he has given us more than we demanded of him"--a very witty

reproof.

Finesse, in conversation and writing, differs from delicacy; the first

applies equally to piquant and agreeable things, even to blame and

praise; and still more to indecencies, over which a veil is drawn,

through which we cannot penetrate without a blush. Bold things may be

said with finesse.

Delicacy expresses soft and agreeable sentiments and ingenious praise;

thus finesse belongs more to epigram, and delicacy to madrigal. It is

delicacy which enters into a lover's jealousies, and not finesse.

The praises given to Louis XIV. by Despréaux are not always equally

delicate; satires are not always sufficiently ingenious in the way of

finesse. When Iphigenia, in Racine, has received from her father the

order never to see Achilles more, she cries: "_Dieux plus doux, vous

n'aviez demandé que ma vie!_"--"More gentle gods, you only ask my life!"

The true character of this partakes rather of delicacy than of finesse.

FIRE.

SECTION I.

Is fire anything more than an element which lights, warms, and burns us?

Is not light always fire, though fire is not always light? And is not

Boerhaave in the right?

Is not the purest fire extracted from our combustibles, always gross,

and partaking of the bodies consumed, and very different from elementary

fire? How is fire distributed throughout nature, of which it is the

soul?

_Ignis ubique latet, naturam amplectitur omnem,_

_Cuncta parit, renovat, dividit, unit, alit._

Why did Newton, in speaking of rays of light, always say, "_De natura

radiorum lucis, utrum corpora sint necne non disputamus_"; without

examining whether they were bodies or not?

Did he only speak geometrically? In that case, this doubt was useless.

It is evident that he doubted of the nature of elementary fire, and

doubted with reason.

Is elementary fire a body like others, as earth and water? If it was a

body of this kind, would it not gravitate like all other matter? Would

it escape from the luminous body in the right line? Would it have a

uniform progression? And why does light never move out of a right line

when it is unimpeded in its rapid course?

May not elementary fire have properties of matter little known to us,

and properties of substance entirely so? May it not be a medium between

matter and substances of another kind? And who can say that there are

not a million of these substances? I do not say that there are, but I

say it is not proved that there may not be.

It was very difficult to believe about a hundred years ago that bodies

acted upon one another, not only without touching, and without emission,

but at great distances; it is, however, found to be true, and is no

longer doubted. At present, it is difficult to believe that the rays of

the sun are penetrable by each other, but who knows what may happen to

prove it?

However that may be, I wish, for the novelty of the thing, that this

incomprehensible penetrability could be admitted. Light has something so

divine that we should endeavor to make it a step to the discovery of

substances still more pure.

Come to my aid, Empedocles and Democritus; come and admire the wonders

of electricity; see if the sparks which traverse a thousand bodies in

the twinkling of an eye are of ordinary matter; judge if elementary fire

does not contract the heart, and communicate that warmth which gives

life! Judge if this element is not the source of all sensation, and if

sensation is not the origin of thought; though ignorant and insolent

pedants have condemned the proposition, as one which should be

persecuted.

Tell me, if the Supreme Being, who presides over all nature, cannot

forever preserve these elementary atoms which he has so rarely endowed?

_"Igneus est ollis vigor et cœlestis origo._"

The celebrated Le Cat calls this vivifying fluid "an amphibious being,

endowed by its author with a superior refinement which links it to

immaterial beings, and thereby ennobles and elevates it into that medium

nature which we recognize, and which is the source of all its

properties."

You are of the opinion of Le Cat? I would be so too if I could; but

there are so many fools and villains that I dare not. I can only think

quietly in my own way at Mount Krapak. Let others think as well as they

are allowed to think, whether at Salamanca or Bergamo.

SECTION II.

_What is Understood by Fire Used Figuratively._

Fire, particularly in poetry, often signifies love, and is employed more

elegantly in the plural than in the singular. Corneille often says "_un

beau feu_" for a virtuous and noble love. A man has fire in his

conversation; that does not mean that he has brilliant and enlightened

ideas, but lively expressions animated by action.

Fire in writing does not necessarily imply lightness and beauty, but

vivacity, multiplied figures, and spontaneous ideas. Fire is a merit in

speech and writing only when it is well managed. It is said that poets

are animated with a divine fire when they are sublime; genius cannot

exist without fire, but fire may be possessed without genius.

FIRMNESS.

Firmness comes from firm, and has a different signification from

solidity and hardness; a squeezed cloth, a beaten negro, have firmness

without being hard or solid.

It must always be remembered that modifications of the soul can only be

expressed by physical images; we say firmness of soul, and of mind,

which does not signify that they are harder or more solid than usual.

Firmness is the exercise of mental courage; it means a decided

resolution; while obstinacy, on the contrary, signifies blindness. Those

who praise the firmness of Tacitus are not so much in the wrong as P.

Bouhours pretends; it is an accidental ill-chosen term, which expresses

energy and strength of thought and of style. It may be said that La

Bruyère has a firm style, and that many other writers have only a hard

one.

FLATTERY.

I find not one monument of flattery in remote antiquity; there is no

flattery in Hesiod--none in Homer. Their stories are not addressed to a

Greek, elevated to some dignity, nor to his lady; as each canto of

Thomson's "Seasons" is dedicated to some person of rank, or as so many

forgotten epistles in verse have been dedicated, in England, to

gentlemen or ladies of quality, with a brief eulogy, and the arms of

the patron or patroness placed at the head of the work.

Nor is there any flattery in Demosthenes. This way of asking alms

harmoniously began, if I mistake not, with Pindar. No hand can be

stretched out more emphatically.

It appears to me that among the Romans great flattery is to be dated

from the time of Augustus. Julius Cæsar had scarcely time to be

flattered. There is not, extant, any dedicatory epistle to Sulla,

Marius, or Carbo, nor to their wives, or their mistresses. I can well

believe that very bad verses were presented to Lucullus and Pompey; but,

thank God, we do not have them.

It is a great spectacle to behold Cicero equal in dignity to Cæsar,

speaking before him as advocate for a king of Bithynia and Lesser

Armenia, named Deiotarus, accused of laying ambuscades for him, and even

designing to assassinate him. Cicero begins with acknowledging that he

is disconcerted in his presence. He calls him the vanquisher of the

world--"_victorem orbis terrarum_." He flatters him; but this adulation

does not yet amount to baseness; some sense of shame still remains.

But with Augustus there are no longer any bounds; the senate decrees his

apotheosis during his lifetime. Under the succeeding emperors this

flattery becomes the ordinary tribute, and is no longer anything more

than a style. It is impossible to flatter any one, when the most

extravagant adulation has become the ordinary currency.

In Europe, we have had no great monuments of flattery before Louis XIV.

His father, Louis XIII., had very little incense offered him. We find no

mention of him, except in one or two of Malherbe's odes. There, indeed,

according to custom, he is called "thou greatest of kings"--as the

Spanish poets say to the king of Spain, and the English poets (laureate)

to the king of England; but the better part of the poet's praises is

bestowed on Cardinal Richelieu, whose soul is great and fearless; who

practises so well the healing art of government, and who knows how to

cure all our evils:

_Dont l'âme toute grande est une âme hardîe,_

_Qui pratique si bien l'art de nous secourir,_

_Que, pourvu qu'il soit cru, nous n'avons maladie,_

_Qu'il ne sache guérir._

Upon Louis XIV. flattery came in a deluge. But he was not like the man

said to have been smothered by the rose leaves heaped upon him; on the

contrary, he thrived the more.

Flattery, when it has some plausible pretext, may not be so pernicious

as it has been thought; it sometimes encourages to great acts; but its

excess is vicious, like the excess of satire. La Fontaine says, and

pretends to say it after Æsop:

_On ne peut trop louer trois sortes de personnes;_

_Les dieux, sa maitresse, et son roi._

_Æsope le disait; j'y souscris quant à moi;_

_Ces sont maximes toujours bonnes._

Your flattery to three sorts of folks apply:--

You cannot say too civil things

To gods, to mistresses, and kings;

So honest Æsop said--and so say I.

Honest Æsop said no such thing; nor do we find that he flattered any

king, or any concubine. It must not be thought that kings are in reality

flattered by all the flatteries that are heaped upon them; for the

greater number never reach them.

One common folly of orators is that of exhausting themselves in praising

some prince who will never hear of their praises. But what is most

lamentable of all is that Ovid should have praised Augustus even while

he was dating "_de Ponto_."

The perfection of the ridiculous might be found in the compliments which

preachers address to kings, when they have the happiness of exhibiting

before their majesties.--"To the reverend Father Gaillard, preacher to

the king." Ah! most reverend father, do you preach only for the king?

Are you like the monkey at the fair, which leaps "only for the king?"

FORCE (PHYSICAL).

What is "force?" Where does it reside? Whence does it come? Does it

perish? Or is it ever the same?

It has pleased us to denominate "force" that weight which one body

exercises upon another. Here is a ball of two hundred pounds' weight on

this floor; it presses the floor, you say, with a force of two hundred

pounds. And this you call a "dead force." But are not these words

"dead" and "force" a little contradictory? Might we not as well say

"dead alive"--yes and no at once?

This ball "weighs." Whence comes this "weight?" and is this weight a

"force?" If the ball were not impeded, would it go directly to the

centre of the earth? Whence has it this incomprehensible property?

It is supported by my floor; and you freely give to my floor the "_vis

inertiæ_"--"inertiæ" signifying "inactivity," "impotence." Now is it not

singular that "impotence" should be denominated "force?"

What is the living force which acts in your arm and your leg? What is

the source of it? How can it be supposed that this force exists when you

are dead? Does it go and take up its abode elsewhere, as a man goes to

another house when his own is in ruins?

How can it have been said that there is always the same force in nature?

There must, then, have been always the same number of men, or of active

beings equivalent to men. Why does a body in motion communicate its

force to another body with which it comes in contact?

These are questions which neither geometry, nor mechanics, nor

metaphysics can answer. Would you arrive at the first principle of the

force of bodies, and of motion, you must ascend to a still superior

principle. Why is there "anything?"

FORCE--STRENGTH.

These words have been transplanted from simple to figurative speech.

They are applied to all the parts of the body that are in motion, in

action--the force of the heart, which some have made four hundred

pounds, and some three ounces; the force of the viscera, the lungs, the

voice; the force of the arm.

The metaphor which has transported these words into morals has made them

express a cardinal virtue. Strength, in this sense, is the courage to

support adversity, and to undertake virtuous and difficult actions; it

is the "_animi fortitudo_."

The strength of the mind is penetration and depth--"_ingenii vis_."

Nature gives it as she gives that of the body; moderate labor increases

and excessive labor diminishes it.

The force of an argument consists in a clear exposition of

clearly-exhibited proofs, and a just conclusion; with mathematical

theorems it has nothing to do; because the evidence of a demonstration

can be made neither more nor less; only it may be arrived at by a longer

or a shorter path--a simpler or more complicated method. It is in

doubtful questions that the force of reasoning is truly applicable.

The force of eloquence is not merely a train of just and vigorous

reasoning, which is not incompatible with dryness; this force, requires

floridity, striking images, and energetic expressions. Thus it has been

said, that the sermons of Bourdaloue have force, those of Massillon

more elegance. Verses may have strength, and want every other beauty.

The strength of a line in our language consists principally in saying

something in each hemistich.

Strength in painting is the expression of the muscles, which, by feeling

touches, are made to appear under the flesh that covers them. There is

too much strength when the muscles are too strongly articulated. The

attitudes of the combatants have great strength in the battles of

Constantine, drawn by Raphael and Julio Romano; and in those of Cæsar,

painted by Lebrun. Inordinate strength is harsh in painting and

bombastic in poetry.

Some philosophers have asserted that force is a property inherent in

matter; that each invisible particle, or rather _monad_, is endowed with

an active force; but it would be as difficult to demonstrate this

assertion as it would be to prove that whiteness is a quality inherent

in matter, as the Trévoux dictionary says in the article "Inherent."

The strength of every animal has arrived at the highest when the animal

has attained its full growth. It decreases when the muscles no longer

receive the same quantity of nourishment: and this quantity ceases to be

the same when the animal spirits no longer communicate to the muscles

their accustomed motion. It is probable that the animal spirits are of

fire, inasmuch as old men want motion and strength in proportion as they

want warmth.

FRANCHISE.

A word which always gives an idea of liberty in whatever sense it is

taken; a word derived from the Franks, who were always free. It is so

ancient, that when the Cid besieged and took Toledo, in the eleventh

century, franchies or franchises were given to all the French who went

on this expedition, and who established themselves at Toledo. All walled

cities had franchises, liberties, and privileges, even in the greatest

anarchy of feudal power. In all countries possessing assemblies or

states, the sovereign swore, on his accession, to guard their liberties.

This name, which has been given generally to the rights of the people,

to immunities, and to sanctuaries or asylums, has been more particularly

applied to the quarters of the ambassadors of the court of Rome. It was

a plot of ground around their palaces, which was larger or smaller

according to the will of the ambassador. The ground was an asylum for

criminals, who could not be there pursued. This franchise was

restricted, under Innocent XI. to the inside of their palaces. Churches

and convents had the same privileges in Italy, but not in other states.

There are in Paris several places of sanctuary, in which debtors cannot

be seized for their debts by common justice, and where mechanics can

pursue their trades without being freemen. Mechanics have this privilege

in the Faubourg St. Antoine, but it is not an asylum like the Temple.

The word "franchise," which usually expresses the liberties of a nation,

city, or person, is sometimes used to signify liberty of speech, of

counsel, or of a law proceeding; but there is a great difference between

speaking with frankness and speaking with liberty. In a speech to a

superior, liberty is a studied or excessive boldness--frankness

outstepping its just bounds. To speak with liberty is to speak without

fear; to speak with frankness is to conduct yourself openly and nobly.

To speak with too much liberty is to become audacious; to speak with too

much frankness is to be too open-hearted.

FRANCIS XAVIER.

It would not be amiss to know something true concerning the celebrated

Francis Xavero, whom we call Xavier, surnamed the Apostle of the Indies.

Many people still imagine that he established Christianty along the

whole southern coast of India, in a score of islands, and above all in

Japan. But thirty years ago, even a doubt on the subject was hardly to

be tolerated in Europe. The Jesuits have not hesitated to compare him to

St. Paul. His travels and miracles had been written in part by

Tursellinus and Orlandini, by Levena, and by Partoli, all Jesuits, but

very little known in France; and the less people were acquainted with

the details the greater was his reputation.

When the Jesuit Bouhours composed his history, he (Bouhours) was

considered as a man of very enlightened mind, and was living in the best

company in Paris; I do not mean the company of Jesus, but that of men of

the world the most distinguished for intellect and knowledge. No one

wrote in a purer or more unaffected style; it was even proposed in the

French Academy that it should trespass against the rules of its

institution, by receiving Father Bouhours into its body. He had another

great advantage in the influence of his order, which then, by an almost

inconceivable illusion, governed all Catholic princes.

Sound criticism was, it is true, beginning to rear its head; but its

progress was slow: men were, in general, more anxious to write ably than

to write what was true.

Bouhours wrote the lives of St. Ignatius and St. Francis Xavier almost

without encountering a single objection. Even his comparison of St.

Ignatius to Cæsar, and Xavier to Alexander, passed without

animadversion; it was tolerated as a flower of rhetoric.

I have seen in the Jesuit's college, Rue St. Jacques, a picture twelve

feet long and twelve high, representing Ignatius and Xavier ascending to

heaven, each in a magnificent chariot drawn by four milk-white horses;

and above, the Eternal Father, adorned with a fine white beard

descending to His waist, with Jesus and the Virgin beside him; the Holy

Ghost beneath them, in the form of a dove; and angels joining their

hands, and bending down to receive Father Ignatius and Father Xavier.

Had anyone publicly made a jest of this picture, the reverend Father La

Chaise, confessor to the king, would infallibly have had the

sacrilegious scoffer honored with a _lettre de cachet_.

It cannot be denied that Francis Xavier is comparable to Alexander,

inasmuch as they both went to India--so is Ignatius to Cæsar, both

having been in Gaul. But Xavier, the vanquisher of the devil, went far

beyond Alexander, the conqueror of Darius. How gratifying it is to see

him going, in the capacity of a volunteer converter, from Spain into

France, from France to Rome, from Rome to Lisbon, and from Lisbon to

Mozambique, after making the tour of Africa. He stays a long time at

Mozambique, where he receives from God the gift of prophecy: he then

proceeds to Melinda, where he disputes on the Koran with the Mahometans,

who doubtless understand his religion as well as he understands theirs,

and where he even finds caciques, although they are to be found nowhere

but in America. The Portuguese vessel arrives at the island of Zocotora,

which is unquestionably that of the Amazons: there he converts all the

islanders, and builds a church. Thence he reaches Goa, where he finds a

pillar on which St. Thomas had engraved, that one day St. Xavier should

come and re-establish the Christian religion, which had flourished of

old in India. Xavier has no difficulty whatever in perusing the ancient

characters, whether Indian or Hebrew, in which this prophecy is

expressed. He forthwith takes up a hand-bell, assembles all the little

boys around him, explains to them the creed, and baptizes them--but his

great delight was to marry the Indians to their mistresses.

From Goa he speeds to Cape Comorin, to the fishing coast, to the kingdom

of Travancore. His greatest anxiety, on arriving in any country, is to

quit it. He embarks in the first Portuguese ship he finds, whithersoever

it is bound, it matters not to Xavier; provided only that he is

travelling somewhere, he is content. He is received through charity, and

returns two or three times to Goa, to Cochin, to Cori, to Negapatam, to

Meliapour. A vessel is departing for Malacca, and Xavier accordingly

takes his passage for Malacca, in great despair that he has not yet had

an opportunity of seeing Siam, Pegu, and Tonquin. We find him in the

island of Sumatra, at Borneo, at Macassar, in the Moluccas, and

especially at Ternate and Amboyna. The king of Ternate had, in his

immense seraglio, a hundred women in the capacity of wives, and seven or

eight hundred in that of concubines. The first thing Xavier does is to

turn them all out. Please to observe that the island of Ternate is two

leagues across.

Thence finding another Portugese vessel bound for Ceylon, he returns to

Ceylon, where he makes various excursions to Goa and to Cochin. The

Portuguese were already trading to Japan. A ship sails for that country:

Xavier takes care to embark in it, and visits all the Japan islands. In

short (says the Jesuit Bouhours), the whole length of Xavier's routes,

joined together, would reach several times around the globe.

Be it observed, that he set out on his travels in 1542, and died in

1552. If he had time to learn the languages of all the nations he

visited, it was no trifling miracle: if he had the gift of tongues, it

was a greater miracle still. But unfortunately, in several of his

letters, he says that he is obliged to employ an interpreter; and in

others he acknowledges that he finds extreme difficulty in learning the

Japanese language, which he cannot pronounce.

The Jesuit Bouhours, in giving some of his letters, has no doubt that

"St. Francis Xavier had the gift of tongues"; but he acknowledges that

"he had it not always." "He had it," says he, "on several occasions;

for, without having learned the Chinese tongue, he preached to the

Chinese every morning at Amanguchi, which is the capital of a province

in Japan."

He must have been perfectly acquainted with all the languages of the

East; for he made songs in them of the Paternoster, Ave-Maria, and

Credo, for the instruction of the little boys and girls.

But the best of all is, that this man, who had occasion for a dragoman,

spoke every tongue at once, like the apostles; and when he spoke

Portuguese, in which language Bouhours acknowledges that the saint

explained himself very ill, the Indians, the Chinese, the Japanese, the

inhabitants of Ceylon and of Sumatra, all understood him perfectly.

One day in particular, when he was preaching on the immateriality of the

soul, the motion of the planets, the eclipses of the sun and moon, the

rainbow, sin and grace, paradise and purgatory, he made himself

understood to twenty persons of different nations.

Is it asked how such a man could make so many converts in Japan? The

simple answer is that he did not make any; but other Jesuits, who staid

a long time in the country, by favor of the treaties between the kings

of Portugal and the emperors of Japan, converted so many people, that a

civil war ensued, which is said to have cost the lives of nearly four

hundred thousand men. This is the most noted prodigy that the

missionaries have worked in Japan.

But those of Francis Xavier are not without their merit. Among his host

of miracles, we find no fewer than eight children raised from the dead.

"Xavier's greatest miracle," says the Jesuit Bouhours, "was not his

raising so many of the dead to life, but his not himself dying of

fatigue."

But the pleasantest of his miracles is, that having dropped his crucifix

into the sea, near the island of Baranura, which I am inclined to think

was the island of Barataria, a crab came, four-and-twenty hours after,

bringing the cane between its claws.

The most brilliant of all, and after which no other deserves to be

related, is that in a storm which lasted three days, he was constantly

in two ships, a hundred and fifty leagues apart, and served one of them

as a pilot. The truth of this miracle was attested by all the

passengers, who could neither deceive nor be deceived.

Yet all this was written seriously and with success in the age of Louis

XIV., in the age of the "Provincial Letters," of Racine's tragedies, of

"Bayle's Dictionary," and of so many other learned works.

It would appear to be a sort of miracle that a man of sense, like

Bouhours, should have committed such a mass of extravagance to the

press, if we did not know to what excesses men can be carried by the

corporate spirit in general, and the monachal spirit in particular. We

have more than two hundred volumes entirely in this taste, compiled by

monks; but what is most to be lamented is, that the enemies of the monks

also compile. They compile more agreeably, and are read. It is most

deplorable that, in nineteen-twentieths of Europe, there is no longer

that profound respect and just veneration for the monks which is still

felt for them in some of the villages of Aragon and Calabria.

The miracles of St. Francis Xavier, the achievements of Don Quixote,

the Comic Romance, and the convulsionaries of St. Medard, have an equal

claim on our admiration and reverence.

After speaking of Francis Xavier it would be useless to discuss the

history of the other Francises. If you would be instructed thoroughly,

consult the conformities of St. Francis of Assisi.

Since the fine history of St. Francis Xavier by the Jesuit Bouhours, we

have had the history of St. Francis Régis by the Jesuit Daubenton,

confessor to Philip V. of Spain: but this is small-beer after brandy. In

the history of the blessed Régis, there is not even a single

resuscitation.

FRANKS--FRANCE--FRENCH

Italy has always preserved its name, notwithstanding the pretended

establishment of Æneas, which should have left some traces of the

language, characters, and manners of Phrygia, if he ever came with

Achates and so many others, into the province of Rome, then almost a

desert. The Goths, Lombards, Franks, Allemani or Germans, who have by

turns invaded Italy, have at least left it its name.

The Tyrians, Africans, Romans, Vandals, Visigoths, and Saracens, have,

one after the other, been masters of Spain, yet the name of Spain

exists. Germany has also always preserved its own name; it has merely

joined that of Allemagne to it, which appellation it did not receive

from any conqueror.

The Gauls are almost the only people in the west who have lost their

name. This name was originally Walch or Welsh; the Romans always

substituted a G for the W, which is barbarous: of "Welsh" they made

Galli, Gallia. They distinguished the Celtic, the Belgic, and the

Aquitanic Gaul, each of which spoke a different jargon.

Who were, and whence came these Franks, who in such small numbers and

little time possessed themselves of all the Gauls, which in ten years

Cæsar could not entirely reduce? I am reading an author who commences by

these words: "The Franks from whom we descend." ... Ha! my friend, who

has told you that you descend in a right line from a Frank? Clovodic,

whom we call Clovis, probably had not more than twenty thousand men,

badly clothed and armed, when he subjugated about eight or ten millions

of Welsh or Gauls, held in servitude by three or four Roman legions. We

have not a single family in France which can furnish, I do not say the

least proof, but the least probability, that it had its origin from a

Frank.

When the pirates of the Baltic Sea came, to the number of seven or eight

thousand, to give Normandy in fief, and Brittany in _arrière fief_, did

they, leave any archives by which it may be seen whether they were the

fathers of all the Normans of the present day?

It has been a long time believed that the Franks came from the Trojans.

Ammianus Marcellinus, who lived in the fourth century, says: "According

to several ancient writers, troops of fugitive Trojans established

themselves on the borders of the Rhine, then a desert." As to Æneas, he

might easily have sought an asylum at the extremity of the

Mediterranean, but Francus, the son of Hector, had too far to travel to

go towards Düsseldorf, Worms, Solm, Ehrenbreitstein.

Fredegarius doubts not that the Franks at first retired into Macedonia,

and carried arms under Alexander, after having fought under Priam; on

which alleged facts the monk Otfried compliments the emperor, Louis the

German.

The geographer of Ravenna, less fabulous, assigns the first habitation

of the horde of Franks among the Cimbrians, beyond the Elbe, towards the

Baltic Sea. These Franks might well be some remains of these barbarian

Cimbri defeated by Marius; and the learned Leibnitz is of this opinion.

It is very certain that, in the time of Constantine, beyond the Rhine,

there were hordes of Franks or Sicambri, who lived by pillage. They

assembled under bandit captains, chiefs whom historians have had the

folly to call kings. Constantine himself pursued them to their haunts,

caused several to be hanged, and others to be delivered to wild beasts,

in the amphitheatre of Trier, for his amusement. Two of their pretended

kings perished in this manner, at which the panegyrists of Constantine

are in ecstasies.

The Salic law, written, it is said, by these barbarians, is one of the

absurd chimeras with which we have always been pestered. It would be

very strange if the Franks had written such a considerable code in their

marshes, and the French had not any written usages until the close of

the reign of Charles VII. It might as well be said that the Algonquins

and Chicachas had written laws. Men are never governed by authentic

laws, consigned to public records, until they have been assembled into

cities, and have a regular police, archives, and all that characterizes

a civilized nation. When you find a code in a nation which was barbarous

at the time it was written, who lived upon rapine and pillage, and which

had not a walled town, you may be sure that this code is a pretended

one, which has been made in much later times. Fallacies and suppositions

never obliterate this truth from the minds of the wise.

What is more ridiculous still, this Salic law has been given to us in

Latin; as if savages, wandering beyond the Rhine, had learnt the Latin

language. It is supposed to have been first digested by Clovis, and it

ran thus: "While the illustrious nation of the Franks was still

considered barbarous, the heads of this nation dictated the Salic law.

They chose among themselves four chiefs, Visogast, Bodogast, Sologast,

Vindogast"--taking, according to La Fontaine's fable, the names of

places for those of men:

_Notre magot prit pour ce coup_

_Le nom d'un port pour un nom d'homme._

These names are those of some Frank cantons in the province of Worms.

Whatever may be the epoch in which the customs denominated the Salic law

were constructed on an ancient tradition, it is very clear that the

Franks were not great legislators.

What is the original meaning of the word "Frank?" That is a question of

which we know nothing, and which above a hundred authors have endeavored

to find out. What is the meaning of Hun, Alan, Goth, Welsh, Picard? And

what do these words signify?

Were the armies of Clovis all composed of Franks? It does not appear so.

Childeric the Frank had made inroads as far as Tournay. It is said that

Clovis was the son of Childeric, and Queen Bazine, the wife of King

Bazin. Now Bazin and Bazine are assuredly not German names, and we have

never seen the least proof that Clovis was their son. All the German

cantons elected their chiefs, and the province of Franks had no doubt

elected Clovis as they had done his father. He made his expedition

against the Gauls, as all the other barbarians had undertaken theirs

against the Roman Empire.

Do you really and truly believe that the Herulian Odo, surnamed Acer by

the Romans, and known to us by the name of Odoacer, had only Herulians

in his train, and that Genseric conducted Vandals alone into Africa? All

the wretches without talent or profession, who have nothing to lose, do

they not always join the first captain of robbers who raises the

standard of destruction?

As soon as Clovis had the least success, his troops were no doubt joined

by all the Belgians who panted for booty; and this army is nevertheless

called the army of Franks. The expedition is very easy. The Visigoths

had already invaded one-third of Gaul, and the Burgundians another. The

rest submitted to Clovis. The Franks divided the land of the vanquished,

and the Welsh cultivated it.

The word "Frank" originally signified a free possessor, while the others

were slaves. Hence come the words "franchise," and "to enfranchise"--"I

make you a Frank," "I render you a free man." Hence, _francalenus_,

holding freely; _frank aleu_, _frank dad_, _frank chamen_, and so many

other terms half Latin and half barbarian, which have so long composed

the miserable patois spoken in France.

Hence, also, a franc in gold or silver to express the money of the king

of the Franks, which did not appear until a long time after, but which

reminds us of the origin of the monarchy. We still say twenty francs,

twenty livres, which signifies nothing in itself; it gives no idea of

the weight or value of the money, being only a vague expression, by

which ignorant people have been continually deceived, not knowing really

how much they receive or how much they pay.

Charlemagne did not consider himself as a Frank; he was born in

Austrasia, and spoke the German language. He was of the family of

Arnold, bishop of Metz, preceptor to Dagobert. Now it is not probable

that a man chosen for a preceptor was a Frank. He made the greatest

glory of the most profound ignorance, and was acquainted only with the

profession of arms. But what gives most weight to the opinion that

Charlemagne regarded the Franks as strangers to him is the fourth

article of one of his capitularies on his farms. "If the Franks," said

he, "commit any ravages on our possessions, let them be judged according

to their laws."

The Carlovingian race always passed for German: Pope Adrian IV., in his

letter to the archbishops of Mentz, Cologne, and Trier, expresses

himself in these remarkable terms: "The emperor was transferred from the

Greeks to the Germans. Their king was not emperor until after he had

been crowned by the pope.... all that the emperor possessed he held from

us. And as Zacharius gave the Greek Empire to the Germans, we can give

that of the Germans to the Greeks."

However, France having been divided into eastern and western, and the

eastern being Austrasia, this name of France prevailed so far, that even

in the time of the Saxon emperors, the court of Constantinople always

called them pretended Frank emperors, as may be seen in the letters of

Bishop Luitgrand, sent from Rome to Constantinople.

_Of the French Nation._

When the Franks established themselves in the country of the first

Welsh, which the Romans called Gallia, the nation was composed of

ancient Celts or Gauls, subjugated by Cæsar, Roman families who were

established there, Germans who had already emigrated there, and finally

of the Franks, who had rendered themselves masters of the country under

their chief Clovis. While the monarchy existed, which united Gaul and

Germany, all the people, from the source of the Weser to the seas of

Gaul, bore the name of Franks. But when at the congress of Verdun, in

843, under Charles the Bald, Germany and Gaul were separated, the name

of Franks remained to the people of western France, which alone retained

the name of France.

The name of French was scarcely known until towards the tenth century.

The foundation of the nation is of Gallic families, and traces of the

character of the ancient Gauls have always existed.

Indeed, every people has its character, as well as every man; and this

character is generally formed of all the resemblances caused by nature

and custom among the inhabitants of the varieties which distinguish

them. Thus French character, genius, and wit, result from that which has

been common to the different provinces in the kingdom. The people of

Guienne and those of Normandy differ much; there is, however, found in

them the French genius, which forms a nation of these different

provinces, and distinguishes them from the Indians and Germans. Climate

and soil evidently imprint unchangeable marks on men, as well as on

animals and plants. Those which depend on government, religion, and

education are different. That is the knot which explains how people have

lost one part of their ancient character and preserved the other. A

people who formerly conquered half the world are no longer recognized

under sacerdotal government, but the seeds of their ancient greatness of

soul still exist, though hidden beneath weakness.

In the same manner the barbarous government of the Turks has enervated

the Egyptians and the Greeks, without having been able to destroy the

original character or temper of their minds.

The present character of the French is the same as Cæsar ascribed to the

Gauls--prompt to resolve, ardent to combat, impetuous in attack, and

easily discouraged. Cæsar, Agatius, and others say, that of all the

barbarians the Gauls were the most polished. They are still in the most

civilized times the model of politeness to all their neighbors, though

they occasionally discover the remains of their levity, petulance, and

barbarity.

The inhabitants of the coasts of France were always good seamen; the

people of Guienne always compose the best infantry; "those who inhabit

the provinces of Blois and Tours are not," says Tasso, "robust and

indefatigable, but bland and gentle, like the land which they inhabit."

_.... Gente robusta, e faticosa,_

_La terra molle, e lieta, e dilettosa_

_Simili a se gli abitator, produce._

But how can we reconcile the character of the Parisians of our day with

that which the Emperor Julian, the first of princes and men after Marcus

Aurelius, gave to the Parisians of his time?--"I love this people," says

he in his "_Misopogon_," "because they are serious and severe like

myself." This seriousness, which seems at present banished from an

immense city become the centre of pleasure, then reigned in a little

town destitute of amusements: in this respect the spirit of the

Parisians has changed notwithstanding the climate.

The affluence, opulence, and idleness of the people who may occupy

themselves with pleasures and the arts, and not with the government,

have given a new turn of mind to a whole nation.

Further, how is it to be explained by what degrees this people have

passed from the fierceness which characterized them in the time of King

John, Charles VI., Charles IX., Henry III., and Henry IV., to the soft

facility of manners for which they are now the admiration of Europe? It

is that the storms of government and religion forced constitutional

vivacity into paroxysms of faction and fanaticism; and that this same

vivacity, which always will exist, has at present no object but the

pleasures of society. The Parisian is impetuous in his pleasures as he

formerly was in his fierceness. The original character which is caused

by the climate is always the same. If at present he cultivates the

arts, of which he was so long deprived, it is not that he has another

mind, since he has not other organs; but it is that he has more relief,

and this relief has not been created by himself, as by the Greeks and

Florentines, among whom the arts flourished like the natural fruits of

their soil. The Frenchman has only received them, but having happily

cultivated and adopted these exotics, he has almost perfected them.

The French government was originally that of all the northern

nations--of all those whose policy was regulated in general assemblies

of the nation. Kings were the chief of these assemblies; and this was

almost the only administration of the French in the first two

generations, before Charles the Simple.

When the monarchy was dismembered, in the decline of the Carlovingian

race, when the kingdom of Aries arose, and the provinces were occupied

by vassals little dependent on the crown, the name of French was more

restricted. Under Hugh Capet, Henry, and Philip, the people on this side

the Loire only, were called French. There was then seen a great

diversity of manners and of laws in the provinces held from the crown of

France. The particular lords who became the masters of these provinces

introduced new customs into their new states. A Breton and a Fleming

have at present some conformity, notwithstanding the difference of

their character, which they hold from the sun and the climate, but

originally there was not the least similitude between them.

It is only since the time of Francis I. that there has been any

uniformity in manners and customs. The court, at this time, first began

to serve for a model to the United Provinces; but in general,

impetuosity in war, and a lax discipline, always formed the predominant

character of the nation.

Gallantry and politeness began to distinguish the French under Francis

I. Manners became odious after the death of Francis II. However, in the

midst of their horrors, there was always a politeness at court which the

Germans and English endeavored to imitate. The rest of Europe, in aiming

to resemble the French, were already jealous of them. A character in one

of Shakespeare's comedies says that it is difficult to be polite without

having been at the court of France.

Though the nation has been taxed with frivolity by Cæsar, and by all

neighboring nations, yet this kingdom, so long dismembered, and so often

ready to sink, is united and sustained principally by the wisdom of its

negotiations, address, and patience; but above all, by the divisions of

Germany and England. Brittany alone has been united to the kingdom by a

marriage; Burgundy by right of fee, and by the ability of Louis XI.;

Dauphiny by a donation, which was the fruit of policy; the county of

Toulouse by a grant, maintained by an army; Provence by money. One

treaty of peace has given Alsace, another Lorraine. The English have

been driven from France, notwithstanding the most signal victories,

because the kings of France have known how to temporize, and profit on

all favorable occasions;--all which proves, that if the French youth are

frivolous, the men of riper age, who govern it, have always been wise.

Even at present the magistracy are severe in manners, as in the time of

the Emperor Julian. If the first successes in Italy, in the time of

Charles VIII., were owing to the warlike impetuosity of the nation, the

disgraces which followed them were caused by the blindness of a court

which was composed of young men alone. Francis I. was only unfortunate

in his youth, when all was governed by favorites of his own age, and he

rendered his kingdom more flourishing at a more advanced age.

The French have always used the same arms as their neighbors, and have

nearly the same discipline in war, but were the first who discarded the

lance and pike. The battle of Ivry discouraged the use of lances, which

were soon abolished, and under Louis XIV. pikes were also discontinued.

They wore tunics and robes until the sixteenth century. Under Louis the

Young they left off the custom of letting the beards grow, and retook to

it under Francis I. Only under Louis XIV. did they begin to shave the

entire face. Their dress is continually changing, and at the end of each

century the French might take the portraits of their grandfathers for

those of foreigners.

FRAUD.

_Whether pious Frauds should be practised upon the People._

Once upon a time the fakir Bambabef met one of the disciples of

Confutzee (whom we call Confucius), and this disciple was named Whang.

Bambabef maintained that the people require to be deceived, and Whang

asserted that we should never deceive any one. Here is a sketch of their

dispute:

BAMBABEF.--We must imitate the Supreme Being, who does not show us

things as they are. He makes us see the sun with a diameter of two or

three feet, although it is a million of times larger than the earth. He

makes us see the moon and the stars affixed to one and the same blue

surface, while they are at different elevations; he chooses that a

square tower should appear round to us at a distance; he chooses that

fire should appear to us to be hot, although it is neither hot nor cold;

in short, he surrounds us with errors, suitable to our nature.

WHANG.--What you call error is not so. The sun, such as it is, placed at

millions of millions of lis from our globe, is not that which we see,

that which we really perceive: we perceive only the sun which is painted

on our retina, at a determinate angle. Our eyes were not given us to

know sizes and distances: to know these, other aids and other

operations are necessary.

Bambabef seemed much astonished at this position. Whang, being very

patient, explained to him the theory of optics; and Bambabef, having

some conception, was convinced by the demonstrations of the disciple of

Confucius. He then resumed in these terms:

BAMBABEF.--If God does not, as I thought, deceive us by the ministry of

our senses, you will at least acknowledge that our physicians are

constantly deceiving children for their good. They tell them that they

are giving them sugar, when in reality they are giving them rhubarb. I,

a fakir, may then deceive the people, who are as ignorant as children.

WHANG.--I have two sons; I have never deceived them. When they have been

sick, I have said to them: "Here is a nauseous medicine; you must have

the courage to take it; if it were pleasant, it would injure you." I

have never suffered their nurses and tutors to make them afraid of

ghosts, goblins, and witches. I have thereby made them wise and

courageous citizens.

BAMBABEF.--The people are not born so happily as your family.

WHANG.--Men all nearly resemble one another; they are born with the same

dispositions. Their nature ought not to be corrupted.

BAMBABEF.--We teach them errors, I own; but it is for their good. We

make them believe that if they do not buy our blessed nails, if they do

not expiate their sins by giving us money, they will, in another life,

become post-horses, dogs, or lizards. This intimidates them, and they

become good people.

WHANG.--Do you not see that you are perverting these poor folks? There

are among them many more than you think there are who reason, who make a

jest of your miracles and your superstitions; who see very clearly that

they will not be turned into lizards, nor into post-horses. What is the

consequence? They have good sense enough to perceive that you talk to

them very impertinently; but they have not enough to elevate themselves

to a religion pure and untrammelled by superstition like ours. Their

passions make them think there is no religion, because the only one that

is taught them is ridiculous: thus you become guilty of all the vices

into which they plunge.

BAMBABEF.--Not at all, for we teach them none but good morals.

WHANG.--The people would stone you if you taught impure morals. Men are

so constituted that they like very well to do evil, but they will not

have it preached to them. But a wise morality should not be mixed up

with absurd fables: for by these impostures, which you might do without,

you weaken that morality which you are forced to teach.

BAMBABEF.--What! do you think that truth can be taught to the people

without the aid of fables?

WHANG.--I firmly believe it. Our literati are made of the same stuff as

our tailors, our weavers, and our laborers. They worship a creating,

rewarding, and avenging God. They do not sully their worship by absurd

systems, nor by extravagant ceremonies. There are much fewer crimes

among the lettered than among the people; why should we not condescend

to instruct our working classes as we do our literati?

BAMBABEF.--That would be great folly; as well might you wish them to

have the same politeness, or to be all jurisconsults. It is neither

possible nor desirable. There must be white bread for the master, and

brown for the servant.

WHANG.--I own that men should not all have the same science; but there

are things necessary to all. It is necessary that each one should be

just; and the surest way of inspiring all men with justice is to inspire

them with religion without superstition.

BAMBABEF.--That is a fine project, but it is impracticable. Do you think

it is sufficient for men to believe in a being that rewards and

punishes? You have told me that the more acute among the people often

revolt against fables. They will, in like manner, revolt against truth.

They will say: Who shall assure me that God rewards and punishes? Where

is the proof? What mission have you? What miracle have you worked that I

should believe in you? They will laugh at you much more than at me.

WHANG.--Your error is this: You imagine that men will spurn an idea that

is honest, likely, and useful to every one; an idea which accords with

human reason, because they reject things which are dishonest, absurd,

useless, dangerous, and shocking to good sense.

The people are much disposed to believe their magistrates; and when

their magistrates propose to them only a rational belief, they embrace

it willingly. There is no need of prodigies to believe in a just God,

who reads the heart of man: this is an idea too natural, too necessary,

to be combated. It is not necessary to know precisely how God rewards

and punishes: to believe in His justice is enough. I assure you that I

have seen whole towns with scarcely any other tenet; and that in them I

have seen the most virtue.

BAMBABEF.--Take heed what you say. You will find philosophers in these

times, who will deny both pains and rewards.

WHANG.--But you will acknowledge that these philosophers will much more

strongly deny your inventions; so you will gain nothing by that.

Supposing that there are philosophers who do not agree with my

principles, they are not the less honest men; they do not the less

cultivate virtue, which should be embraced through love, and not through

fear. Moreover, I maintain that no philosopher can ever be assured that

Providence does not reserve pains for the wicked, and rewards for the

good. For, if they ask me who has told me that God punishes, I shall ask

them who has told them that God does not punish. In short, I maintain

that the philosophers, far from contradicting, will aid me. Will you be

a philosopher?

BAMBABEF.--With all my heart. But do not tell the fakirs. And let us,

above all, remember that if a philosopher would be of service to human

society, he must announce a God.

FREE-WILL.

From the commencement of the time in which men began to reason,

philosophers have agitated this question, which theologians have

rendered unintelligible by their absurd subtleties upon grace. Locke is

perhaps the first who, without having the arrogance of announcing a

general principle, has examined human nature by analysis. It has been

disputed for three thousand years, whether the will is free or not;

Locke shows that the question is absurd, and that liberty cannot belong

to the will any more than color and motion.

What is meant by the expression to be free? It signifies power, or

rather it has no sense at all. To say that the will _can_, is in itself

as ridiculous as if we said that it is yellow, or blue, round, or

square.

Will is will, and liberty is power. Let us gradually examine the chain

of what passes within us, without confusing our minds with any

scholastic terms, or antecedent principle.

It is proposed to you to ride on horseback; it is absolutely necessary

for you to make a choice, for it is very clear that you must either go

or not; there is no medium, you must absolutely do the one or the other.

So far it is demonstrated that the will is not free. You will get on

horseback; why? Because I will to do so, an ignoramus will say. This

reply is an absurdity; nothing can be done without reason or cause. Your

will then is caused by what? The agreeable idea which is presented to

your brain; the predominant, or determined idea; but, you will say,

cannot I resist an idea which predominates over me? No, for what would

be the cause of your resistance? An idea by which your will is swayed

still more despotically.

You receive your ideas, and, therefore, receive your will. You will then

necessarily; consequently, the word "liberty" belongs not to will in any

sense.

You ask me how thought and will are formed within you? I answer that I

know nothing about it. I no more know how ideas are created than I know

how the world was formed. We are only allowed to grope in the dark in

reference to all that inspires our incomprehensible machine.

Will, then, is not a faculty which can be called free. "Free-will" is a

word absolutely devoid of sense, and that which scholars have called

"indifference," that is to say, will without cause, is a chimera

unworthy to be combated.

In what then consists liberty? In the power of doing what we will? I

would go into my cabinet; the door is open, I am free to enter. But, say

you, if the door is shut and I remain where I am, I remain freely. Let

us explain ourselves--you then exercise the power that you possess of

remaining; you possess this power, but not the power of going out.

Liberty, then, on which so many volumes have been written, reduced to

its proper sense, is only the power of acting.

In what sense must the expression "this man is free" be spoken? In the

same sense in which we use the words "health," "strength," and

"happiness." Man is not always strong, healthy, or happy. A great

passion, a great obstacle, may deprive him of his liberty, or power of

action.

The words "liberty" and "free-will" are, then, abstractions, general

terms, like beauty, goodness, justice. These terms do not signify that

all men are always handsome, good, and just, neither are they always

free.

Further, liberty being only the power of acting, what is this power? It

is the effect of the constitution, and the actual state of our organs.

Leibnitz would solve a problem of geometry, but falls into an apoplexy;

he certainly has not the liberty to solve his problem. A vigorous young

man, passionately in love, who holds his willing mistress in his arms,

is he free to subdue his passion? Doubtless not. He has the power of

enjoying, and has not the power to abstain. Locke then is very right in

calling liberty, power. When can this young man abstain, notwithstanding

the violence of his passion? When a stronger idea shall determine the

springs of his soul and body to the contrary.

But how? Have other animals the same liberty, the same power? Why not?

They have sense, memory, sentiment, and perceptions like ourselves; they

act spontaneously as we do. They must, also, like us, have the power of

acting by virtue of their perception, and of the play of their organs.

We exclaim: If it be thus, all things are machines merely; everything in

the universe is subjected to the eternal laws. Well, would you have

everything rendered subject to a million of blind caprices? Either all

is the consequence of the nature of things, or all is the effect of the

eternal order of an absolute master; in both cases, we are only wheels

to the machine of the world.

It is a foolish, common-place expression that without this pretended

freedom of will, rewards and punishments are useless. Reason, and you

will conclude quite the contrary.

If, when a robber is executed, his accomplice, who sees him suffer, has

the liberty of not being frightened at the punishment; if his will

determines of itself, he will go from the foot of the scaffold to

assassinate on the high road; if struck with horror, he experiences an

insurmountable terror, he will no longer thieve. The punishment of his

companion will become useful to him, and moreover prove to society that

his will is not free.

Liberty, then, is not and cannot be anything but the power of doing what

we will. That is what philosophy teaches us. But, if we consider liberty

in the theological sense, it is so sublime a matter that profane eyes

may not be raised so high.

FRENCH LANGUAGE.

The French language did not begin to assume a regular form until the

tenth century; it sprang from the remains of the Latin and the Celtic,

mixed with a few Teutonic words. This language was, in the first

instance, the provincial Roman, and the Teutonic was the language of the

courts, until the time of Charles the Bald. The Teutonic remained the

only language in Germany, after the grand epoch of the division in 433.

The rustic Roman prevailed in Western France; the inhabitants of the

Pays de Vaud, of the Valois, of the valley of Engadine, and some other

cantons, still preserve some manifest vestiges of this idiom.

At the commencement of the eleventh century, French began to be written;

but this French retained more of Romance or rustic Roman than of the

language of the present day. The romance of Philomena, written in the

tenth century, is not very different in language from that of the laws

of the Normans. We cannot yet trace the original Celtic, Latin, and

German. The words which signify the members of the human body, or

things in daily use, which have no relation to the Latin or German, are

of ancient Gallic or Celtic, as _tête_, _jambe_, _sabre_, _point_,

_alter_, _parler_, _écouter_, _regarder_, _crier_, _cotume_, _ensemble_,

and many more of the same kind. The greater number of the warlike

phrases were French or German, as _marche, halte, maréchal, bivouac,

lansquenet_. Almost, all the rest are Latin, and the Latin words have

been all abridged, according to the usage and genius of the nations of

the north.

In the twelfth century, some terms were borrowed from the philosophy of

Aristotle; and toward the sixteenth century, Greek names were found for

the parts of the human body, and for its maladies and their remedies.

Although the language was then enriched with Greek, and aided from the

time of Charles VIII. with considerable accessions from the Italian,

already arrived at perfection, it did not acquire a regular form.

Francis I. abolished the custom of pleading and of judging in Latin,

which proved the barbarism of a language which could not be used in

public proceedings--a pernicious custom to the natives, whose fortunes

were regulated in a language which they could not understand. It then

became necessary to cultivate the French, but the language was neither

noble nor regular, and its syntax was altogether capricious. The genius

of its conversation being turned towards pleasantry, the language became

fertile in smart and lively expressions, but exceedingly barren in

dignified and harmonious phrases; whence it arises that in the

dictionaries of rhymes, twenty suitable words are found for comic poetry

for one of poetry of a more elevated nature. This was the cause that

Marot never succeeded in the serious style, and that Amyot was unable to

give a version of the elegant simplicity of Plutarch.

The French tongue acquired strength from the pen of Montaigne, but still

wanted elevation and harmony. Ronsard injured the language by

introducing into French poetry the Greek compounds, derivable from the

physicians. Malherbe partly repaired the fault of Ronsard. It became

more lofty and harmonious by the establishment of the French Academy,

and finally in the age of Louis XIV. acquired the perfection by which it

is now distinguished.

The genius of the French language--for every language has its genius--is

clearness and order. This genius consists in the facility which a

language possesses of expressing itself more or less happily, and of

employing or rejecting the familiar terms of other languages. The French

tongue having no declensions, and being aided by articles, cannot adopt

the inversions of the Greek and the Latin; the words are necessarily

arranged agreeably to the course of the ideas. We can only say in one

way, "_Plancus a pris soin des affaires de Cæsar_"; but this phrase in

Latin, "_Res Cæsaris, Plancus diligenter curavit_" may be arranged in a

hundred and twenty different forms without injuring the sense or rules

of the language. The auxiliary verbs, which lengthen and weaken phrases

in the modern tongues, render that of France still less adapted to the

lapidary style. Its auxiliary verbs, its pronouns, its articles, its

deficiency of declinable participles, and, lastly, its uniformity of

position, preclude the exhibition of much enthusiasm in poetry; it

possesses fewer capabilities of this nature than the Italian and the

English; but this constraint and slavery render it more proper for

tragedy and comedy than any language in Europe. The natural order in

which the French people are obliged to express their thoughts and

construct their phrases, infuses into their speech a facility and

amenity which please everybody; and the genius of the nation suiting

with the genius of the language, has produced a greater number of books

agreeably written than are to be found among any other people.

Social freedom and politeness having been for a long time established in

France, the language has acquired a delicacy of expression, and a

natural refinement which are seldom to be found out of it. This

refinement has occasionally been carried too far; but men of taste have

always known how to reduce it within due bounds.

Many persons have maintained that the French language has been

impoverished since the days of Montaigne and Amyot, because expressions

abound in these authors which are no longer employed; but these are for

the most part terms for which equivalents have been found. It has been

enriched with a number of noble and energetic expressions, and, without

adverting to the eloquence of matter, has certainly that of speech. It

was during the reign of Louis XIV., as already observed, that the

language was fixed. Whatever changes time and caprice may have in store,

the good authors of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries will always

serve for models.

Circumstances created no right to expect that France would be

distinguished in philosophy. A Gothic government extinguished all kind

of illumination during more than twelve centuries; and professors of

error, paid for brutalizing human nature, more increased the darkness.

Nevertheless, there is more philosophy in Paris than in any town on

earth, and possibly than in all the towns put together, excepting

London. The spirit of reason has even penetrated into the provinces. In

a word, the French genius is probably at present equal to that of

England in philosophy; while for the last four-score years France has

been superior to all other nations in literature; and has undeniably

taken the lead in the courtesies of society, and in that easy and

natural politeness, which is improperly termed urbanity.

FRIENDSHIP.

The temple of friendship has long been known by name, but it is well

known that it has been very little frequented; as the following verses

pleasantly observe, Orestes, Pylades, Pirithous, Achates, and the tender

Nisus, were all genuine friends and great heroes; but, alas, existent

only in fable:

_En vieux langage on voit sur la façade,_

_Les noms sacrés d'Oreste et de Pylade;_

_Le médaillon du bon Pirithous,_

_Du sage Achate et du tendre Nisus;_

_Tous grands héros, tous amis véritables;_

_Ces noms sont beaux; mais ils sont dans les fables._

Friendship commands more than love and esteem. Love your neighbor

signifies assist your neighbor, but not--enjoy his conversation with

pleasure, if he be tiresome; confide to him your secrets, if he be a

tattler; or lend him your money, if he be a spendthrift.

Friendship is the marriage of the soul, and this marriage is liable to

divorce. It is a tacit contract between two sensible and virtuous

persons. I say sensible, for a monk or a hermit cannot be so, who lives

without knowing friendship. I say virtuous, for the wicked only have

accomplices--the voluptuous, companions--the interested, associates;

politicians assemble factions--the generality of idle men have

connections--princes, courtiers. Virtuous men alone possess friends.

Cethegus was the accomplice of Catiline, and Mæcenas the courtier of

Octavius; but Cicero was the friend of Atticus.

What is caused by this contract between two tender, honest minds? Its

obligations are stronger or weaker according to the degrees of

sensibility, and the number of services rendered.

The enthusiasm of friendship has been stronger among the Greeks and

Arabs than among us. The tales that these people have imagined on the

subject of friendship are admirable; we have none to compare to them. We

are rather dry and reserved--in everything. I see no great trait of

friendship in our histories, romances, or theatre.

The only friendship spoken of among the Jews, was that which existed

between Jonathan and David. It is said that David loved him with a love

stronger than that of women; but it is also said that David, after the

death of his friend, dispossessed Mephibosheth, his son, and caused him

to be put to death.

Friendship was a point of religion and legislation among the Greeks. The

Thebans had a regiment of lovers--a fine regiment; some have taken it

for a regiment of nonconformists. They are deceived; it is taking a

shameful accident for a noble principle. Friendship, among the Greeks,

was prescribed by the laws and religion. Manners countenanced abuses,

but the laws did not.

FRIVOLITY.

What persuades me still more of the existence of Providence, said the

profound author of "_Bacha Billeboquet_," is that to console us for our

innumerable miseries, nature has made us frivolous. We are sometimes

ruminating oxen, overcome by the weight of our yoke; sometimes

dispersed doves, tremblingly endeavoring to avoid the claws of the

vulture, stained with the blood of our companions; foxes, pursued by

dogs; and tigers, who devour one another. Then we suddenly become

butterflies; and forget, in our volatile winnowings, all the horrors

that we have experienced.

If we were not frivolous, what man without shuddering, could live in a

town in which the wife of a marshal of France, a lady of honor to the

queen, was burned, under the pretext that she had killed a white cock by

moonlight; or in the same town in which Marshal Marillac was

assassinated according to form, pursuant to a sentence passed by

judicial murderers appointed by a priest in his own country house, in

which he embraced Marion de Lorme while these robed wretches executed

his sanguinary wishes?

Could a man say to himself, without trembling in every nerve, and having

his heart frozen with horror: "Here I am, in the very place which, it is

said, was strewed with the dead and dying bodies of two thousand young

gentlemen, murdered near the Faubourg St. Antoine, because one man in a

red cassock displeased some others in black ones!"

Who could pass the Rue de la Féronerie without shedding tears and

falling into paroxysms of rage against the holy and abominable

principles which plunged the sword into the heart of the best of men,

and of the greatest of kings?

We could not walk a step in the streets of Paris on St. Bartholomew's

day, without saying: "It was here that one of my ancestors was murdered

for the love of God; it was here that one of my mother's family was

dragged bleeding and mangled; it was here that one-half of my countrymen

murdered the other."

Happily, men are so light, so frivolous, so struck with the present and

so insensible to the past, that in ten thousand there are not above two

or three who make these reflections.

How many boon companions have I seen, who, after the loss of children,

wives, mistresses, fortune, and even health itself, have eagerly

resorted to a party to retail a piece of scandal, or to a supper to tell

humorous stories. Solidity consists chiefly in a uniformity of ideas. It

has been said that a man of sense should invariably think in the same

way; reduced to such an alternative, it would be better not to have been

born. The ancients never invented a finer fable than that which bestowed

a cup of the water of Lethe on all who entered the Elysian fields.

If you would tolerate life, mortals, forget yourselves, and enjoy it.

GALLANT.

This word is derived from "_gal_" the original signification of which

was gayety and rejoicing, as may be seen in Alain Chartier, and in

Froissart. Even in the "Romance of the Rose" we meet with the word

"_galandé_" in the sense of ornamented, adorned.

_La belle fut bien attornie_

_Et d'un filet d'or galandée._

It is probable that the _gala_ of the Italians, and the _galan_ of the

Spaniards, are derived from the word "_gal_" which seems to be

originally Celtic; hence, was insensibly formed _gallant_, which

signifies a man forward, or eager to please. The term received an

improved and more noble signification in the times of chivalry, when the

desire to please manifested itself in feats of arms, and personal

conflict. To conduct himself gallantly, to extricate himself from an

affair gallantly, implies, even at present, a man's conducting himself

conformably to principle and honor. A gallant man among the English,

signifies a man of courage; in France it means more--a man of noble

general demeanor. A gallant (_un homme galant_) is totally different

from a gallant man (_un galant homme_); the latter means a man of

respectable and honorable feeling--the former, something nearer the

character of a _petit maître_ a man successfully addicted to intrigue.

Being gallant (_être galant_) in general implies an assiduity to please

by studious attentions, and flattering deference. "He was exceedingly

gallant to those ladies," means merely, he behaved more than politely to

them; but being the gallant of a lady is an expression of stronger

meaning; it signifies being her lover; the word is scarcely any longer

in use in this sense, except in low or familiar poetry. A gallant is not

merely a man devoted to and successful in intrigue, but the term

implies, moreover, somewhat of impudence and effrontery, in which sense

Fontaine uses it in the following: "_Mais un 'galant,' chercheur des

pucelages_."

Thus are various meanings attached to the same word. The case is similar

with the term "gallantry," which sometimes signifies a disposition to

coquetry, and a habit of flattery; sometimes a present of some elegant

toy, or piece of jewelry; sometimes intrigue, with one woman or with

many; and, latterly, it has even been applied to signify ironically the

favors of Venus; thus, to talk gallantries, to give gallantries, to have

gallantries, to contract a gallantry, express very different meanings.

Nearly all the terms which occur frequently in conversation acquire, in

the same manner, various shades of meaning, which it is difficult to

discriminate; the meaning of terms of art is more precise and less

arbitrary.

GARGANTUA.

If ever a reputation was fixed on a solid basis, it is that of

Gargantua. Yet in the present age of philosophy and criticism, some rash

and daring minds have started forward, who have ventured to deny the

prodigies believed respecting this extraordinary man--persons who have

carried their skepticism so far as even to doubt his very existence.

How is it possible, they ask, that there should have existed in the

sixteenth century a distinguished hero, never mentioned by a single

contemporary, by St. Ignatius, Cardinal Capitan, Galileo, or

Guicciardini, and respecting whom the registers of the Sorbonne do not

contain the slightest notice?

Investigate the histories of France, of Germany, of England, Spain, and

other countries, and you find not a single word about Gargantua. His

whole life, from his birth to his death, is a tissue of inconceivable

prodigies.

His mother, Gargamelle, was delivered of him from the left ear. Almost

at the instant of his birth he called out for a drink, with a voice that

was heard even in the districts of Beauce and Vivarais. Sixteen ells of

cloth were required to make him breeches, and a hundred hides of brown

cows were used in his shoes. He had not attained the age of twelve years

before he gained a great battle, and founded the abbey of Thélème.

Madame Badebec was given to him in marriage, and Badebec is proved to be

a Syrian name.

He is represented to have devoured six pilgrims in a mere salad, and the

river Seine is stated to have flowed entirely from his person, so that

the Parisians are indebted for their beautiful river to him alone.

All this is considered contrary to nature by our carping philosophers,

who scruple to admit even what is probable, unless it is well supported

by evidence.

They observe, that if the Parisians have always believed in Gargantua,

that is no reason why other nations should believe in him; that if

Gargantua had really performed one single prodigy out of the many

attributed to him, the whole world would have resounded with it, all

records would have noticed it, and a hundred monuments would have

attested it. In short, they very unceremoniously treat the Parisians who

believe in Gargantua as ignorant simpletons and superstitious idiots,

with whom are inter-mixed a few hypocrites, who pretend to believe in

Gargantua, in order to obtain some convenient priorship in the abbey of

Thélème.

The reverend Father Viret, a Cordelier of full-sleeved dignity, a

confessor of ladies, and a preacher to the king, has replied to our

Pyrrhonean philosophers in a manner decisive and invincible. He very

learnedly proves that if no writer, with the exception of Rabelais, has

mentioned the prodigies of Gargantua, at least, no historian has

contradicted them; that the sage de Thou, who was a believer in

witchcraft, divination, and astrology, never denied the miracles of

Gargantua. They were not even called in question by La Mothe le Vayer.

Mézeray treated them with such respect as not to say a word against

them, or indeed about them. These prodigies were performed before the

eyes of all the world. Rabelais was a witness of them. It was impossible

that he could be deceived, or that he would deceive. Had he deviated

even in the smallest degree from the truth, all the nations of Europe

would have been roused against him in indignation; all the gazetteers

and journalists of the day would have exclaimed with one voice against

the fraud and imposture.

In vain do the philosophers reply--for they reply to everything--that,

at the period in question, gazettes and journals were not in existence.

It is said in return that there existed what was equivalent to them, and

that is sufficient. Everything is impossible in the history of

Gargantua, and from this circumstance itself may be inferred its

incontestable truth. For if it were not true, no person could possibly

have ventured to imagine it, and its incredibility constitutes the great

proof that it ought to be believed.

Open all the "Mercuries," all the "Journals de Trévoux"; those immortal

works which teem with instruction to the race of man, and you will not

find a single line which throws a doubt on the history of Gargantua. It

was reserved for our own unfortunate age to produce monsters, who would

establish a frightful Pyrrhonism, under the pretence of requiring

evidence as nearly approaching to mathematical as the case will admit,

and of a devotion to reason, truth, and justice. What a pity! Oh, for a

single argument to confound them!

Gargantua founded the abbey of Thélème. The title deeds, it is true,

were never found; it never had any; but it exists, and produces an

income of ten thousand pieces of gold a year. The river Seine exists,

and is an eternal monument of the prodigious fountain from which

Gargantua supplied so noble a stream. Moreover, what will it cost you to

believe in him? Should you not take the safest side? Gargantua can

procure for you wealth, honors, and influence. Philosophy can only

bestow on you internal tranquillity and satisfaction, which you will of

course estimate as a trifle. Believe, then, I again repeat, in

Gargantua; if you possess the slightest portion of avarice, ambition, or

knavery, it is the wisest part you can adopt.

GAZETTE.

A narrative of public affairs. It was at the beginning of the

seventeenth century that this useful practice was suggested and

established at Venice, at the time when Italy still continued the centre

of European negotiations, and Venice was the unfailing asylum of

liberty. The leaves or sheets containing this narrative, which were

published once a week, were called "Gazettes," from the word "gazetta,"

the name of a small coin, amounting nearly to one of our demi-sous, then

current at Venice. The example was afterwards followed in all the great

cities of Europe.

Journals of this description have been established in China from time

immemorial. The "_Imperial Gazette_" is published there every day by

order of the court. Admitting this gazette to be true, we may easily

believe it does not contain all that is true; neither in fact should it

do so.

Théophraste Renaudot, a physician, published the first gazettes in

France in 1601, and he had an exclusive privilege for the publication,

which continued for a long time a patrimony to his family. The like

privilege became an object of importance at Amsterdam, and the greater

part of the gazettes of the United Provinces are still a source of

revenue to many of the families of magistrates, who pay writers for

furnishing materials for them. The city of London alone publishes more

than twelve gazettes in the course of a week. They can be printed only

upon stamped paper, and produce no inconsiderable income to the State.

The gazettes of China relate solely to that empire; those of the

different states of Europe embrace the affairs of all countries.

Although they frequently abound in false intelligence, they may

nevertheless be considered as supplying good material for history;

because, in general, the errors of each particular gazette are corrected

by subsequent ones, and because they contain authentic copies of almost

all state papers, which indeed are published in them by order of the

sovereigns or governments themselves. The French gazettes have always

been revised by the ministry. It is on this account that the writers of

them have always adhered to certain forms and designations, with a

strictness apparently somewhat inconsistent with the courtesies of

polished society, bestowing the title of monsieur only on some

particular descriptions of persons, and that of sieur upon others; the

authors having forgotten that they were not speaking in the name of

their king. These public journals, it must be added, to their praise,

have never been debased by calumny, and have always been written with

considerable correctness.

The case is very different with respect to foreign gazettes; those of

London, with the exception of the court gazette, abound frequently in

that coarseness and licentiousness of observation which the national

liberty allows. The French gazettes established in that country have

been seldom written with purity, and have sometimes been not a little

instrumental in corrupting the language. One of the greatest faults

which has found a way into them arises from the authors having concluded

that the ancient forms of expression used in public proclamations and in

judicial and political proceedings and documents in France, and with

which they were particularly conversant, were analogous to the regular

syntax of our language, and from their having accordingly imitated that

style in their narrative. This is like a Roman historian's using the

style of the law of the twelve tables.

In imitation of the political gazettes, literary ones began to be

published in France in 1665; for the first journals were, in fact,

simply advertisements of the works recently printed in Europe; to this

mere announcement of publication was soon added a critical examination

or review. Many authors were offended at it, notwithstanding its great

moderation.

We shall here speak only of those literary gazettes with which the

public, who were previously in possession of various journals from every

country in Europe in which the sciences were cultivated, were completely

overwhelmed. These gazettes appeared at Paris about the year 1723, under

many different names, as "The Parnassian Intelligencer," "Observations

on New Books," etc. The greater number of them were written for the

single purpose of making money; and as money is not to be made by

praising authors, these productions consisted generally of satire and

abuse. They often contained the most odious personalities, and for a

time sold in proportion to the virulence of their malignity; but reason

and good taste, which are always sure to prevail at last, consigned them

eventually to contempt and oblivion.

GENEALOGY.

SECTION I.

Many volumes have been written by learned divines in order to reconcile

St. Matthew with St. Luke on the subject of the genealogy of Jesus

Christ. The former enumerates only twenty-seven generations from David

through Solomon, while Luke gives forty-two, and traces the descent

through Nathan. The following is the method in which the learned Calmet

solves a difficulty relating to Melchizedek: The Orientals and the

Greeks, ever abounding in fable and invention, fabricated a genealogy

for him, in which they give us the names of his ancestors. But, adds

this judicious Benedictine, as falsehood always betrays itself, some

state his genealogy according to one series, and others according to

another. There are some who maintain that he descended from a race

obscure and degraded, and there are some who are disposed to represent

him as illegitimate.

This passage naturally applies to Jesus, of whom, according to the

apostle, Melchizedek was the type or figure. In fact, the gospel of

Nicomedes expressly states that the Jews, in the presence of Pilate,

reproached Jesus with being born of fornication; upon which the learned

Fabricius remarks, that it does not appear from any clear and credible

testimony that the Jews directed to Jesus Christ during His life, or

even to His apostles, that calumny respecting His birth which they so

assiduously and virulently circulated afterwards. The Acts of the

Apostles, however, inform us that the Jews of Antioch opposed

themselves, blaspheming against what Paul spoke to them concerning

Jesus; and Origen maintains that the passage in St. John's gospel "We

are not born of fornication, we have never been in subjection unto any

man" was an indirect reproach thrown out by the Jews against Jesus on

the subject of His birth. For, as this father informs us, they pretended

that Jesus was originally from a small hamlet of Judæa, and His mother

nothing more than a poor villager subsisting by her labor, who, having

been found guilty of adultery with a soldier of the name of Panther, was

turned away by her husband, whose occupation was that of a carpenter;

that, after this disgraceful expulsion, she wandered about miserably

from one place to another, and was privately delivered of Jesus, who,

pressed by the necessity of His circumstances, was compelled to go and

hire Himself as a servant in Egypt, where He acquired some of those

secrets which the Egyptians turn to so good an account, and then

returned to His own country, in which, full of the miracles He was

enabled to perform, He proclaimed Himself to be God.

According to a very old tradition, the name of Panther, which gave

occasion to the mistake of the Jews, was, as we are informed by St.

Epiphanius, the surname of Joseph's father, or rather, as is asserted by

St. John Damascene, the proper name of Mary's grandfather.

As to the situation of servant, with which Jesus was reproached, He

declares Himself that He came not to be served, but to serve. Zoroaster,

according to the Arabians, had in like manner been the servant of

Esdras. Epictetus was even born in servitude. Accordingly, St. Cyril of

Jerusalem justly observed that it is no disgrace to any man.

On the subject of the miracles, we learn indeed from Pliny that the

Egyptians had the secret of dyeing with different colors, stuffs which

were dipped in the very same furnace, and this is one of the miracles

which the gospel of the Infancy attributes to Jesus. But, according to

St. Chrysostom, Jesus performed no miracle before His baptism, and those

stated to have been wrought by Him before are absolute fabrications. The

reason assigned by this father for such an arrangement is, that the

wisdom of God determined against Christ's performing any miracles in His

childhood, lest they should have been regarded as impostures.

Epiphanius in vain alleges that to deny the miracles ascribed by some to

Jesus during His infancy, would furnish heretics with a specious pretext

for saying that He became Son of God only in consequence of the effusion

of the Holy Spirit, which descended upon Him at His baptism; we are

contending here, not against heretics, but against Jews.

Mr. Wagenseil has presented us with a Latin translation of a Jewish work

entitled "_Toldos Jeschu_," in which it is related that Jeschu, being at

Bethlehem in Judah, the place of his birth, cried out aloud, "Who are

the wicked men that pretend I am a bastard, and spring from an impure

origin? They are themselves bastards, themselves exceedingly impure! Was

I not born of a virgin mother? And I entered through the crown of her

head!"

This testimony appeared of such importance to M. Bergier, that that

learned divine felt no scruple about employing it without quoting his

authority. The following are his words, in the twenty-third page of the

"Certainty of the Proofs of Christianity": "Jesus was born of a virgin

by the operation of the Holy Spirit. Jesus Himself frequently assured us

of this with His own mouth; and to the same purpose is the recital of

the apostles." It is certain that these words are only to be found in

the "_Toldos Jeschu_"; and the certainty of that proof, among those

adduced by M. Bergier, subsists, although St. Matthew applies to Jesus

the passage of "Isaiah": "He shall not dispute, he shall not cry aloud,

and no one shall hear his voice in the streets."

According to St. Jerome, there was in like manner an ancient tradition

among the Gymnosophists of India, that Buddha, the author of their

creed, was born of a virgin, who was delivered of him from her side. In

the same manner was born Julius Cæsar, Scipio Africanus, Manlius, Edward

VI. of England, and others, by means of an operation called by surgeons

the Cæsarian operation, because it consists in abstracting the child

from the womb by an incision in the abdomen of the mother. Simon,

surnamed the Magician, and Manes both pretended to have been born of

virgins. This might, however, merely mean, that their mothers were

virgins at the time of conceiving them. But in order to be convinced of

the uncertainty attending the marks and evidences of virginity, it will

be perfectly sufficient to read the commentary of M. de Pompignan, the

celebrated bishop of Puy en Velai, on the following passage in the Book

of Proverbs: "There are three things which are too wonderful for me,

yea, four which I know not. The way of an eagle in the air, the way of a

serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, and the

way of a man in his youth." In order to give a literal translation of

the passage, according to this prelate (in the third chapter of the

second part of his work entitled "Infidelity Convinced by the

Prophecies"), it would have been necessary to say, "_Viam viri in

virgine adolescentula_"--The way of a man with a maid. The translation

of our Vulgate, says he, substitutes another meaning, exact indeed and

true, but less conformable to the original text. In short, he

corroborates his curious interpretation by the analogy between this

verse and the following one: "Such is the life of the adulterous woman,

who, after having eaten, wipeth her mouth and saith, I have done no

wickedness."

However this may be, the virginity of Mary was not generally admitted,

even at the beginning of the third century. "Many have entertained the

opinion and do still," said St. Clement of Alexandria, "that Mary was

delivered of a son without that delivery producing any change in her

person; for some say that a midwife who visited her after the birth

found her to retain all the marks of virginity." It is clear that St.

Clement refers here to the gospel of the conception of Mary, in which

the angel Gabriel says to her, "Without intercourse with man, thou, a

virgin, shalt conceive, thou, a virgin, shalt be delivered of a child,

thou, a virgin, shalt give suck"; and also to the first gospel of James,

in which the midwife exclaims, "What an unheard-of wonder! Mary has just

brought a son into the world, and yet retains all the evidences of

virginity." These two gospels were, nevertheless, subsequently rejected

as apocryphal, although on this point they were conformable to the

opinion adopted by the church; the scaffolding was removed after the

building was completed.

What is added by Jeschu--"I entered by the crown of the head"--was

likewise the opinion held by the church. The Breviary of the Maronites

represents the word of the Father as having entered by the ear of the

blessed woman. St. Augustine and Pope Felix say expressly that the

virgin became pregnant through the ear. St. Ephrem says the same in a

hymn, and Voisin, his translator, observes that the idea came originally

from Gregory of Neocæsarea, surnamed Thaumaturgos. Agobar relates that

in his time the church sang in the time of public service: "The Word

entered through the ear of the virgin, and came out at the golden gate."

Eutychius speaks also of Elian, who attended at the Council of Nice, and

who said that the Word entered by the ear of the virgin, and came out

in the way of childbirth. This Elian was a rural bishop, whose name

occurs in Selden's published Arabic List of Fathers who attended the

Council of Nice.

It is well known that the Jesuit Sanchez gravely discussed the question

whether the Virgin Mary contributed seminally in the incarnation of

Christ, and that, like other divines before him, he concluded in the

affirmative. But these extravagances of a prurient and depraved

imagination should be classed with the opinion of Aretin, who introduces

the Holy Spirit on this occasion effecting his purpose under the figure

of a dove; as mythology describes Jupiter to have succeeded with Leda in

the form of a swan, or as the most eminent authors of the church--St.

Austin, Athenagoras, Tertullian, St. Clement of Alexandria, St. Cyprian,

Lactantius, St. Ambrose--and others believed, after Philo and Josephus,

the historian, who were Jews, that angels had associated with the

daughters of men, and engaged in sexual connection with them. St.

Augustine goes so far as to charge the Manichæans with teaching, as a

part of their religious persuasion, that beautiful young persons

appeared in a state of nature before the princes of darkness, or evil

angels, and deprived them of the vital substance which that father calls

the nature of God. Herodius is still more explicit, and says that the

divine majesty escaped through the productive organs of demons.

It is true that all these fathers believed angels to be corporeal. But,

after the works of Plato had established the idea of their spirituality,

the ancient opinion of a corporeal union between angels and women was

explained by the supposition that the same angel who, in a woman's form,

had received the embraces of a man, in turn held communication with a

woman, in the character of a man. Divines, by the terms "incubus" and

"succubus," designate the different parts thus performed by angels.

Those who are curious on the subject of these offensive and revolting

reveries may see further details in "Various Readings of the Book of

Genesis," by Otho Gualter; "Magical Disquisitions," by Delvis, and the

"Discourses on Witchcraft," by Henry Boguet.

SECTION II.

No genealogy, even although reprinted in Moréri, approaches that of

Mahomet or Mahommed, the son of Abdallah, the son of Abd'all Montaleb,

the son of Ashem; which Mahomet was, in his younger days, groom of the

widow Khadijah, then her factor, then her husband, then a prophet of

God, then condemned to be hanged, then conqueror and king of Arabia; and

who finally died an enviable death, satiated with glory and with love.

The German barons do not trace back their origin beyond Witikind; and

our modern French marquises can scarcely any of them show deeds and

patents of an earlier date than Charlemagne. But the race of Mahomet, or

Mohammed, which still exists, has always exhibited a genealogical tree,

of which the trunk is Adam, and of which the branches reach from Ishmael

down to the nobility and gentry who at the present day bear the high

title of cousins of Mahomet.

There is no difficulty about this genealogy, no dispute among the

learned, no false calculations to be rectified, no contradictions to

palliate, no impossibilities to be made possible.

Your pride cavils against the authenticity of these titles. You tell me

that you are descended from Adam as well as the greatest prophet, if

Adam was the common father of our race; but that this same Adam was

never known by any person, not even by the ancient Arabs themselves;

that the name has never been cited except in the books of the Jews; and

that, consequently, you take the liberty of writing down _false_ against

the high and noble claims of Mahomet, or Mohammed.

You add that, in any case, if there has been a first man, whatever his

name might be, you are a descendant from him as decidedly as Khadijah's

illustrious groom; and that, if there has been no first man, if the

human race always existed, as so many of the learned pretend, then you

are clearly a gentleman from all eternity.

In answer to this you are told that you are a plebeian (_roturier_) from

all eternity, unless you can produce a regular and complete set of

parchments.

You reply that men are equal; that one race cannot be more ancient than

another; that parchments, with bits of wax dangling to them, are a

recent invention; that there is no reason that compels you to yield to

the family of Mahomet, or to that of Confucius; or to that of the

emperors of Japan; or to the royal secretaries of the grand college. Nor

can I oppose your opinion by arguments, physical, metaphysical, or

moral. You think yourself equal to the dairo of Japan, and I entirely

agree with you. All that I would advise you is, that if ever you meet

with him, you take good care to be the stronger.

GENESIS.

The sacred writer having conformed himself to the ideas generally

received, and being indeed obliged not to deviate from them, as without

such condescension to the weakness and ignorance of those whom he

addressed, he would not have been understood, it only remains for us to

make some observations on the natural philosophy prevailing in those

early periods; for, with respect to theology, we reverence it, we

believe in it, and never either dispute or discuss it.

"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth." Thus has the

original passage been translated, but the translation is not correct.

There is no one, however slightly informed upon the subject, who is not

aware that the real meaning of the word is, "In the beginning the gods

made _firent_ or _fit_ the heaven and the earth." This reading,

moreover, perfectly corresponds with the ancient idea of the

Phœnicians, who imagined that, in reducing the chaos (_chautereb_)

into order, God employed the agency of inferior deities.

The Phœnicians had been long a powerful people, having a theogony of

their own, before the Hebrews became possessed of a few cantons of land

near their territory. It is extremely natural to suppose that when the

Hebrews had at length formed a small establishment near Phœnicia,

they began to acquire its language. At that time their writers might,

and probably did, borrow the ancient philosophy of their masters. Such

is the regular march of the human mind.

At the time in which Moses is supposed to have lived, were the

Phœnician philosophers sufficiently enlightened to regard the earth

as a mere point in the compass with the infinite orbs placed by God in

the immensity of space, commonly called heaven? The idea so very

ancient, and at the same time so utterly false, that heaven was made for

earth, almost always prevailed in the minds of the great mass of the

people. It would certainly be just as correct and judicious for any

person to suppose, if told that God created all the mountains and a

single grain of sand, that the mountains were created for that grain of

sand. It is scarcely possible that the Phœnicians, who were such

excellent navigators, should not have had some good astronomers; but

the old prejudices generally prevailed, and those old prejudices were

very properly spared and indulged by the author of the Book of Genesis,

who wrote to instruct men in the ways of God, and not in natural

philosophy.

"The earth was without form (_tohu bohu_) and void; darkness rested upon

the face of the deep, and the spirit of God moved upon the surface of

the waters."

_Tohu bohu_ means precisely chaos, disorder. It is one of those

imitative words which are to be found in all languages; as, for example,

in the French we have _sens dessus dessous, tintamarre, trictrac,

tonnerre, bombe_. The earth was not as yet formed in its present state;

the matter existed, but the divine power had not yet arranged it. The

spirit of God means literally the breath, the wind, which agitated the

waters. The same idea occurs in the "Fragments" of the Phœnician

author Sanchoniathon. The Phœnicians, like every other people,

believed matter to be eternal. There is not a single author of antiquity

who ever represented something to have been produced from nothing. Even

throughout the whole Bible, no passage is to be found in which matter is

said to have been created out of nothing. Not, however, that we mean to

controvert the truth of such creation. It was, nevertheless, a truth not

known by the carnal Jews.

On the question of the eternity of the world, mankind has always been

divided, but never on that of the eternity of matter. From nothing,

nothing can proceed, nor into nothing can aught existent return. _"De

nihilo nihilum, et in nihilum nil posse gigni reverti."_ (_Persius; Sat.

iii._) Such was the opinion of all antiquity.

"God said let there be light, and there was light; and he saw that the

light was good, and he divided the light from the darkness; and he

called the light day, and the darkness night; and the evening and the

morning were the first day. And God said also, let there be a firmament

in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the

waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were

under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament. And

God called the firmament heaven. And the evening and the morning were

the second day.... And he saw that it was good."

We begin with examining whether Huet, bishop of Avranches, Leclerc, and

some other commentators, are not in the right in opposing the idea of

those who consider this passage as exhibiting the most sublime

eloquence.

Eloquence is not aimed at in any history written by the Jews. The style

of the passage in question, like that of all the rest of the work,

possesses the most perfect simplicity. If an orator, intending to give

some idea of the power of God, employed for that purpose the short and

simple expression we are considering, "He said, let there be light, and

there was light," it would then be sublime. Exactly similar is the

passage in one of the Psalms, "_Dixit, et facta sunt_"--"He spake, and

they were made." It is a trait which, being unique in this place, and

introduced purposely in order to create a majestic image, elevates and

transports the mind. But, in the instance under examination, the

narrative is of the most simple character. The Jewish writer is speaking

of light just in the same unambitious manner as of other objects of

creation; he expresses himself equally and regularly after every

article, "and God saw that it was good." Everything is sublime in the

course or act of creation, unquestionably, but the creation of light is

no more so than that of the herbs of the field; the sublime is something

which soars far from the rest, whereas all is equal throughout the

chapter.

But further, it was another very ancient opinion that light did not

proceed from the sun. It was seen diffused throughout the atmosphere,

before the rising and after the setting of that star; the sun was

supposed merely to give it greater strength and clearness; accordingly

the author of Genesis accommodates himself to this popular error, and

even states the creation of the sun and moon not to have taken place

until four days after the existence of light. It was impossible that

there could be a morning and evening before the existence of a sun. The

inspired writer deigned, in this instance, to condescend to the gross

and wild ideas of the nation. The object of God was not to teach the

Jews philosophy. He might have raised their minds to the truth, but he

preferred descending to their error. This solution can never be too

frequently repeated.

The separation of the light from the darkness is a part of the same

system of philosophy. It would seem that night and day were mixed up

together, as grains of different species which are easily separable from

each other. It is sufficiently known that darkness is nothing but the

absence of light, and that there is in fact no light when our eyes

receive no sensation of it; but at that period these truths were far

from being known.

The idea of a firmament, again, is of the very highest antiquity. The

heavens are imagined to be a solid mass, because they always exhibited

the same phenomena. They rolled over our heads, they were therefore

constituted of the most solid materials. Who could suppose that the

exhalations from the land and sea supplied the water descending from the

clouds, or compute their corresponding quantities? No Halley then lived

to make so curious a calculation. The heavens therefore were conceived

to contain reservoirs. These reservoirs could be supported only on a

strong arch, and as this arch of heaven was actually transparent, it

must necessarily have been made of crystal. In order that the waters

above might descend from it upon the earth, sluices, cataracts, and

floodgates were necessary, which might be opened and shut as

circumstances required. Such was the astronomy of the day; and, as the

author wrote for Jews, it was incumbent upon him to adopt their gross

ideas, borrowed from other people somewhat less gross than themselves.

"God also made two great lights, one to rule the day, the other the

night; He also made the stars."

It must be admitted that we perceive throughout the same ignorance of

nature. The Jews did not know that the moon shone only with a reflected

light. The author here speaks of stars as of mere luminous points, such

as they appear, although they are in fact so many suns, having each of

them worlds revolving round it. The Holy Spirit, then, accommodated

Himself to the spirit of the times. If He had said that the sun was a

million times larger than the earth, and the moon fifty times smaller,

no one would have comprehended Him. They appear to us two stars of

nearly equal size.

"God said, also, let us make man in our own image, and let him have

dominion over the fishes."

What meaning did the Jews attach to the expression, "let us make man in

our own image?" The same as all antiquity attached to it: "_Finxit in

effigiem moderantum cuncta deorum._" (Ovid, Metam. i. 82.)

No images are made but of bodies. No nation ever imagined a God without

body, and it is impossible to represent Him otherwise. We may indeed say

that God is nothing that we are acquainted with, but we can have no

idea of what He is. The Jews invariably conceived God to be corporeal,

as well as every other people. All the first fathers of the Church,

also, entertained the same belief till they had embraced the ideas of

Plato, or rather until the light of Christianity became more pure.

"He created them male and female." If God, of the secondary or inferior

gods, created mankind, male and female, after their own likeness, it

would seem in that case, as if the Jews believed that God and the gods

who so formed them were male and female. It has been a subject of

discussion, whether the author means to say that man had originally two

sexes, or merely that God made Adam and Eve on the same day. The most

natural meaning is that God formed Adam and Eve at the same time; but

this interpretation involves an absolute contradiction to the statement

of the woman's being made out of the rib of man after the seven days

were concluded.

"And he rested on the seventh day." The Phœnicians, Chaldæans, and

Indians, represented God as having made the world in six periods, which

the ancient Zoroaster calls the six "Gahanbars," so celebrated among the

Persians.

It is beyond all question that these nations possessed a theology before

the Jews inhabited the deserts of Horeb and Sinai, and before they could

possibly have had any writers. Many writers have considered it probable

that the allegory of six days was imitated from that of the six

periods. God may have permitted the idea to have prevailed in large and

populous empires before he inspired the Jewish people with it. He had

undoubtedly permitted other people to invent the arts before the Jews

were in possession of any one of them.

"From this pleasant place a river went out which watered the garden, and

thence it was divided into four rivers. One was called Pison, which

compassed the whole land of Havilah, whence cometh gold.... the second

was called Gihon and surrounds Ethiopia.... the third is the Tigris, and

the fourth the Euphrates."

According to this version, the earthly paradise would have contained

nearly a third part of Asia and of Africa. The sources of the Euphrates

and the Tigris are sixty leagues distant from each other, in frightful

mountains, bearing no possible resemblance to a garden. The river which

borders Ethiopia, and which can be no other than the Nile, commences its

course at the distance of more than a thousand leagues from the sources

of the Tigris and Euphrates; and, if the Pison means the Phasis, it is

not a little surprising that the source of a Scythian river and that of

an African one should be situated on the same spot. We must therefore

look for some other explanation, and for other rivers. Every commentator

has got up a paradise of his own.

It has been said that the Garden of Eden resembles the gardens of Eden

at Saana in Arabia Felix, celebrated throughout all antiquity; that the

Hebrews, a very recent people, might be an Arabian horde, and assume to

themselves the honor of the most beautiful spot in the finest district

of Arabia; and that they have always converted to their own purposes the

ancient traditions of the vast and powerful nations in the midst of whom

they were in bondage. They were not, however, on this account, the less

under the divine protection and guidance.

"The Lord then took the man and put him into the Garden of Eden that he

might cultivate it." It is very respectable and pleasant for a man to

"cultivate his garden," but it must have been somewhat difficult for

Adam to have dressed and kept in order a garden of a thousand leagues in

length, even although he had been supplied with some assistants.

Commentators on this subject, therefore, we again observe, are

completely at a loss, and must be content to exercise their ingenuity in

conjecture. Accordingly, these four rivers have been described as

flowing through numberless different territories.

"Eat not of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil." It is

not easy to conceive that there ever existed a tree which could teach

good and evil, as there are trees that bear pears and apricots. And

besides the question is asked, why is God unwilling that man should know

good and evil? Would not his free access to this knowledge, on the

contrary, appear--if we may venture to use such language--more

worthy of God, and far more necessary to man? To our weak reason it

would seem more natural and proper for God to command him to eat largely

of such fruit; but we must bring our reason under subjection, and

acquiesce with humility and simplicity in the conclusion that God is to

be obeyed.

[Illustration: THE TEMPTATION OF ADAM]

"If thou shalt eat thereof, thou shalt die." Nevertheless, Adam ate of

it and did not die; on the contrary, he is stated to have lived on for

nine hundred and thirty years. Many of the fathers considered the whole

matter as an allegory. In fact, it might be said that all other animals

have no knowledge that they shall die, but that man, by means of his

reason, has such knowledge. This reason is the tree of knowledge which

enables him to foresee his end. This, perhaps, is the most rational

interpretation that can be given. We venture not to decide positively.

"The Lord said, also, it is not good for man to be alone; let us make

him a helpmeet for him." We naturally expect that the Lord is about to

bestow on him a wife; but first he conducts before him all the various

tribes of animals. Perhaps the copyist may have committed here an error

of transposition.

"And the name which Adam gave to every animal is its true name." What we

should naturally understand by the true name of an animal, would be a

name describing all, or at least, the principal properties of its

species. But this is not the case in any language. In each there are

some imitative words, as "_coq_" and "_cocu_" in the Celtic, which bear

some slight similarity to the notes of the cock and the cuckoo;

_tintamarre, trictrac_, in French; _alali_, in Greek; _lupus_, in Latin,

etc. But these imitative words are exceedingly few. Moreover, if Adam

had thus thoroughly known the properties of various animals, he must

either have previously eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, or

it would apparently have answered no end for God to have interdicted him

from it. He must have already known more than the Royal Society of

London, and the Academy of the Sciences.

It may be remarked that this is the first time the name of Adam occurs

in the Book of Genesis. The first man, according to the ancient

Brahmins, who were prodigiously anterior to the Jews, was called Adimo,

a son of the earth, and his wife, Procris, life. This is recorded in the

Vedas, in the history of the second formation of the world. Adam and Eve

expressed perfectly the same meanings in the Phoenician language--a new

evidence of the Holy Spirit's conforming Himself to commonly received

ideas.

"When Adam was asleep God took one of his ribs and put flesh instead

thereof; and of the rib which he had taken from Adam he formed a woman,

and he brought the woman to Adam."

In the previous chapter the Lord had already created the male and the

female; why, therefore, remove a rib from the man to form out of it a

woman who was already in being? It is answered that the author barely

announces in the one case what he explains in another. It is answered

further that this allegory places the wife in subjection to her husband,

and expresses their intimate union. Many persons have been led to

imagine from this verse that men have one rib less than women; but this

is a heresy, and anatomy informs us that a wife has no more ribs than

her husband.

"But the serpent was more subtle than all animals on the earth; he said

to the woman," etc. Throughout the whole of this article there is no

mention made of the devil. Everything in it relates to the usual course

of nature. The serpent was considered by all oriental nations, not only

as the most cunning of all animals, but likewise as immortal. The

Chaldæans had a fable concerning a quarrel between God and the serpent,

and this fable had been preserved by Pherecydes. Origen cites it in his

sixth book against Celsus. A serpent was borne in procession at the

feasts of Bacchus. The Egyptians, according to the statement of Eusebius

in the first book of the tenth chapter of his "Evangelical Preparation,"

attached a sort of divinity to the serpent. In Arabia, India, and even

China, the serpent was regarded as a symbol of life; and hence it was

that the emperors of China, long before the time of Moses, always bore

upon their breast the image of a serpent.

Eve expresses no astonishment at the serpent's speaking to her. In all

ancient histories, animals have spoken; hence Pilpay and Lokman excited

no surprise by their introduction of animals conversing and disputing.

The whole of this affair appears so clearly to have been supposed in the

natural course of events, and so unconnected with anything allegorical,

that the narrative assigns a reason why the serpent, from that time, has

moved creeping on its belly, why we always are eager to crush it under

our feet, and why it always attempts--at least according to the popular

belief--to bite and wound us. Precisely as, with respect to presumed

changes affecting certain animals recorded in ancient fable, reasons

were stated why the crow which originally had been white is at the

present day black; why the owl quits his gloomy retreat only by night;

why the wolf is devoted to carnage. The fathers, however, believed the

affair to be an allegory at once clear and venerable. The safest way is

to believe like them.

"I will multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow shalt thou

bring forth children. Thou shalt be under the power of the man, and he

shall rule over thee." Why, it is asked, should the multiplication of

conception be a punishment? It was, on the contrary, says the objector,

esteemed a superior blessing, particularly among the Jews. The pains of

childbirth are inconsiderable, in all except very weak or delicate

women. Those accustomed to labor are delivered, particularly in warm

climates, with great ease. Brutes frequently experience greater

suffering from this process of nature: some even die under it. And with

respect to the superiority or dominion of the man over the woman, it is

merely in the natural course of events; it is the effect of strength of

body, and even of strength of mind. Men, generally speaking, possess

organs more capable of continued attention than women, and are better

fitted by nature for labors both of the head and arm. But when a woman

possesses both a hand and a mind more powerful than her husband's, she

everywhere possesses the dominion over him; it is then the husband that

is under subjection to the wife. There is certainly truth in these

remarks; but it might, nevertheless, very easily be the fact that,

before the commission of the original sin, neither subjection nor sorrow

existed.

"The Lord made for them coats of skins." This passage decidedly proves

that the Jews believed God to be corporeal. A rabbi, of the name of

Eliezer, stated in his works that God clothed Adam and Eve with the skin

of the very serpent who had tempted them; and Origen maintains that this

coat of skins was a new flesh, a new body, which God conferred on man.

It is far better to adhere respectfully to the literal texts.

"And the Lord said; Lo! Adam is become like one of us." It seems as if

the Jews admitted, originally, many gods. It is somewhat more difficult

to determine what they meant by the word "God," _Elohim_. Some

commentators have contended that the expression "one of us" signifies

the Trinity. But certainly there is nothing relating to the Trinity

throughout the Bible. The Trinity is not a compound of many or several

Gods: it is one and the same god threefold; and the Jews never heard the

slightest mention of one god in three persons. By the words "like us,"

or "as one of us," it is probable that the Jews understood the angels,

_Elohim_. It is this passage which has induced many learned men very

rashly to conclude that this book was not written until that people had

adopted the belief of those inferior gods. But this opinion has been

condemned.

"The Lord sent him forth from the garden of Eden to cultivate the

ground." "But," it is remarked by some, "the Lord had placed him in the

garden of Eden to _cultivate_ that garden." If Adam, instead of being a

gardener, merely becomes a laborer, his situation, they observe, is not

made very much worse by the change. A good laborer is well worth a good

gardener. These remarks must be regarded as too light and frivolous. It

appears more judicious to say that God punished disobedience by

banishing the offender from the place of his nativity.

The whole of this history, generally speaking--according to the opinion

of liberal, not to say licentious, commentators--proceeds upon the idea

which has prevailed in every past age, and still exists, that the first

times were better and happier than those which followed. Men have

always complained of the present and extolled the past. Pressed down by

the labors of life, they have imagined happiness to consist in

inactivity, not considering that the most unhappy of all states is that

of a man who has nothing to do. They felt themselves frequently

miserable, and framed in their imaginations an ideal period in which all

the world had been happy; although it might be just as naturally and

truly supposed that there had existed times in which no tree decayed and

perished, in which no beast was weak, diseased, or devoured by another,

and in which spiders did not prey upon flies. Hence the idea of the

golden age; of the egg pierced by Arimanes; of the serpent who stole

from the ass the recipe for obtaining a happy and immortal life, which

the man had placed upon his pack-saddle; of the conflict between Typhon

and Osiris, and between Opheneus and the gods; of the famous box of

Pandora; and of all those ancient tales, of which some are ingenious,

but none instructive. But we are bound to believe that the fables of

other nations are imitations of the Hebrew history, since we possess the

ancient history of the Hebrews, and the early books of other nations are

nearly all destroyed. Besides the testimonies in favor of the Book of

Genesis are irrefragable.

"And He placed before the garden of Eden a cherub with a flaming sword,

which turned all round to guard the way to the tree of life." The word

"_kerub_" signifies _ox_. An ox armed with a flaming sword is rather a

singular exhibition, it is said, before a portal. But the Jews

afterwards represented angels under the form of oxen and hawks although

they were forbidden to make any images. They evidently derived these

emblems of oxen and hawks from the Egyptians, whom they imitated in so

many other things. The Egyptians first venerated the ox as the emblem of

agriculture, and the hawk as that of the winds; but they never converted

the ox into a sentinel. It is probably an allegory; and the Jews by

"_kerub_" understood nature. It was a symbol formed of the head of an

ox, the head and body of a man, and the wings of a hawk.

"And the Lord set a mark upon Cain." What Lord? says the infidel. He

accepts the offering of Abel, and rejects that of his elder brother,

without the least reason being assigned for the distinction. By this

proceeding the Lord was the cause of animosity between the two brothers.

We are presented in this piece of history, it is true, with a moral,

however humiliating, lesson; a lesson to be derived from all the fables

of antiquity, that scarcely had the race of man commenced the career of

existence, before one brother assassinates another. But what the sages,

of this world consider contrary to everything moral, to everything just,

to all the principles of common sense, is that God, who inflicted

eternal damnation on the race of man, and useless crucifixion on His own

son, on account merely of the eating of an apple, should absolutely

pardon a fratricide! nay, that He should more than pardon, that He

should take the offender under His peculiar protection! He declares that

whoever shall avenge the murder of Abel shall experience sevenfold the

punishment that Cain might have suffered. He puts a mark upon him as a

safeguard. Here, continue these vile blasphemers, here is a fable as

execrable as it is absurd. It is the raving of some wretched Jew, who

wrote those infamous and revolting fooleries, in imitation of the tales

so greedily swallowed by the neighboring population in Syria. This

senseless Jew attributes these atrocious reveries to Moses, at a time

when nothing was so rare as books. That fatality, which affects and

disposes of everything, has handed down this contemptible production to

our own times. Knaves have extolled it, and fools have believed it. Such

is the language of a tribe of theists, who, while they adore a God, dare

to condemn the God of Israel; and who judge of the conduct of the

eternal Deity by the rules of our own imperfect morality, and erroneous

justice. They admit a God, to subject Him to our laws. Let us guard

against such rashness; and, once again it must be repeated, let us

revere what we cannot comprehend. Let us cry out, _O Altitudo_! O the

height and depth! with all our strength.

"The gods Elohim, seeing the daughters of men that they were fair, took

for wives those whom they chose." This imagination, again, may be traced

in the history of every people. No nation has ever existed, unless

perhaps we may except China, in which some god is not described as

having had offspring from women. These corporeal gods frequently

descended to visit their dominions upon earth; they saw the daughters of

our race, and attached themselves to those who were most interesting and

beautiful: the issue of this connection between gods and mortals must of

course have been superior to other men; accordingly, Genesis informs us

that from the association it mentions, of the gods with women, sprang a

race of giants.

"I will bring a deluge of waters upon the earth." I will merely observe

here that St. Augustine, in his "City of God," No. 8, says, "_Maximum

illud diluvium Græca nec Latina novit historia_"--neither Greek nor

Latin history knows anything about the great deluge. In fact, none had

ever been known in Greece but those of Deucalion and Ogyges. They are

regarded as universal in the fables collected by Ovid, but are wholly

unknown in eastern Asia. St. Augustine, therefore, is not mistaken, in

saying that history makes no mention of this event.

"God said to Noah, I will make a covenant with you, and with your seed

after you, and with all living creatures." God make a covenant with

beasts! What sort of a covenant? Such is the outcry of infidels. But if

He makes a covenant with man, why not with the beast? It has feeling,

and there is something as divine in feeling as in the most metaphysical

meditation. Besides, beasts feel more correctly than the greater part of

men think. It is clearly in virtue of this treaty that Francis d'Assisi,

the founder of the Seraphic order, said to the grasshoppers and the

hares, "Pray sing, my dear sister grasshopper; pray browse, my dear

brother hare." But what were the conditions of the treaty? That all

animals should devour one another; that they should feed upon our flesh,

and we upon theirs; that, after having eaten them, we should proceed

with wrath and fury to the extermination of our own race--nothing being

then wanting to crown the horrid series of butchery and cruelty, but

devouring our fellow-men, after having thus remorselessly destroyed

them. Had there been actually such a treaty as this it could have been

entered into only with the devil.

Probably the meaning of the whole passage is neither more nor less than

that God is equally the absolute master of everything that breathes.

This pact can be nothing more than an order, and the word "covenant" is

used merely as more emphatic and impressive; we should not therefore be

startled and offended at the words, but adore the spirit, and direct our

minds back to the period in which this book was written--a book of

scandal to the weak, but of edification to the strong.

"And I will put my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of my

covenant." Observe that the author does not say, I _have_ put my bow in

the clouds; he says, I _will_ put: this clearly implies it to have been

the prevailing opinion that there had not always been a rainbow. This

phenomenon is necessarily produced by rain; yet in this place it is

represented as something supernatural, exhibited in order to announce

and prove that the earth should no more be inundated. It is singular to

choose the certain sign of rain, in order to assure men against their

being drowned. But it may also be replied that in any danger of

inundation, we have the cheering security of the rainbow.

"But the Lord came down to see the city and the tower which the sons of

Adam had built, and he said, 'Behold a people which have but one

language. They have begun to do this, and they will not desist until

they have completed it. Come, then, let us go and confound their

language, that no one may understand his neighbor.'" Observe here, that

the sacred writer always continues to conform to the popular opinions.

He always speaks of God as of a man who endeavors to inform himself of

what is passing, who is desirous of seeing with his own eyes what is

going on in his dominions, who calls together his council in order to

deliberate with them.

"And Abraham having divided his men--who were three hundred and eighteen

in number--fell upon the five kings, and pursued them unto Hoba, on the

left hand of Damascus." From the south bank of the lake of Sodom to

Damascus was a distance of eighty leagues, not to mention crossing the

mountains Libanus and Anti-Libanus. Infidels smile and triumph at such

exaggeration. But as the Lord favored Abraham, nothing was in fact

exaggerated.

"And two angels arrived at Sodom at even." The whole history of these

two angels, whom the inhabitants of Sodom wished to violate, is perhaps

the most extraordinary in the records of all antiquity. But it must be

considered that almost all Asia believed in the existence of the

demoniacal incubus and succubus; and moreover, that these two angels

were creatures more perfect than mankind, and must have possessed more

beauty to stimulate their execrable tendencies. It is possible that the

passage may be only meant as a rhetorical figure to express the

atrocious depravity of Sodom and Gomorrah. It is not without the

greatest diffidence that we suggest to the learned this solution.

As to Lot, who proposes to the people of Sodom the substitution of his

two daughters in the room of the angels; and his wife, who was changed

into a statue of salt, and all the rest of that history, what shall we

venture to say? The old Arabian tale of Kinyras and Myrrha has some

resemblance to the incest of Lot with his daughters; and the adventure

of Philemon and Baucis is somewhat similar to the case of the two angels

who appeared to Lot and his wife. With respect to the statue of salt, we

know not where to find any resemblance; perhaps in the history of

Orpheus and Eurydice.

Many ingenious men are of opinion, with the great Newton and the learned

Leclerc that the Pentateuch was written by Samuel when the Jews had a

little knowledge of reading and writing, and that all these histories

are imitations of Syrian fables.

But it is enough that all this is in the Holy Scripture to induce us to

reverence it, without attempting to find out in this book anything

besides what is written by the Holy Spirit. Let us always recollect that

those times were not like our times; and let us not fail to repeat,

after so many great men, that the Old Testament is a true history; and

that all that has been written differing from it by the rest of the

world is fabulous.

Some critics have contended that all the incredible passages in the

canonical books, which scandalize weak minds, ought to be suppressed;

but it has been observed in answer that those critics had bad hearts,

and ought to be burned at the stake; and that it is impossible to be a

good man without believing that the people of Sodom wanted to violate

two angels. Such is the reasoning of a species of monsters who wish to

lord it over the understandings of mankind.

It is true that many eminent fathers of the Church have had the prudence

to turn all these histories into allegories, after the example of the

Jews, and particularly of Philo. The popes, more discreet, have

endeavored to prevent the translation of these books into the vulgar

tongue, lest some men should in consequence be led to think and judge,

about what was proposed to them only to adore.

We are certainly justified in concluding hence, that those who

thoroughly understand this book should tolerate those who do not

understand it at all; for if the latter understand nothing of it, it is

not their own fault: on the other hand, those who comprehend nothing

that it contains should tolerate those who comprehend everything in it.

Learned and ingenious men, full of their own talents and acquirements,

have maintained that it is impossible that Moses could have written the

Book of Genesis. One of their principal reasons is that in the history

of Abraham that patriarch is stated to have paid for a cave which he

purchased for the interment of his wife, in silver coin, and the king of

Gerar is said to have given Sarah a thousand pieces of silver when he

restored her, after having carried her off for her beauty at the age of

seventy-five. They inform us that they have consulted all the ancient

authors, and that it appears very certain that at the period mentioned

silver money was not in existence. But these are evidently mere cavils,

as the Church has always firmly believed Moses to have been the author

of the Pentateuch. They strengthen all the doubts suggested by

Aben-Ezra, and Baruch Spinoza. The physician Astruc, father-in-law of

the comptroller-general Silhouette, in his book--now become very

scarce--called "Conjectures on the Book of Genesis," adds some

objections, inexplicable undoubtedly to human learning, but not so to a

humble and submissive piety. The learned, many of them, contradict every

line, but the devout consider every line sacred. Let us dread falling

into the misfortune of believing and trusting to our reason; but let us

bring ourselves into subjection in understanding as well as in heart.

"And Abraham said that Sarah was his sister, and the king of Gerar took

her for himself." We admit, as we have said under the article on

"Abraham," that Sarah was at this time ninety years of age, that she had

been already carried away by a king of Egypt, and that a king of this

same horrid wilderness of Gerar, likewise, many years afterwards,

carried away the wife of Isaac, Abraham's son. We have also spoken of

his servant, Hagar, who bore him a son, and of the manner in which the

patriarch sent her and her son away. It is well known how infidels

triumph on the subject of all these histories, with what a disdainful

smile they speak of them, and that they place the story of one Abimelech

falling in love with Sarah whom Abraham had passed off as his sister,

and of another Abimelech falling in love with Rebecca, whom Isaac also

passes as his sister, even beneath the thousand and one nights of the

Arabian fables. We cannot too often remark that the great error of all

these learned critics is their wishing to try everything by the test of

our feeble reason, and to judge of the ancient Arabs as they judge of

the courts of France or of England.

"And the soul of Shechem, King Hamor's son, was bound up with the soul

of Dinah, and he soothed her grief by his tender caresses, and he went

to Hamor his father, and said to him, give me that woman to be my wife."

Here our critics exclaim in terms of stronger disgust than ever. "What!"

say they; "the son of a king is desirous to marry a vagabond girl;" the

marriage is celebrated; Jacob the father, and Dinah the daughter, are

loaded with presents; the king of Shechem deigns to receive those

wandering robbers called patriarchs within his city; he has the

incredible politeness or kindness to undergo, with his son, his court,

and his people, the rite of circumcision, thus condescending to the

superstition of a petty horde that could not call half a league of

territory their own! And in return for this astonishing hospitality and

goodness, how do our holy patriarchs act? They wait for the day when the

process of circumcision generally induces fever, when Simeon and Levi

run through the whole city with poniards in their hands and massacre the

king, the prince his son, and all the inhabitants. We are precluded from

the horror appropriate to this infernal counterpart of the tragedy of

St. Bartholomew, only by a sense of its absolute impossibility. It is an

abominable romance; but it is evidently a ridiculous romance. It is

impossible that two men could have slaughtered in quiet the whole

population of a city. The people might suffer in a slight degree from

the operation which had preceded, but notwithstanding this, they would

have risen in self-defence against two diabolical miscreants; they would

have instantly assembled, would have surrounded them, and destroyed them

with the summary and complete vengeance merited by their atrocity.

But there is a still more palpable impossibility. It is, that according

to the accurate computation of time, Dinah, this daughter of Jacob,

could be only three years old; and that, even by forcing up chronology

as far as possible in favor of the narrative, she could at the very most

be only five. It is here, then, that we are assailed with bursts of

indignant exclamation! "What!" it is said, "what! is it this book, the

book of a rejected and reprobate people; a book so long unknown to all

the world; a book in which sound reason and decent manners are outraged

in every page, that is held up to us as irrefragable, holy, and dictated

by God Himself? Is it not even impious to believe it? or could anything

less than the fury of cannibals urge to the persecution of sensible and

modest men for not believing it?"

To this we reply: "The Church declares its belief in it. The copyists

may have mixed up some revolting absurdities with respectable and

genuine histories. It belongs to the holy church only to decide.

The profane ought to be guided by her. Those absurdities, those alleged

horrors do not affect the substance of our faith. How lamentable would

be the fate of mankind, if religion and virtue depended upon what

formerly happened to Shechem and to little Dinah!"

"These are the kings who reigned in the land of Edom before the children

of Israel had a king." This is the celebrated passage which has proved

one of the great stumbling stones. This it was which decided the great

Newton, the pious and acute Samuel Clarke, the profound and philosophic

Bolingbroke, the learned Leclerc, the ingenious Fréret, and a host of

other enlightened men, to maintain that it was impossible Moses could

have been the author of Genesis.

We admit that in fact these words could not have been written until

after the time that the Jews had kings.

It is principally this verse that determined Astruc to give up the

inspired authority of the whole Book of Genesis, and suppose the author

had derived his materials from existing memoirs and records. His work is

ingenious and accurate, but it is rash, not to say audacious. Even a

council would scarcely have ventured on such an enterprise. And to what

purpose has it served Astruc's thankless and dangerous labor--to double

the darkness he wished to enlighten? Here is the fruit of the tree of

knowledge, of which we are all so desirous of eating. Why must it be,

that the fruit of the tree of ignorance should be more nourishing and

more digestible?

But of what consequence can it be to us, after all, whether any

particular verse or chapter was written by Moses, or Samuel, or the

priest (_sacrificateur_) who came to Samaria, or Esdras, or any other

person? In what respect can our government, our laws, our fortunes, our

morals, our well-being, be bound up with the unknown chiefs of a

wretched and barbarous country called Edom or Idumæa, always inhabited

by robbers? Alas! those poor Arabs, who have not shirts to their backs,

neither know nor care whether or not we are in existence! They go on

steadily plundering caravans, and eating barley bread, while we are

perplexing and tormenting ourselves to know whether any petty kings

flourished in a particular canton of Arabia Petræa, before they existed

in a particular canton adjoining the west of the lake of Sodom!

_O miseras hominum curas! Opectora cœca!_

--LUCRETIUS, ii. 14.

Blind, wretched man! in what dark paths of strife

Thou walkest the little journey of thy life!--CREECH.

GENII.

The doctrines of judicial astrology and magic have spread all over the

world. Look back to the ancient Zoroaster, and you will find that of the

genii long established. All antiquity abounds in astrologers and

magicians; such ideas were therefore very natural. At present, we smile

at the number who entertained them; if we were in their situation, if

like them we were only beginning to cultivate the sciences, we should

perhaps believe just the same. Let us suppose ourselves intelligent

people, beginning to reason on our own existence, and to observe the

stars. The earth, we might say, is no doubt immovable in the midst of

the world; the sun and planets only revolve in her service, and the

stars are only made for us; man, therefore, is the great object of all

nature. What is the intention of all these globes, and of the immensity

of heaven thus destined for our use? It is very likely that all space

and these globes are peopled with substances, and since we are the

favorites of nature, placed in the centre of the universe, and all is

made for man, these substances are evidently destined to watch over man.

The first man who believed the thing at all possible would soon find

disciples persuaded that it existed. We might then commence by saying,

genii perhaps exist, and nobody could affirm the contrary; for where is

the impossibility of the air and planets being peopled? We might

afterwards say there _are_ genii, and certainly no one could prove that

there are not. Soon after, some sages might see these genii, and we

should have no right to say to them: "You have not seen them"; as these

persons might be honorable, and altogether worthy of credit. One might

see the genius of the empire or of his own city; another that of Mars

or Saturn; the genii of the four elements might be manifested to several

philosophers; more than one sage might see his own genius; all at first

might be little more than dreaming, but dreams are the symbols of truth.

It was soon known exactly how these genii were formed. To visit our

globe, they must necessarily have wings; they therefore had wings. We

know only of bodies; they therefore had bodies, but bodies much finer

than ours, since they were genii, and much lighter, because they came

from so great a distance. The sages who had the privilege of conversing

with the genii inspired others with the hope of enjoying the same

happiness. A skeptic would have been ill received, if he had said to

them: "I have seen no genius, therefore there are none." They would have

replied: "You reason ill; it does not follow that a thing exists not,

which is unknown to you. There is no contradiction in the doctrine which

inculcates these ethereal powers; no impossibility that they may visit

us; they show themselves to our sages, they manifest themselves to us;

you are not worthy of seeing genii."

Everything on earth is composed of good and evil; there are therefore

incontestably good and bad genii. The Persians had their peris and

dives; the Greeks, their demons and cacodæmons; the Latins, _bonos et

malos genios_. The good genii are white, and the bad black, except among

the negroes, where it is necessarily the reverse. Plato without

difficulty admits of a good and evil genius for every individual. The

evil genius of Brutus appeared to him, and announced to him his death

before the battle of Philippi. Have not grave historians said so? And

would not Plutarch have been very injudicious to have assured us of this

fact, if it were not true?

Further, consider what a source of feasts, amusements, good tales, and

bon mots, originated in the belief of genii!

There were male and female genii. The genii of the ladies were called by

the Romans little Junos. They also had the pleasure of seeing their

genii grow up. In infancy, they were a kind of Cupid with wings, and

when they protected old age, they wore long beards, and even sometimes

the forms of serpents. At Rome, there is preserved a marble, on which is

represented a serpent under a palm tree, to which are attached two

crowns with this inscription: "To the genius of the Augusti"; it was the

emblem of immortality.

What demonstrative proof have we at present, that the genii, so

universally admitted by so many enlightened nations, are only phantoms

of the imagination? All that can be said is reduced to this: "I have

never seen a genius, and no one of my acquaintance has ever seen one;

Brutus has not written that his genius appeared to him before the battle

of Philippi; neither Newton, Locke, nor even Descartes, who gave the

reins to his imagination; neither kings nor ministers of state have

ever been suspected of communing with their genii; therefore I do not

believe a thing of which there is not the least truth. I confess their

existence is not impossible; but the possibility is not a proof of the

reality. It is possible that there may be satyrs, with little turned-up

tails and goats' feet; but I must see several to believe in them; for if

I saw but one, I should still doubt their existence."

GENIUS.

Of genius or demon, we have already spoken in the article on "angel." It

is not easy to know precisely whether the peris of the Persians were

invented before the demons of the Greeks, but it is very probable that

they were. It may be, that the souls of the dead, called shades, manes,

etc., passed for demons. Hesiod makes Hercules say that a demon dictated

his labors.

The demon of Socrates had so great a reputation, that Apuleius, the

author of the "Golden Ass," who was himself a magician of good repute,

says in his "Treatise on the Genius of Socrates," that a man must be

without religion who denies it. You see that Apuleius reasons precisely

like brothers Garasse and Bertier: "You do not believe that which I

believe; you are therefore without religion." And the Jansenists have

said as much of brother Bertier, as well as of all the world except

themselves. "These demons," says the very religious and filthy

Apuleius, "are intermediate powers between ether and our lower region.

They live in our atmosphere, and bear our prayers and merits to the

gods. They treat of succors and benefits, as interpreters and

ambassadors. Plato says, that it is by their ministry that revelations,

presages, and the miracles of magicians, are effected."--"_Cæterum sunt

quædam divinæ mediæ potestates, inter summum æthera, et infimas terras,

in isto intersitæ æris spatio, per quas et desideria nostra et merita ad

deos commeant. Hos Græco nomine demonias nuncupant. Inter terricolas

cœli colasque victores, hinc pecum, inde donorum: qui ultro citroque

portant, hinc petitiones, inde suppetias: ceu quidam utriusque

interpretes, et salutigeri. Per hos eosdem, ut Plato in symposio

autumat, cuncta denuntiata; et majorum varia miracula, omnesque

præsagium species reguntur._"

St. Augustine has condescended to refute Apuleius in these words:

"It is impossible for us to say that demons are neither mortal nor

eternal, for all that has life, either lives eternally, or loses the

breath of life by death; and Apuleius has said, that as to time, the

demons are eternal. What then remains, but that demons hold a medium

situation, and have one quality higher and another lower than mankind;

and as, of these two things, eternity is the only higher thing which

they exclusively possess, to complete the allotted medium, what must be

the lower, if not misery?" This is powerful reasoning!

As I have never seen any genii, demons, peris, or hobgoblins, whether

beneficent or mischievous, I cannot speak of them from knowledge. I only

relate what has been said by people who have seen them.

Among the Romans, the word "genius" was not used to express a rare

talent, as with us: the term for that quality was _ingenium_. We use the

word "genius" indifferently in speaking of the tutelar demon of a town

of antiquity, or an artist, or a musician. The term "genius" seems to

have been intended to designate not great talents generally, but those

into which invention enters. Invention, above everything, appeared a

gift from the gods--this _ingenium, quasi ingenitum_, a kind of divine

inspiration. Now an artist, however perfect he may be in his profession,

if he have no invention, if he be not original, is not considered a

genius. He is only inspired by the artists his predecessors, even when

he surpasses them.

It is very probable that many people now play at chess better than the

inventor of the game, and that they might gain the prize of corn

promised him by the Indian king. But this inventor was a genius, and

those who might now gain the prize would be no such thing. Poussin, who

was a great painter before he had seen any good pictures, had a genius

for painting. Lulli, who never heard any good musician in France, had a

genius for music.

Which is the more desirable to possess, a genius without a master, or

the attainment of perfection by imitating and surpassing the masters

which precede us?

If you put this question to artists, they will perhaps be divided; if

you put it to the public, it will not hesitate. Do you like a beautiful

Gobelin tapestry better than one made in Flanders at the commencement of

the arts? Do you prefer modern masterpieces of engraving to the first

wood-cuts? the music of the present day to the first airs, which

resembled the Gregorian chant? the makers of the artillery of our time

to the genius which invented the first cannon? everybody will answer,

"yes." All purchasers will say: "I own that the inventor of the shuttle

had more genius than the manufacturer who made my cloth, but my cloth is

worth more than that of the inventor."

In short, every one in conscience will confess, that we respect the

geniuses who invented the arts, but that the minds which perfect them

are of more present benefit.

SECTION II.

The article on "Genius" has been treated in the "Encyclopædia" by men

who possess it. We shall hazard very little after them.

Every town, every man possessed a genius. It was imagined that those who

performed extraordinary things were inspired by their genius. The nine

muses were nine genii, whom it was necessary to invoke; therefore Ovid

says: "_Et Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo_"--"The God within

us, He the mind inspires."

But, properly speaking, is genius anything but capability? What is

capability but a disposition to succeed in an art? Why do we say the

genius of a language? It is, that every language, by its terminations,

articles, participles, and shorter or longer words, will necessarily

have exclusive properties of its own.

By the genius of a nation is meant the character, manners, talents, and

even vices, which distinguish one people from another. It is sufficient

to see the French, English, and Spanish people, to feel this difference.

We have said that the particular genius of a man for an art is a

different thing from his general talent; but this name is given only to

a very superior ability. How many people have talent for poetry, music,

and painting; yet it would be ridiculous to call them geniuses.

Genius, conducted by taste, will never commit a gross fault. Racine,

since his "Andromache," "Le Poussin," and "Rameau," has never committed

one. Genius, without taste, will often commit enormous errors; and, what

is worse, it will not be sensible of them.

GEOGRAPHY.

Geography is one of those sciences which will always require to be

perfected. Notwithstanding the pains that have been taken, it has

hitherto been impossible to have an exact description of the earth. For

this great work, it would be necessary that all sovereigns should come

to an understanding, and lend mutual assistance. But they have ever

taken more pains to ravage the world than they have to measure it.

No one has yet been able to make an exact map of upper Egypt, nor of the

regions bordering on the Red Sea, nor of the vast country of Arabia. Of

Africa we know only the coasts; all the interior is no more known than

it was in the times of Atlas and Hercules. There is not a single

well-detailed map of all the Grand Turk's possessions in Asia; all is

placed at random, excepting some few large towns, the crumbling remains

of which are still existing. In the states of the Great Mogul something

is known of the relative positions of Agra and Delhi; but thence to the

kingdom of Golconda everything is laid down at a venture.

It is known that Japan extends from about the thirtieth to the fortieth

degree of north latitude; there cannot be an error of more than two

degrees, which is about fifty leagues; so that, relying on one of our

best maps, a pilot would be in danger of losing his track or his life.

As for the longitude, the first maps of the Jesuits determined it

between the one hundred and fifty-seventh and the one hundred and

seventy-fifth degree; whereas, it is now determined between the one

hundred and forty-sixth and the one hundred and sixtieth.

China is the only Asiatic country of which we have an exact measurement;

because the emperor Kam-hi employed some Jesuit astronomers to draw

exact maps, which is the best thing the Jesuits have done. Had they been

content with measuring the earth, they would never have been proscribed.

In our western world, Italy, France, Russia, England, and the principal

towns of the other states, have been measured by the same method as was

employed in China; but it was not until a very few years ago, that in

France it was undertaken to form an entire topography. A company taken

from the Academy of Sciences despatched engineers or surveyors into

every corner of the kingdom, to lay down even the meanest hamlet, the

smallest rivulet, the hills, the woods, in their true places. Before

that time, so confused was the topography, that on the eve of the battle

of Fontenoy, the maps of the country being all examined, every one of

them was found entirely defective.

If a positive order had been sent from Versailles to an inexperienced

general to give battle, and post himself as appeared most advisable from

the maps, as sometimes happened in the time of the minister Chamillar,

the battle would infallibly have been lost.

A general who should carry on a war in the country of the Morlachians,

or the Montenegrins, with no knowledge of places but from the maps,

would be at as great a loss as if he were in the heart of Africa.

Happily, that which has often been traced by geographers, according to

their own fancy, in their closets, is rectified on the spot. In

geography, as in morals, it is very difficult to know the world without

going from home.

It is not with this department of knowledge, as with the arts of poetry,

music, and painting. The last works of these kinds are often the worst.

But in the sciences, which require exactness rather than genius, the

last are always the best, provided they are done with some degree of

care.

One of the greatest advantages of geography, in my opinion, is this:

your fool of a neighbor, and his wife almost as stupid, are incessantly

reproaching you with not thinking as they think in Rue St. Jacques.

"See," say they, "what a multitude of great men have been of our

opinion, from Peter the Lombard down to the Abbé Petit-pied. The whole

universe has received our truths; they reign in the Faubourg St. Honoré,

at Chaillot and at Étampes, at Rome and among the Uscoques." Take a map

of the world; show them all Africa, the empires of Japan, China, India,

Turkey, Persia, and that of Russia, more extensive than was the Roman

Empire; make them pass their finger over all Scandinavia, all the north

of Germany, the three kingdoms of Great Britain, the greater part of the

Low Countries, and of Helvetia; in short make them observe, in the four

great divisions of the earth, and in the fifth, which is as little known

as it is great in extent, the prodigious number of races, who either

never heard of those opinions, or have combated them, or have held them

in abhorrence, and you will thus oppose the whole universe to Rue St.

Jacques.

You will tell them that Julius Cæsar, who extended his power much

farther than that street, did not know a word of all which they think so

universal; and that our ancestors, on whom Julius Cæsar bestowed the

lash, knew no more of them than he did.

They will then, perhaps, feel somewhat ashamed at having believed that

the organ of St. Severin's church gave the tone to the rest of the

world.

GLORY--GLORIOUS.

SECTION I.

Glory is reputation joined with esteem, and is complete when admiration

is superadded. It always supposes that which is brilliant in action, in

virtue, or in talent, and the surmounting of great difficulties. Cæsar

and Alexander had glory. The same can hardly be said of Socrates. He

claims esteem, reverence, pity, indignation against his enemies; but the

term "glory" applied to him would be improper; his memory is venerable

rather than glorious. Attila had much brilliancy, but he has no glory;

for history, which may be mistaken, attributes to him no virtues:

Charles XII. still has glory; for his valor, his disinterestedness, his

liberality, were extreme. Success is sufficient for reputation, but not

for glory. The glory of Henry IV. is every day increasing; for time has

brought to light all his virtues, which were incomparably greater than

his defects.

Glory is also the portion of inventors in the fine arts; imitators have

only applause. It is granted, too, to great talents, but in sublime arts

only. We may well say, the glory of Virgil, or Cicero, but not of

Martial, nor of Aulus Gellius.

Men have dared to say, the glory of God: God created this world for His

glory; not that the Supreme Being can have glory; but that men, having

no expressions suitable to Him, use for Him those by which they are

themselves most flattered.

Vainglory is that petty ambition which is contented with appearances,

which is exhibited in pompous display, and never elevates itself to

greater things. Sovereigns, having real glory, have been known to be

nevertheless fond of vainglory--seeking too eagerly after praise, and

being too much attached to the trappings of ostentation.

False glory often verges towards vanity; but it often leads to excesses,

while vainglory is more confined to splendid littlenesses. A prince who

should look for honor in revenge, would seek a false glory rather than a

vain one.

To give glory signifies to acknowledge, to bear witness. Give glory to

truth, means acknowledging truth--Give glory to the God whom you

serve--Bear witness to the God whom you serve.

Glory is taken for heaven--He dwells in glory; but this is the case in

no religion but ours. It is not allowable to say that Bacchus or

Hercules was received into glory, when speaking of their apotheosis. The

saints and angels have sometimes been called the glorious, as dwelling

in the abode of glory.

Gloriously is always taken in the good sense; he reigned gloriously; he

extricated himself gloriously from great danger or embarrassment.

To glory in, is sometimes taken in the good, sometimes in the bad,

sense, according to the nature of the object in question. He glories in

a disgrace which is the fruit of his talents and the effect of envy. We

say of the martyrs, that they glorified God--that is, that their

constancy made the God whom they attested revered by men.

SECTION II.

That Cicero should love glory, after having stifled Catiline's

conspiracy, may be pardoned him. That the king of Prussia, Frederick the

Great, should have the same feelings after Rosbach and Lissa, and after

being the legislator, the historian, the poet, and the philosopher of

his country--that he should be passionately fond of glory, and at the

same time, have self-command enough to be modestly so--he will, on that

account, be the more glorified.

That the empress Catherine II. should have been forced by the brutish

insolence of a Turkish sultan to display all her genius; that from the

far north she should have sent four squadrons which spread terror in the

Dardanelles and in Asia Minor; and that, in 1770, she took four

provinces from those Turks who made Europe tremble--with this sort of

glory she will not be reproached, but will be admired for speaking of

her successes with that air of indifference and superiority which shows

that they were merited.

In short, glory befits geniuses of this sort, though belonging to the

very mean race of mortals.

But if, at the extremity of the west, a townsman of a place called Paris

thinks he has glory in being harangued by a teacher of the university,

who says to him: "Monseigneur, the glory you have acquired in the

exercise of your office, your illustrious labors with which the universe

resounds," etc., then I ask if there are mouths enough in that universe

to celebrate, with their hisses, the glory of our citizen, and the

eloquence of the pedant who attends to bray out this harangue at

monseigneur's hotel? We are such fools that we have made God glorious

like ourselves.

That worthy chief of the dervishes, Ben-al-betif, said to his brethren

one day: "My brethren, it is good that you should frequently use that

sacred formula of our Koran, 'In the name of the most merciful God';

because God uses mercy, and you learn to do so too, by oft repeating the

words that recommend virtue, without which there would be few men left

upon the earth. But, my brethren, beware of imitating those rash ones

who boast, on every occasion, of laboring for the glory of God.

"If a young simpleton maintains a thesis on the categories, an ignoramus

in furs presiding, he is sure to write in large characters, at the head

of his thesis, '_Ek alha abron doxa_!--'_Ad majorem Dei gloriam_.' --To

the greater glory of God. If a good Mussulman has had his house

whitewashed, he cuts this foolish inscription in the door. A saka

carries water for the greater glory of God. It is an impious usage,

piously used. What would you say of a little chiaoux, who, while

emptying our sultan's close-stool, should exclaim: "To the greater glory

of our invincible monarch?" There is certainly a greater distance

between God and the sultan than between the sultan and the little

chiaoux.

"Ye miserable earth-worms, called men, what have you resembling the

glory of the Supreme Being? Can He love glory? Can He receive it from

you? Can He enjoy it? How long, ye two-legged animals without feathers,

will you make God after your own image? What! because you are vain,

because you love glory, you would have God love it also? If there were

several Gods, perhaps each one would seek to gain the good opinion of

his fellows. That might be glory to God. Such a God, if infinite

greatness may be compared with extreme lowliness, would be like King

Alexander or Iscander, who would enter the lists with none but kings.

But you, poor creatures! what glory can you give to God? Cease to

profane the sacred name. An emperor, named Octavius Augustus, forbade

his being praised in the schools of Rome, lest his name should be

brought into contempt. You can bring the name of the Supreme Being

neither into contempt, nor into honor. Humble yourselves in the dust;

adore, and be silent."

Thus spake Ben-al-betif; and the dervishes cried out: "Glory to God!

Ben-al-betif has said well."

SECTION III.

_Conversation with a Chinese._

In 1723, there was in Holland a Chinese: this Chinese was a man of

letters and a merchant; which two professions ought not to be

incompatible, but which have become so amongst us, thanks to the extreme

regard which is paid to money, and the little consideration which

mankind have ever shown, and will ever show, for merit.

This Chinese, who spoke a little Dutch, was once in a bookseller's shop

with some men of learning. He asked for a book, and "Bossuet's Universal

History," badly translated, was proposed to him. "Ah!" said he, "how

fortunate! I shall now see what is said of our great empire--of our

nation, which has existed as a national body for more than fifty

thousand years--of that succession of emperors who have governed us for

so many ages. I shall now see what is thought of the religion of the

men of letters--of that simple worship which we render to the Supreme

Being. How pleasing to see what is said in Europe of our arts, many of

which are more ancient amongst us than any European kingdom. I guess the

author will have made many mistakes in the history of the war which we

had twenty-two thousand five hundred and fifty-two years ago, with the

warlike nations of Tonquin and Japan, and of that solemn embassy which

the mighty emperor of the Moguls sent to ask laws from us, in the year

of the world 500,000,000,000,079,123,450,000." "Alas!" said one of the

learned men to him, "you are not even mentioned in that book; you are

too inconsiderable; it is almost all about the first nation in the

world--the only nation, the great Jewish people!"

"The Jewish people!" exclaimed the Chinese. "Are they, then, masters of

at least three-quarters of the earth?" "They flatter themselves that

they shall one day be so," was the answer; "until which time they have

the honor of being our old-clothes-men, and, now and then, clippers of

our coin."--"You jest," said the Chinese; "had these people ever a vast

empire?" "They had as their own for some years," said I, "a small

country; but it is not by the extent of their states that a people are

to be judged; as it is not by his riches that we are to estimate a man."

"But is no other people spoken of in this book?" asked the man of

letters. "Undoubtedly," returned a learned man who stood next me, and

who instantly replied, "there is a deal said in it of a small country

sixty leagues broad, called Egypt, where it is asserted that there was a

lake a hundred and fifty leagues round, cut by the hands of

men."--"Zounds!" said the Chinese; "a lake a hundred and fifty leagues

round in a country only sixty broad! That is fine, indeed!"--"Everybody

was wise in that country," added the doctor. "Oh! what fine times they

must have been," said the Chinese. "But is that all?"--"No," replied the

European; "he also treats of that celebrated people, the Greeks." "Who

are these Greeks?" asked the man of letters. "Ah!" continued the other,

"they inhabited a province about a two-hundredth part as large as China,

but which has been famous throughout the world." "I have never heard

speak of these people, neither in Mogul nor in Japan, nor in Great

Tartary," said the Chinese, with an ingenuous look.

"Oh, ignorant, barbarous man!" politely exclaimed our scholar. "Know you

not, then, the Theban Epaminondas; nor the harbor of Piraeus; nor the

name of the two horses of Achilles; nor that of Silenus's ass? Have you

not heard of Jupiter, nor of Diogenes, nor of Lais, nor of Cybele,

nor--"

"I am much afraid," replied the man of letters, "that you know nothing

at all of the ever memorable adventure of the celebrated Xixofou

Concochigramki, nor of the mysteries of the great Fi Psi Hi Hi. But

pray, what are the other unknown things of which this universal history

treats?" The scholar then spoke for a quarter of an hour on the Roman

commonwealth: but when he came to Julius Cæsar, the Chinese interrupted

him, saying, "As for him, I think I know him: was he not a Turk?"

"What!" said the scholar, somewhat warm, "do you not at least know the

difference between Pagans, Christians, and Mussulmans? Do you not know

Constantine, and the history of the popes?" "We have indistinctly

heard," answered the Asiatic, "of one Mahomet."

"It is impossible," returned the other, "that you should not, at least,

be acquainted with Luther, Zuinglius, Bellarmin, Œcolampadius." "I

shall never remember those names," said the Chinese. He then went away

to sell a considerable parcel of tea and fine grogram, with which he

bought two fine girls and a ship-boy, whom he took back to his own

country, adoring Tien, and commending himself to Confucius.

For myself, who was present at this conversation, I clearly saw what

glory is; and I said: Since Cæsar and Jupiter are unknown in the finest,

the most ancient, the most extensive, the most populous and

well-regulated kingdom upon earth; it beseems you, ye governors of some

little country, ye preachers in some little parish, or some little

town--ye doctors of Salamanca and of Bourges, ye flimsy authors, and ye

ponderous commentators--it beseems you to make pretensions to renown!

GOAT--SORCERY.

The honors of every kind which antiquity paid to goats would be very

astonishing, if anything could astonish those who have grown a little

familiar with the world, ancient and modern. The Egyptians and the Jews

often designated the kings and the chiefs of the people by the word

"goat." We find in Zachariah:

"Mine anger was kindled against the shepherds, and I punished the goats;

for the Lord of Hosts hath visited his flock, the house of Judah, and

hath made them as his goodly horse in the battle."

"Remove out of the midst of Babylon," says Jeremiah to the chiefs of the

people; "go forth out of the land of the Chaldæans, and be as the

he-goats before the flocks."

Isaiah, in chapters x. and xiv., uses the term "goat," which has been

translated "prince." The Egyptians went much farther than calling their

kings goats; they consecrated a goat in Mendes, and it is even said that

they adored him. The truth very likely was, that the people took an

emblem for a divinity, as is but too often the case.

It is not likely that the Egyptian _shoën_ or _shotim_, _i.e._, priests,

immolated goats and worshipped them at the same time. We know that they

had their goat Hazazel, which they adorned and crowned with flowers, and

threw down headlong, as an expiation for the people; and that the Jews

took from them, not only this ceremony, but even the very name of

Hazazel, as they adopted many other rites from Egypt.

But goats received another, and yet more singular honor. It is beyond a

doubt that in Egypt many women set the same example with goats, as

Pasiphae did with her bull.

The Jews but too faithfully imitated these abominations. Jeroboam

instituted priests for the service of his calves and his goats.

The worship of the goat was established in Egypt, and in the lands of a

part of Palestine. Enchantments were believed to be operated by means of

goats, and other monsters, which were always represented with a goat's

head.

Magic, sorcery, soon passed from the East into the West, and extended

itself throughout the earth. The sort of sorcery that came from the Jews

was called Sabbatum by the Romans, who thus confounded their sacred day

with their secret abominations. Thence it was, that in the neighboring

nations, to be a sorcerer and to go to the sabbath, meant the same

thing.

Wretched village women, deceived by knaves, and still more by the

weakness of their own imaginations, believed that after pronouncing the

word "_abraxa_", and rubbing themselves with an ointment mixed with

cow-dung and goat's hair, they went to the sabbath on a broom-stick in

their sleep, that there they adored a goat, and that he enjoyed them.

This opinion was universal. All the doctors asserted that it was the

devil, who metamorphosed himself into a goat. This may be seen in Del

Rio's "Disquisitions," and in a hundred other authors. The theologian

Grillandus, a great promoter of the Inquisition, quoted by Del Rio, says

that sorcerers call the goat Martinet. He assures us that a woman who

was attached to Martinet, mounted on his back, and was carried in an

instant through the air to a place called the Nut of Benevento.

There were books in which the mysteries of the sorcerers were written. I

have seen one of them, at the head of which was a figure of a goat very

badly drawn, with a woman on her knees behind him. In France, these

books were called "_grimoires_"; and in other countries "the devil's

alphabet." That which I saw contained only four leaves, in almost

illegible characters, much like those of the "Shepherd's Almanac."

Reasoning and better education would have sufficed in Europe for the

extirpation of such an extravagance; but executions were employed

instead of reasoning. The pretended sorcerers had their "_grimoire_" and

the judges had their sorcerer's code. In 1599, the Jesuit Del Rio, a

doctor of Louvain, published his "Magical Disquisitions." He affirms

that all heretics are magicians, and frequently recommends that they be

put to the torture. He has no doubt that the devil transforms himself

into a goat and grants his favors to all women presented to him. He

quotes various jurisconsults, called demonographers, who assert that

Luther was the son of a woman and a goat. He assures us that at

Brussels, in 1595, a woman was brought to bed of a child, of which the

devil, disguised as a goat, was father, and that she was punished, but

he does not inform us in what manner.

But the jurisprudence of witchcraft has been the most profoundly treated

by one Boguet, "_grand juge en dernier ressort_" of an abbey of St.

Claude in Franche-Comté. He gives an account of all the executions to

which he condemned wizards and witches, and the number is very

considerable. Nearly all the witches are supposed to have had commerce

with the goat.

It has already been said that more than a hundred thousand sorcerers

have been executed in Europe. Philosophy alone has at length cured men

of this abominable delusion, and has taught judges that they should not

burn the insane.

GOD--GODS.

SECTION I.

The reader cannot too carefully bear in mind that this dictionary has

not been written for the purpose of repeating what so many others have

said.

The knowledge of a God is not impressed upon us by the hands of nature,

for then men would all have the same idea; and no idea is born with us.

It does not come to us like the perception of light, of the ground,

etc., which we receive as soon as our eyes and our understandings are

opened. Is it a philosophical idea? No; men admitted the existence of

gods before they were philosophers.

Whence, then, is this idea derived? From feeling, and from that natural

logic which unfolds itself with age, even in the rudest of mankind.

Astonishing effects of nature were beheld--harvests and barrenness, fair

weather and storms, benefits and scourges; and the hand of a master was

felt. Chiefs were necessary to govern societies; and it was needful to

admit sovereigns of these new sovereigns whom human weakness had given

itself--beings before whose power these men who could bear down their

fellow-men might tremble. The first sovereigns in their time employed

these notions to cement their power. Such were the first steps; thus

every little society had its god. These notions were rude because

everything was rude. It is very natural to reason by analogy. One

society under a chief did not deny that the neighboring tribe should

likewise have its judge, or its captain; consequently it could not deny

that the other should also have its god. But as it was to the interest

of each tribe that its captain should be the best, it was also

interested in believing, and consequently it did believe, that its god

was the mightiest. Hence those ancient fables which have so long been

generally diffused, that the gods of one nation fought against the gods

of another. Hence the numerous passages in the Hebrew books, which we

find constantly disclosing the opinion entertained by the Jews, that the

gods of their enemies existed, but that they were inferior to the God of

the Jews.

Meanwhile, in the great states where the progress of society allowed to

individuals the enjoyment of speculative leisure, there were priests,

Magi, and philosophers.

Some of these perfected their reason so far as to acknowledge in secret

one only and universal god. So, although the ancient Egyptians adored

Osiri, Osiris, or rather Osireth (which signifies this land is mine);

though they also adored other superior beings, yet they admitted one

supreme, one only principal god, whom they called "_Knef_", whose symbol

was a sphere placed on the frontispiece of the temple.

After this model, the Greeks had their Zeus, their Jupiter, the master

of the other gods, who were but what the angels are with the Babylonians

and the Hebrews, and the saints with the Christians of the Roman

communion.

It is a more thorny question than it has been considered, and one by no

means profoundly examined, whether several gods, equal in power, can

exist at the same time?

We have no adequate idea of the Divinity; we creep on from conjecture to

conjecture, from likelihood to probability. We have very few

certainties. There is something; therefore there is something eternal;

for nothing is produced from nothing. Here is a certain truth on which

the mind reposes. Every work which shows us means and an end, announces

a workman; then this universe, composed of springs, of means, each of

which has its end, discovers a most mighty, a most intelligent workman.

Here is a probability approaching the greatest certainty. But is this

supreme artificer infinite? Is he everywhere? Is he in one place? How

are we, with our feeble intelligence and limited knowledge, to answer

these questions?

My reason alone proves to me a being who has arranged the matter of this

world; but my reason is unable to prove to me that he made this

matter--that he brought it out of nothing. All the sages of antiquity,

without exception, believed matter to be eternal, and existing by

itself. All then that I can do, without the aid of superior light, is to

believe that the God of this world is also eternal, and existing by

Himself. God and matter exist by the nature of things. May not other

gods exist, as well as other worlds? Whole nations, and very enlightened

schools, have clearly admitted two gods in this world--one the source of

good, the other the source of evil. They admitted an eternal war between

two equal powers. Assuredly, nature can more easily suffer the existence

of several independent beings in the immensity of space, than that of

limited and powerless gods in this world, of whom one can do no good,

and the other no harm.

If God and matter exist from all eternity, as antiquity believed, here

then are two necessary beings; now, if there be two necessary beings,

there may be thirty. These doubts alone, which are the germ of an

infinity of reflections, serve at least to convince us of the feebleness

of our understanding. We must, with Cicero, confess our ignorance of the

nature of the Divinity; we shall never know any more of it than he did.

In vain do the schools tell us that God is infinite negatively and not

privatively--"_formaliter et non materialiter_" that He is the first

act, the middle, and the last--that He is everywhere without being in

any place; a hundred pages of commentaries on definitions like these

cannot give us the smallest light. We have no steps whereby to arrive at

such knowledge.

We feel that we are under the hand of an invisible being; this is all;

we cannot advance one step farther. It is mad temerity to seek to divine

what this being is--whether he is extended or not, whether he is in one

place or not, how he exists, or how he operates.

SECTION II.

I am ever apprehensive of being mistaken; but all monuments give me

sufficient evidence that the polished nations of antiquity acknowledged

a supreme god. There is not a book, not a medal, not a bas-relief, not

an inscription, in which Juno, Minerva, Neptune, Mars, or any of the

other deities, is spoken of as a forming being, the sovereign of all

nature. On the contrary, the most ancient profane books that we

have--those of Hesiod and Homer--represent their Zeus as the only

thunderer, the only master of gods and men; he even punishes the other

gods; he ties Juno with a chain, and drives Apollo out of heaven.

The ancient religion of the Brahmins--the first that admitted celestial

creatures--the first which spoke of their rebellion--explains itself in

sublime manner concerning the unity and power of God; as we have seen in

the article on "Angel."

The Chinese, ancient as they are, come after the Indians. They have

acknowledged one only god from time immemorial; they have no subordinate

gods, no t mediating demons or genii between God and man; no oracles, no

abstract dogmas, no theological disputes among the lettered; their

emperor was always the first pontiff; their religion was always august

and simple; thus it is that this vast empire, though twice subjugated,

has constantly preserved its integrity, has made its conquerors receive

its laws, and notwithstanding the crimes and miseries inseparable from

the human race, is still the most flourishing state upon earth.

The Magi of Chaldæa, the Sabeans, acknowledged but one supreme god, whom

they adored in the stars, which are his work. The Persians adored him in

the sun. The sphere placed on the frontispiece of the temple of Memphis

was the emblem of one only and perfect god, called "_Knef_" by the

Egyptians.

The title of "_Deus Optimus Maximus_" was never given by the Romans to

any but "_Jupiter, hominum sator atque deorum_." This great truth, which

we have elsewhere pointed out, cannot be too often repeated.

This adoration of a Supreme God, from Romulus down to the total

destruction of the empire and of its religion, is confirmed. In spite of

all the follies of the people, who venerated secondary and ridiculous

gods, and in spite of the Epicureans, who in reality acknowledged none,

it is verified that, in all times, the magistrates and the wise adored

one sovereign God.

From the great number of testimonies left us to this truth, I will

select first that of Maximus of Tyre, who flourished under the

Antonines--those models of true piety, since they were models of

humanity. These are his words, in his discourse entitled "Of God,"

according to Plato. The reader who would instruct himself is requested

to weigh them well:

"Men have been so weak as to give to God a human figure, because they

had seen nothing superior to man; but it is ridiculous to imagine, with

Homer, that Jupiter or the Supreme Divinity has black eyebrows and

golden hair, which he cannot shake without making the heavens tremble.

"When men are questioned concerning the nature of the Divinity, their

answers are all different. Yet, notwithstanding this prodigious variety

of opinions, you will find one and the same feeling throughout the

earth--viz., that there is but one God, who is the father of all...."

After this formal avowal, after the immortal discourses of Cicero, of

Antonine, of Epictetus, what becomes of the declamations which so many

ignorant pedants are still repeating? What avail those eternal

reproachings of base polytheism and puerile idolatry, but to convince us

that the reproachers have not the slightest acquaintance with sterling

antiquity? They have taken the reveries of Homer for the doctrines of

the wise.

Is it necessary to have stronger or more expressive testimony? You will

find it in the letter from Maximus of Madaura to St. Augustine; both

were philosophers and orators; at least, they prided themselves on being

so; they wrote to each other freely; they were even friends as much as a

man of the old religion and one of the new could be friends. Read

Maximus of Madaura's letter, and the bishop of Hippo's answer:

_Letter from Maximus of Madaura._

"Now, that there is a sovereign God, who is without beginning, and, who,

without having begotten anything like unto himself, is nevertheless the

father and the former of all things, what man can be gross and stupid

enough to doubt? He it is of whom, under different names, we adore the

eternal power extending through every part of the world--thus honoring

separately, by different sorts of worship, what may be called his

several members, we adore him entirely.... May those subordinate gods

preserve you, under whose names, and by whom all we mortals upon earth

adore the common father of gods and men, by different sorts of worship,

it is true, but all according in their variety, and all tending to the

same end."

By whom was this letter written? By a Numidian--one of the country of

the Algerines!

_Augustine's Answer._

"In your public square there are two statues of Mars, the one naked, the

other armed; and close by, the figure of a man who, with three fingers

advanced towards Mars, holds in check that divinity, so dangerous to the

whole town. With regard to what you say of such gods, being portions of

the only true God, I take the liberty you give me, to warn you not to

fall into such a sacrilege; for that only God, of whom you speak, is

doubtless He who is acknowledged by the whole world, and concerning

whom, as some of the ancients have said, the ignorant agree with the

learned. Now, will you say that he whose strength, if not his cruelty,

is represented by an inanimate man, is a portion of that God? I could

easily push you hard on this subject; for you will clearly see how much

might be said upon it; but I refrain, lest you should say that I employ

against you the weapons of rhetoric rather than those of virtue."

We know not what was signified by these two statues, of which no vestige

is left us; but not all the statues with which Rome was filled--not the

Pantheon and all the temples consecrated to the inferior gods, nor even

those of the twelve greater gods prevented "_Deus Optimus

Maximus_"--"God, most good, most great"--from being acknowledged

throughout the empire.

The misfortune of the Romans, then, was their ignorance of the Mosaic

law, and afterwards, of the law of the disciples of our Saviour Jesus

Christ--their want of the faith--their mixing with the worship of a

supreme God the worship of Mars, of Venus, of Minerva, of Apollo, who

did not exist, and their preserving that religion until the time of the

Theodosii. Happily, the Goths, the Huns, the Vandals, the Heruli, the

Lombards, the Franks, who destroyed that empire, submitted to the truth,

and enjoyed a blessing denied to Scipio, to Cato, to Metellus, to

Emilius, to Cicero, to Varro, to Virgil, and to Horace.

None of these great men knew Jesus Christ, whom they could not know; yet

they did not worship the devil, as so many pedants are every day

repeating. How should they worship the devil, of whom they had never

heard?

_A Calumny on Cicero by Warburton, on the Subject of a Supreme God._

Warburton, like his contemporaries, has calumniated Cicero and ancient

Rome. He boldly supposes that Cicero pronounced these words, in his

"Oration for Flaccus":

"It is unworthy of the majesty of the empire to adore only one

God"--"_Majestatem imperii non decuit ut unus tantum Deus colatur."

It will, perhaps, hardly be believed that there is not a word of this in

the "Oration for Flaccus," nor in any of Cicero's works. Flaccus, who

had exercised the prætorship in Asia Minor, is charged with exercising

some vexations. He was secretly persecuted by the Jews, who then

inundated Rome; for, by their money, they had obtained privileges in

Rome at the very time when Pompey, after Crassus, had taken Jerusalem,

and hanged their petty king, Alexander, son of Aristobolus. Flaccus had

forbidden the conveying of gold and silver specie to Jerusalem, because

the money came back altered, and commerce was thereby injured; and he

had seized the gold which was clandestinely carried. This gold, said

Cicero, is still in the treasury. Flaccus has acted as disinterestedly

as Pompey.

Cicero, then, with his wonted irony, pronounces these words: "Each

country has its religion; we have ours. While Jerusalem was yet free,

while the Jews were yet at peace, even then they held in abhorrence the

splendor of this empire, the dignity of the Roman name, the

institutions of our ancestors. Now that nation has shown more than ever,

by the strength of its arms, what it should think of the Roman Empire.

It has shown us, by its valor, how dear it is to the immortal gods; it

has proved it to us, by its being vanquished, expatriated, and

tributary."--"_Stantibus Hierosolymis, pacatisque Judais, tamen istorum

religio sacrorum, a splendore hujus imperii, gravitate nominis nostri,

ma jorum institutis, abhorrebat; nunc vero hoc magis quid ilia gens,

quid de imperio nostro sentiret, ostendit armis; quam cara diis

immortalibus esset, docuit, quod est victa, quod elocata, quod

servata._"

It is then quite false that Cicero, or any other Roman, ever said that

it did not become the majesty of the empire to acknowledge a supreme

God. Their Jupiter, the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jehovah of the

Phœnicians, was always considered as the master of the secondary

gods. This great truth cannot be too forcibly inculcated.

_Did the Romans Take Their Gods from the Greeks?_

Had not the Romans served gods for whom they were not indebted to the

Greeks? For instance, they could not be guilty of plagiarism in adoring

Coelum, while the Greeks adored Ouranon; or in addressing themselves to

Saturnus and Tellus, while the Greeks addressed themselves to Ge and

Chronos. They called Ceres, her whom the Greeks named Deo and Demiter.

Their Neptune was Poseidon, their Venus was Aphrodite; their Juno was

called, in Greek, Era; their Proserpine, Core; and their favorites, Mars

and Bellona, were Ares and Enio. In none of these instances do the names

resemble.

Did the inventive spirits of Rome and of Greece assemble? or did the one

take from the other the _thing_, while they disguised the _name_? It is

very natural that the Romans, without consulting the Greeks, should make

to themselves gods of the heavens, of time; beings presiding over war,

over generation, over harvests, without going to Greece to ask for gods,

as they afterwards went there to ask for laws. When you find a name that

resembles nothing else, it is but fair to believe it a native of that

particular country.

But is not Jupiter, the master of all the gods, a word belonging to

every nation, from the Euphrates to the Tiber? Among the first Romans,

it was _Jov_, _Jovis_; among the Greeks, _Zeus_; among the

Phœnicians, the Syrians, and the Egyptians, _Jehovah_.

Does not this resemblance serve to confirm the supposition that every

people had the knowledge of the Supreme Being?--a knowledge confused, it

is true; but what man can have it _distinct_?

SECTION III.

_Examination of Spinoza._

Spinoza cannot help admitting an intelligence acting in matter, and

forming a whole with it.

"I must conclude," he says, "that the absolute being is neither thought

nor extent, exclusively of each other; but that extent and thought are

necessary attributes of the absolute being."

Herein he appears to differ from all the atheists of antiquity; from

Ocellus, Lucanus, Heraclitus, Democritus, Leucippus, Strato, Epicurus,

Pythagoras, Diagoras, Zeno of Elis, Anaximander, and so many others. He

differs from them, above all, in his method, which he took entirely from

the reading of Descartes, whose very style he has imitated.

The multitude of those who cry out against Spinoza, without ever having

read him, will especially be astonished by his following declaration. He

does not make it to dazzle mankind, nor to appease theologians, nor to

obtain protectors, nor to disarm a party; he speaks as a philosopher,

without naming himself, without advertising himself; and expresses

himself in Latin, so as to be understood by a very small number. Here is

his profession of faith.

_Spinoza's Profession of Faith._

"If I also concluded that the idea of God, comprised in that of the

infinity of the universe, excused me from obedience, love, and worship,

I should make a still more pernicious use of my reason; for it is

evident to me that the laws which I _have_ received, not by the relation

or intervention of other men, but immediately from Him, are those which

the light of nature points out to me as the true guides of rational

conduct. If I failed of obedience, in this particular, I should sin, not

only against the principle of my being and the society of my kind, but

also against myself, in depriving myself of the most solid advantage of

my existence. This obedience does, it is true, bind me only to the

duties of my state, and makes me look on all besides as frivolous

practices, invented in superstition to serve the purposes of their

inventors.

"With regard to the love of God, so far, I conceive, is this idea from

tending to weaken it, that no other is more calculated to increase it;

since, through it, I know that God is intimate with my being; that He

gives me existence and my every property; but He gives me them

liberally, without reproach, without interest, without subjecting me to

anything but my own nature. It banishes fear, uneasiness, distrust, and

all the effects of a vulgar or interested love. It informs me that this

is a good which I cannot lose, and which I possess the more fully, as I

know and love it."

Are these the words of the virtuous and tender Fénelon, or those of

Spinoza? How is it that two men so opposed to each other, have, with

such different notions of God, concurred in the idea of loving God for

Himself?

It must be acknowledged that they went both to the same end--the one as

a Christian, the other as a man who had the misfortune not to be so;

the holy archbishop, as philosopher, convinced that God is distinct

from nature; the other as a widely-erring disciple of Descartes, who

imagined that God is all nature.

The former was orthodox, the latter was mistaken, I must assent; but

both were honest, both estimable in their sincerity, as in their mild

and simple manners; though there is no other point of resemblance

between the imitator of the "Odyssey," and a dry Cartesian fenced round

with arguments; between one of the most accomplished men of the court of

Louis XIV. invested with what is called a _high_ divinity, and a poor

unjudaïzed Jew, living with an income of three hundred florins, in the

most profound obscurity.

If there be any similitude between them, it is that Fénelon was accused

before the Sanhedrim of the new law, and the other before a synagogue

without power or without reason; but the one submitted, the other

rebelled.

_Foundation of Spinoza's Philosophy._

The great dialectician Bayle has refuted Spinoza. His system, therefore,

is not demonstrated, like one of Euclid's propositions; for, if it were

so, it could not be combated. It is, therefore, at least obscure.

I have always had some suspicion that Spinoza, with his universal

substance, his modes and accidents, had some other meaning than that in

which he is understood by Bayle; and consequently, that Bayle may be

right, without having confounded Spinoza. And, in particular, I have

always thought that often Spinoza did not understand himself, and that

this is the principal reason why he has not been understood.

It seems to me that the ramparts of Spinozism might be beaten down on a

side which Bayle has neglected. Spinoza thinks that there can exist but

one substance; and it appears throughout his book that he builds his

theory on the mistake of Descartes, that "nature is a plenum."

The theory of a plenum is as false as that of a void. It is now

demonstrated that motion is as impossible in absolute fulness, as it is

impossible that, in an equal balance, a weight of two pounds in one

scale should sink a weight of two in the other.

Now, if every motion absolutely requires empty space, what becomes of

Spinoza's one and only substance? How can the substance of a star,

between which and us there is a void so immense, be precisely the

substance of this earth, or the substance of myself, or the substance of

a fly eaten by a spider?

Perhaps I mistake, but I never have been able to conceive how Spinoza,

admitting an infinite substance of which thought and matter are the two

modalities--admitting the substance which he calls God, and of which all

that we see is mode or accident--could nevertheless reject final causes.

If this infinite, universal being thinks, must he not have design? If he

has design, must he not have a will?

[Illustration: Descartes.]

Spinoza says, we are modes of that absolute, necessary, infinite being.

I say to Spinoza, we will, and have design, we who are but modes;

therefore, this infinite, necessary, absolute being cannot be deprived

of them; therefore, he has will, design, power.

I am aware that various philosophers, and especially Lucretius, have

denied final causes; I am also aware that Lucretius, though not very

chaste, is a very great poet in his descriptions and in his morals; but

in philosophy I own he appears to me to be very far behind a college

porter or a parish beadle. To affirm that the eye is not made to see,

nor the ear to hear, nor the stomach to digest--is not this the most

enormous absurdity, the most revolting folly, that ever entered the

human mind? Doubter as I am, this insanity seems to me evident, and I

say so.

For my part, I see in nature, as in the arts, only final causes, and I

believe that an apple tree is made to bear apples, as I believe that a

watch is made to tell the hour.

I must here acquaint the readers that if Spinoza, in several passages of

his works, makes a jest of final causes, he most expressly acknowledges

them in the first part of his "Being, in General and in Particular."

Here he says, "Permit me for a few moments to dwell with admiration on

the wonderful dispensation of nature, which, having enriched the

constitution of man with all the resources necessary to prolong to a

certain term the duration of his frail existence, and to animate his

knowledge of himself by that of an infinity of distant objects, seems

purposely to have neglected to give him the means of well knowing what

he is obliged to make a more ordinary use of--the individuals of his own

species. Yet, when duly considered, this appears less the effect of a

refusal than of an extreme liberality; for, if there were any

intelligent being that could penetrate another against his will, he

would enjoy such an advantage as would of itself exclude him from

society; whereas, in the present state of things, each individual

enjoying himself in full independence communicates himself so much only

as he finds convenient."

What shall I conclude from this? That Spinoza frequently contradicted

himself; that he had not always clear ideas; that in the great wreck of

systems, he clung sometimes to one plank, sometimes to another; that in

this weakness he was like Malebranche, Arnauld, Bossuet, and Claude, who

now and then contradicted themselves in their disputes; that he was like

numberless metaphysicians and theologians? I shall conclude that I have

additional reason for distrusting all my metaphysical notions; that I am

a very feeble animal, treading on quicksands, which are continually

giving way beneath me; and that there is perhaps nothing so foolish as

to believe ourselves always in the right.

Baruch Spinoza, you are very confused; but are you as dangerous as you

are said to be? I maintain that you are not; and my reason is, that you

_are_ confused, that you have written in bad Latin, and that there are

not ten persons in Europe who read you from beginning to end, although

you have been translated into French. Who is the dangerous author? He

who is read by the idle at court and by the ladies.

SECTION IV.

_The "System of Nature."_

The author of the "System of Nature" has had the advantage of being read

by both learned and ignorant, and by women. His style, then, has merits

which that of Spinoza wanted. He is often luminous, sometimes eloquent;

although he may be charged, like all the rest, with repetition,

declamation, and self-contradiction. But for profundity, he is very

often to be distrusted both in physics and in morals. The interest of

mankind is here in question; we will, therefore, examine whether his

doctrine is true and useful; and will, if we can, be brief.

"Order and disorder do not exist." What! in physics, is not a child born

blind, without legs, or a monster, contrary to the nature of the

species? Is it not the ordinary regularity of nature that makes order,

and irregularity that constitutes disorder? Is it not a great

derangement, a dreadful disorder, when nature gives a child hunger and

closes the œsophagus? The evacuations of every kind are necessary;

yet the channels are frequently without orifices, which it is necessary

to remedy. Doubtless this disorder has its cause; for there is no effect

without a cause; but it is a very disordered effect.

Is not the assassination of our friend, or of our brother, a horrible

disorder in morals? Are not the calumnies of a Garasse, of a Letellier,

of a Doucin, against Jansenists, and those of Jansenists against

Jesuits, petty disorders? Were not the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the

Irish massacre, etc., execrable disorders? This crime has its cause in

passion, but the effect is execrable; the cause is fatal; this disorder

makes us shudder. The origin of the disorder remains to be discovered,

but the disorder exists.

"Experience proves to us that the matter which we regard as inert and

dead assumes action, intelligence, and life, when it is combined in a

certain way."

This is precisely the difficulty. How does a germ come to life? Of this

the author and the reader are alike ignorant. Hence, are not the "System

of Nature," and all the systems in the world, so many dreams?

"It would be necessary to define the vital principle, which I deem

impossible." Is not this definition very easy, very common? Is not life

organization with feeling? But that you have these two properties from

the motion of matter alone, it is impossible to give any proof; and if

it cannot be proved, why affirm it? Why say aloud, "I know," while you

say to yourself, "I know not"?

"It will be asked, what is man?" etc. Assuredly, this article is no

clearer than the most obscure of Spinoza's; and many readers will feel

indignant at the decisive tone which is assumed without anything being

explained.

"Matter is eternal and necessary; but its forms and its combinations are

transitory and contingent," etc. It is hard to comprehend, matter being,

according to our author, necessary, and without freedom, how there can

be anything contingent. By contingency, we understand that which may be,

or may not be; but since all must be, of absolute necessity, every

manner of being, which he here very erroneously calls contingent, is as

absolutely of necessity as the being itself. Here again we are in a

labyrinth.

When you venture to affirm that there is no God, that matter acts of

itself by an eternal necessity, it must be demonstrated like a

proposition in Euclid, otherwise you rest your system only on a perhaps.

What a foundation for that which is most interesting to the human race!

"If man is by his nature forced to love his well-being, he is forced to

love the means of that well-being. It were useless, and perhaps unjust,

to ask a man to be virtuous, if he cannot be so without making himself

unhappy. So soon as vice makes him happy, he must love vice."

This maxim is yet more execrable in morals than the others are in

physics. Were it true that a man could not be virtuous without

suffering, he must be encouraged to suffer. Our author's proposition

would evidently be the ruin of society. Besides, how does he know that

we cannot be happy without having vices? On the contrary, is it not

proved by experience that the satisfaction of having subdued them is a

thousand times greater than the pleasure of yielding to them?--a

pleasure always empoisoned, a pleasure leading to woe. By subduing our

vices, we acquire tranquillity, the consoling testimony of our

conscience; by giving ourselves up to them, we lose our health, our

quiet--we risk everything. Thus our author himself, in twenty passages,

wishes all to be sacrificed to virtue; and he advances this proposition

only to give in his system a fresh proof of the necessity of being

virtuous.

"They who, with so many arguments, reject innate ideas should have

perceived that this ineffable intelligence by which the world is said to

be guided, and of which our senses can determine neither the existence

nor the qualities, is a being of reason."

But, truly, how does it follow from our having no innate ideas, that

there is no God? Is not this consequence absurd? Is there any

contradiction in saying that God gives us ideas through our senses? Is

it not, on the contrary, most clearly evident, that if there is an

Almighty Being from whom we have life, we owe to him our ideas and our

senses as well as everything else? It should first have been proved

that God does not exist, which our author has not done, which he has not

even attempted to do before this page of his tenth chapter.

Fearful of wearying the reader by an examination of all these detached

passages, I will come at once to the foundation of the book, and the

astonishing error upon which the author has built his system.

_Story of the Eels on Which the System is Founded._

About the year 1750 there was, in France, an English Jesuit called

Needham, disguised as a secular, who was then serving as tutor to the

nephew of M. Dillon, archbishop of Toulouse. This man made experiments

in natural philosophy, and especially in chemistry.

Having put some rye meal into well-corked bottles, and some boiled

mutton gravy into other bottles, he thought that his mutton gravy and

his meal had given birth to eels, which again produced others; and that

thus a race of eels was formed indifferently from the juice of meat, or

from a grain of rye.

A natural philosopher, of some reputation, had no doubt that this

Needham was a profound atheist. He concluded that, since eels could be

made of rye meal, men might be made of wheat flour; that nature and

chemistry produce all; and that it was demonstrated that we may very

well dispense with an all-forming God.

This property of meal very easily deceived one who, unfortunately, was

already wandering amidst ideas that should make us tremble for the

weakness of the human mind. He wanted to dig a hole in the centre of the

earth, to see the central fire; to dissect Patagonians, that he might

know the nature of the soul; to cover the sick with pitch, to prevent

them from perspiring; to exalt his soul, that he might foretell the

future. If to these things it were added, that he had the still greater

unhappiness of seeking to oppress two of his brethren, it would do no

honor to atheism; it would only serve to make us look into ourselves

with confusion.

It is really strange that men, while denying a creator, should have

attributed to themselves the power of creating eels.

But it is yet more deplorable that natural philosophers, of better

information, adopted the Jesuit Needham's ridiculous system, and joined

it to that of Maillet, who asserted that the ocean had formed the Alps

and Pyrenees, and that men were originally porpoises, whose forked tails

changed in the course of time into thighs and legs. Such fancies are

worthy to be placed with the eels formed by meal. We were assured, not

long ago, that at Brussels a hen had brought forth half a dozen young

rabbits.

This transmutation of meal and gravy into eels was demonstrated to be as

false and ridiculous as it really is, by M. Spallanzani, a rather better

observer than Needham. But the extravagance of so palpable an illusion

was evident without his observations.

Needham's eels soon followed the Brussels' hen.

Nevertheless, in 1768, the correct, elegant, and judicious translator of

Lucretius was so far led away, that he not only, in his notes to book

viii. p. 361, repeats Needham's pretended experiments, but he also does

all he can to establish their validity. Here, then, we have the new

foundation of the "System of Nature."

The author, in the second chapter, thus expresses himself: "After

moistening meal with water, and shutting up the mixture, it is found

after a little time, with the aid of the microscope, that it has

produced organized beings, of whose production the water and meal were

believed to be incapable. Thus inanimate nature can pass into life,

which is itself but an assemblage of motions."

Were this unparalleled blunder true, yet, in rigorous reasoning, I do

not see how it would prove there is no God; I do not see why a supreme,

intelligent, and mighty being, having formed the sun and the stars,

might not also deign to form animalculae without a germ. Here is no

contradiction in terms. A demonstrative proof that God has no existence

must be sought elsewhere; and most assuredly no person has ever found,

or will ever find, one.

Our author treats final causes with contempt, because the argument is

hackneyed; but this much-contemned argument is that of Cicero and of

Newton. This alone might somewhat lessen the confidence of atheists in

themselves. The number is not small of the sages who, observing the

course of the stars, and the prodigious art that pervades the structure

of animals and vegetables, have acknowledged a powerful hand working

these continual wonders.

The author asserts that matter, blind and without choice, produces

intelligent animals. Produce, without intelligence, beings with

intelligence! Is this conceivable? Is this system founded on the

smallest verisimilitude? An opinion so contradictory requires proofs no

less astonishing than itself. The author gives us none; he never proves

anything; but he affirms all that he advances. What chaos! what

confusion! and what temerity!

Spinoza at least acknowledged an intelligence acting in this great

whole, which constituted nature: in this there was philosophy. But in

the new system, I am under the necessity of saying that there is none.

Matter has extent, solidity, gravity, divisibility. I have all these as

well as this stone: but was a stone ever known to feel and think? If I

am extended, solid, divisible, I owe it to matter. But I have sensations

and thoughts--to what do I owe them? Not to water, not to mire--most

likely to something more powerful than myself. Solely to the combination

of the elements, you will say. Then prove it to me. Show me plainly that

my intelligence cannot have been given to me by an intelligent cause. To

this are you reduced.

Our author successively combats the God of the schoolmen--a God composed

of discordant qualities; a God to whom, as to those of Homer, is

attributed the passions of men; a God capricious, fickle, unreasonable,

absurd--but he cannot combat the God of the wise. The wise,

contemplating nature, admit an intelligent and supreme power. It is

perhaps impossible for human reason, destitute of divine assistance, to

go a step further.

Our author asks where this being resides; and, from the impossibility

that anyone, without being infinite, should tell where He resides, he

concludes that He does not exist. This is not philosophical; for we are

not, because we cannot tell where the cause of an effect is, to conclude

that there is no cause. If you had never seen a gunner, and you saw the

effects of a battery of cannon, you would not say it acts entirely by

itself. Shall it, then, only be necessary for you to say there is no

God, in order to be believed on your words?

Finally, his great objection is, the woes and crimes of mankind--an

objection alike ancient and philosophical; an objection common, but

fatal and terrible, and to which we find no answer but in the hope of a

better life. Yet what is this hope? We can have no certainty in it but

from reason. But I will venture to say, that when it is proved to us

that a vast edifice, constructed with the greatest art, is built by an

architect, whoever he may be, we ought to believe in that architect,

even though the edifice should be stained with our blood, polluted by

our crimes, and should crush us in its fall. I inquire not whether the

architect is a good one, whether I should be satisfied with his

building, whether I should quit it rather than stay in it, nor whether

those who are lodged in it for a few days, like myself, are content: I

only inquire if it be true that there is an architect, or if this house,

containing so many fine apartments and so many wretched garrets, built

itself.

SECTION V.

_The Necessity of Believing in a Supreme Being._

The great, the interesting object, as it appears to me, is, not to argue

metaphysically, but to consider whether, for the common good of us

miserable and thinking animals, we should admit a rewarding and avenging

God, at once our restraint and consolation, or should reject this idea,

and so abandon ourselves to calamity without hope, and crime without

remorse.

Hobbes says that if, in a commonwealth, in which no God should be

acknowledged, any citizen were to propose one, he would have him hanged.

Apparently, he meant by this strange exaggeration, a citizen who should

seek to rule in the name of a god, a charlatan who would make himself a

tyrant. We understand citizens, who, feeling the weakness of human

nature, its perverseness, and its misery, seek some prop to support it

through the languors and horrors of this life.

From Job down to us, a great many men have cursed their existence; we

have, therefore, perpetual need of consolation and hope. Of these your

philosophy deprives us. The fable of Pandora was better; it left us

hope--which you snatch from us! Philosophy, you say, furnishes no proof

of happiness to come. No--but you have no demonstration of the contrary.

There may be in us an indestructible monad which feels and thinks,

without our knowing anything at all of how that monad is made. Reason is

not absolutely opposed to this idea, though reason alone does not prove

it. Has not this opinion a prodigious advantage over yours? Mine is

useful to mankind, yours is baneful; say of it what you will, it may

encourage a Nero, an Alexander VI., or a Cartouche. Mine may restrain

them.

Marcus Antoninus and Epictetus believed that their monad, of whatever

kind it was, would be united to the monad of the Great Being; and they

were the most virtuous of men.

In the state of doubt in which we both are, I do not say to you with

Pascal, "choose the safest." There is no safety in uncertainty. We are

here not to talk, but to examine; we must judge, and our judgment is not

determined by our will. I do not propose to you to believe extravagant

things, in order to escape embarrassment. I do not say to you, "Go to

Mecca, and instruct yourself by kissing the black stone, take hold of a

cow's tail, muffle yourself in a scapulary, or be imbecile and fanatical

to acquire the favor of the Being of beings." I say to you: "Continue

to cultivate virtue, to be beneficent, to regard all superstition with

horror, or with pity; but adore, with me, the design which is manifested

in all nature, and consequently the Author of that design--the

primordial and final cause of all; hope with me that our monad, which

reasons on the great eternal being, may be happy through that same great

Being." There is no contradiction in this. You can no more demonstrate

its impossibility than I can demonstrate mathematically that it is so.

In metaphysics we scarcely reason on anything but probabilities. We are

all swimming in a sea of which we have never seen the shore. Woe be to

those who fight while they swim! Land who can: but he that cries out to

me, "You swim in vain, there is no land," disheartens me, and deprives

me of all my strength.

What is the object of our dispute? To console our unhappy existence. Who

consoles it--you or I?

You yourself own, in some passages of your work, that the belief in a

God has withheld some men on the brink of crime; for me, this

acknowledgment is enough. If this opinion had prevented but ten

assassinations, but ten calumnies, but ten iniquitous judgments on the

earth, I hold that the whole earth ought to embrace it.

Religion, you say, has produced thousands of crimes--say, rather,

superstition, which unhappily reigns over this globe; it is the most

cruel enemy of the pure adoration due to the Supreme Being.

Let us detest this monster which has constantly been tearing the bosom

of its mother; they who combat it are benefactors to mankind: it is a

serpent enclosing religion in its folds, its head must be bruised,

without wounding the parent whom it infects and devours.

You fear, "that, by adoring God, men would soon again become

superstitious and fanatical." But is it not to be feared that in denying

Him, they would abandon themselves to the most atrocious passions, and

the most frightful crimes? Between these two extremes is there not a

very rational mean? Where is the safe track between these two rocks? It

is God, and wise laws.

You affirm that it is but one step from adoration to superstition: but

there is an infinity to well-constituted minds, and these are now very

numerous; they are at the head of nations; they influence public

manners, and, year by year, the fanaticism that overspread the earth is

receding in its detestable usurpations.

I shall say a few words more in answer to what you say in page 223. "If

it be presumed that there are relations between man and this incredible

being, then altars must be raised and presents must be made to him,

etc.; if no conception be formed of this being, then the matter must be

referred to priests, who...." A great evil to be sure, to assemble in

the harvest season, and thank God for the bread that He has given us!

Who says you should make presents to God? The idea is ridiculous! But

where is the harm of employing a citizen, called an "elder" or "priest,"

to render thanks to the Divinity in the name of the other

citizens?--provided the priest is not a Gregory VII. trampling on the

heads of kings, nor an Alexander VI. polluting by incest his daughter,

the offspring of a rape, and, by the aid of his bastard son, poisoning

and assassinating almost all the neighboring princes: provided that, in

a parish, this priest is not a knave, picking the pockets of the

penitents he confesses, and using the money to seduce the girls he

catechises; provided that this priest is not a Letellier, putting the

whole kingdom in combustion by rogueries worthy of the pillory, nor a

Warburton, violating the laws of society, making public the private

papers of a member of parliament in order to ruin him, and calumniating

whosoever is not of his opinion. The latter cases are rare. The

sacerdotal state is a curb which forces to good behavior.

A stupid priest excites contempt; a bad priest inspires horror; a good

priest, mild, pious, without superstition, charitable, tolerant, is one

who ought to be cherished and revered. You dread abuses--so do I. Let us

unite to prevent them; but let us not condemn the usage when it is

useful to society, when it is not perverted by fanaticism, or by

fraudulent wickedness.

I have one very important thing to tell you. I am persuaded that you are

in a great error, but I am equally convinced that you are honest in your

self-delusion. You would have men virtuous even without a God, although

you have unfortunately said that "so soon as vice renders man happy, he

must love vice"--a frightful proposition, which your friends should have

prevailed on you to erase. Everywhere else you inspire probity. This

philosophical dispute will be only between you and a few philosophers

scattered over Europe; the rest of the earth will not even hear of it.

The people do not read us. If some theologian were to seek to persecute

us, he would be impudent as well as wicked; he would but serve to

confirm you, and to make new atheists.

You are wrong: but the Greeks did not persecute Epicurus; the Romans did

not persecute Lucretius. You are wrong: but your genius and your virtue

must be respected, while you are refuted with all possible strength.

In my opinion, the finest homage that can be rendered to God is to stand

forward in His defence without anger; as the most unworthy portrait that

can be drawn of Him is to paint Him vindictive and furious. He is truth

itself; and truth is without passion. To be a disciple of God is to

announce Him as of a mild heart and of an unalterable mind.

I think, with you, that fanaticism is a monster a thousand times more

dangerous than philosophical atheism. Spinoza did not commit a single

bad action. Châtel and Ravaillac, both devotees, assassinated Henry IV.

The atheist of the closet is almost always a quiet philosopher, while

the fanatic is always turbulent: but the court atheist, the atheistical

prince, might be the scourge of mankind. Borgia and his like have done

almost as much harm as the fanatics of Münster and of the Cévennes. I

say the fanatics on both sides. The misfortune is, that atheists of the

closet make atheists of the court. It was Chiron who brought up

Achilles; he fed him with lion's marrow. Achilles will one day drag

Hector's body round the walls of Troy, and immolate twelve captives to

his vengeance.

God keep us from an abominable priest who should hew a king in pieces

with his sacrificing knife, as also from him who, with a helmet on his

head and a cuirass on his back, at the age of seventy, should dare to

sign with his three bloody fingers the ridiculous excommunication of a

king of France! and from.... and from....

But also, may God preserve us from a choleric and barbarous despot, who,

not believing in a God, should be his own God, who should render himself

unworthy of his sacred trust by trampling on the duties which that trust

imposes, who should remorselessly sacrifice to his passions, his

friends, his relatives, his servants, and his people. These two tigers,

the one shorn, the other crowned are equally to be feared. By what means

shall we muzzle them?....

If the idea of a God has made a Titus or a Trajan, an Antonine or an

Aurelius, and those great Chinese emperors, whose memory is so dear to

the second of the most ancient and most extensive empires in the world,

these examples are sufficient for my cause--and my cause is that of all

mankind.

I do not believe that there is in all Europe one statesman, one man at

all versed in the affairs of the world, who has not the most profound

contempt for the legends with which we have been inundated, even more

than we now are with pamphlets. If religion no longer gives birth to

civil wars, it is to philosophy alone that we are indebted, theological

disputes beginning to be regarded in much the same manner as the

quarrels of Punch and Judy at the fair. A usurpation, alike odious and

ridiculous, founded upon fraud on one side and stupidity on the other,

is every instant undermined by reason, which is establishing its reign.

The bull "_In cæna Domini_"--that masterpiece of insolence and folly, no

longer dares appear, even in Rome. If a regiment of monks makes the

least evolution against the laws of the state, it is immediately broken.

But, because the Jesuits have been expelled, must we also expel God? On

the contrary, we must love Him the more.

SECTION VI.

In the reign of Arcadius, Logomachos, a theologue of Constantinople,

went into Scythia and stopped at the foot of Mount Caucasus in the

fruitful plains of Zephirim, on the borders of Colchis. The good old man

Dondindac was in his great hall between his large sheepfold and his

extensive barn; he was on his knees with his wife, his five sons and

five daughters, his kinsmen and servants; and all were singing the

praises of God, after a light repast. "What are you doing, idolater?"

said Logomachos to him. "I am not an idolater," said Dondindac. "You

must be an idolater," said Logomachos, "for you are not a Greek. Come,

tell me what you were singing in your barbarous Scythian jargon?" "All

tongues are alike to the ears of God," answered the Scythian; "we were

singing His praises." "Very extraordinary!" returned the theologue; "a

Scythian family praying to God without having been instructed by us!" He

soon entered into conversation with the Scythian Dondindac; for the

theologue knew a little Scythian, and the other a little Greek. This

conversation has been found in a manuscript preserved in the library of

Constantinople.

LOGOMACHOS.

Let us see if you know your catechism. Why do you pray to God?

DONDINDAC.

Because it is just to adore the Supreme Being, from whom we have

everything.

LOGOMACHOS.

Very fair for a barbarian. And what do you ask of him?

DONDINDAC

I thank Him for the blessings I enjoy, and even for the trials which He

sends me; but I am careful to ask nothing of Him; for He knows our wants

better than we do; besides, I should be afraid of asking for fair

weather while my neighbor was asking for rain.

LOGOMACHOS.

Ah! I thought he would say some nonsense or other. Let us begin farther

back. Barbarian, who told you that there is a God?

DONDINDAC

All nature tells me.

LOGOMACHOS.

That is not enough. What idea have you of God?

DONDINDAC

The idea of my Creator; my master, who will reward me if I do good, and

punish me if I do evil.

LOGOMACHOS.

Trifles! trash! Let us come to some essentials. Is God _infinite

secundum quid_, or according to essence?

DONDINDAC

I don't understand you.

LOGOMACHOS.

Brute beast! Is God in one place, or in every place?

DONDINDAC.

I know not ... just as you please.

LOGOMACHOS.

Ignoramus!... Can He cause that which has not been to have been, or that

a stick shall not have two ends? Does He see the future as future, or as

present? How does He draw being from nothing, and how reduce being to

nothing?

DONDINDAC.

I have never examined these things.

LOGOMACHOS.

What a stupid fellow! Well, I must come nearer to your level.... Tell

me, friend, do you think that matter can be eternal?

DONDINDAC

What matters it to me whether it exists from all eternity or not? I do

not exist from all eternity. God must still be my Master. He has given

me the nature of justice; it is my duty to follow it: I seek not to be a

philosopher; I wish to be a man.

LOGOMACHOS.

One has a great deal of trouble with these block-heads. Let us proceed

step by step. What is God?

DONDINDAC

My sovereign, my judge, my father.

LOGOMACHOS.

That is not what I ask. What is His nature?

DONDINDAC.

To be mighty and good.

LOGOMACHOS.

But is He corporeal or spiritual?

DONDINDAC.

How should I know that?

LOGOMACHOS.

What; do you not know what a spirit is?

DONDINDAC.

Not in the least. Of what service would that knowledge be to me? Should

I be more just? Should I be a better husband, a better father, a better

master, or a better citizen?

LOGOMACHOS.

You must absolutely be taught what a spirit is. It is--it is--it is--I

will say what another time.

DONDINDAC.

I much fear that you will tell me rather what it is not than what it is.

Permit me, in turn, to ask you one question. Some time ago, I saw one of

your temples: why do you paint God with a long beard?

LOGOMACHOS.

That is a very difficult question, and requires preliminary

instruction.

DONDINDAC.

Before I receive your instruction, I must relate to you a thing which

one day happened to me. I had just built a closet at the end of my

garden, when I heard a mole arguing thus with an ant: "Here is a fine

fabric," said the mole; "it must have been a very powerful mole that

performed this work." "You jest," returned the ant; "the architect of

this edifice is an ant of mighty genius." From that time I resolved

never to dispute.

GOOD--THE SOVEREIGN GOOD, A CHIMERA.

SECTION I.

Happiness is an abstract idea composed of certain pleasurable

sensations. Plato, who wrote better than he reasoned, conceived the

notion of his world in archetype; that is, his original world--of his

general ideas of the beautiful, the good, the orderly, and the just, as

if there had existed eternal beings, called order, good, beauty, and

justice; whence might be derived the feeble copies exhibited here below

of the just, the beautiful, and the good.

It is, then, in consequence of his suggestions that philosophers have

occupied themselves in seeking for the sovereign good, as chemists seek

for the philosopher's stone; but the sovereign good has no more

existence than the sovereign square, or the sovereign crimson: there is

the crimson color, and there are squares; but there is no general

existence so denominated. This chimerical manner of reasoning was for a

long time the bane of philosophy.

Animals feel pleasure in performing all the functions for which they are

destined. The happiness which poetical fancy has imagined would be an

uninterrupted series of pleasures; but such a series would be

incompatible with our organs and our destination. There is great

pleasure in eating, drinking, and connubial endearments; but it is clear

that if a man were always eating, or always in the full ecstasy of

enjoyment, his organs would be incapable of sustaining it: it is further

evident that he would be unable to fulfil the destinies he was born to,

and that, in the case supposed, the human race would absolutely perish

through pleasure.

To pass constantly and without interruption from one pleasure to another

is also a chimera. The woman who has conceived must go through

childbirth, which is a pain; the man is obliged to cleave wood and hew

stone, which is not a pleasure.

If the name of happiness is meant to be applied to some pleasures which

are diffused over human life, there is in fact, we must admit,

happiness. If the name attaches only to one pleasure always permanent,

or a continued although varied range of delicious enjoyment, then

happiness belongs not to this terraqueous globe. Go and seek for it

elsewhere.

If we make happiness consist in any particular situation that a man may

be in, as for instance, a situation of wealth, power, or fame, we are no

less mistaken. There are some scavengers who are happier than some

sovereigns. Ask Cromwell whether he was more happy when he was lord

protector of England, than when, in his youthful days, he enjoyed

himself at a tavern; he will probably tell you in answer, that the

period of his usurpation was not the period most productive of

pleasures. How many plain or even ugly country women are more happy than

were Helen and Cleopatra.

We must here however make one short remark; that when we say such a

particular man is probably happier than some other; that a young

muleteer has advantages very superior to those of Charles V.; that a

dressmaker has more enjoyment than a princess, we should adhere to the

probability of the case. There is certainly every appearance that a

muleteer, in full health, must have more pleasure than Charles the

Fifth, laid up with the gout; but nevertheless it may also be, that

Charles, on his crutches, revolves in his mind with such ecstasy the

facts of his holding a king of France and a pope prisoners, that his lot

is absolutely preferable to that of the young and vigorous muleteer.

It certainly belongs to God alone, to a being capable of seeing through

all hearts, to decide which is the happiest man. There is only one case

in which a person can affirm that his actual state is worse or better

than that of his neighbor; this case is that of existing rivalship, and

the moment that of victory.

I will suppose that Archimedes has an assignation at night with his

mistress. Nomentanus has the same assignation at the same hour.

Archimedes presents himself at the door, and it is shut in his face; but

it is opened to his rival, who enjoys an excellent supper, which he

enlivens by his repeated sallies of wit upon Archimedes, and after the

conclusion of which he withdraws to still higher enjoyments, while the

other remains exposed in the street to all the pelting of a pitiless

storm. There can be no doubt that Nomentanus has a right to say: "I am

more happy to-night than Archimedes: I have more pleasure than he"; but

it is necessary, in order to admit the truth and justness of the

inference of the successful competitors in his own favor, to suppose

that Archimedes is thinking only about the loss of his good supper,

about being despised and deceived by a beautiful woman, about being

supplanted by his rival, and annoyed by the tempest; for, if the

philosopher in the street should be calmly reflecting that his soul

ought to be above being discomposed by a strumpet or a storm, if he

should be absorbed in a profound and interesting problem, and if he

should discover the proportions between the cylinder and the sphere, he

may experience a pleasure a hundred times superior to that of

Nomentanus.

It is only therefore in the single case of actual pleasure and actual

pain, and without a reference to anything else whatever, that a

comparison between any two individuals can be properly made. It is

unquestionable that he who enjoys the society of his mistress is

happier at the moment than his scorned rival deploring over his

misfortune. A man in health, supping on a fat partridge, is undoubtedly

happier at the time than another under the torment of the colic; but we

cannot safely carry our inferences farther; we cannot estimate the

existence of one man against that of another; we possess no accurate

balance for weighing desires and sensations.

We began this article with Plato and his sovereign good; we will

conclude it with Solon and the saying of his which has been so highly

celebrated, that "we ought to pronounce no man happy before his death."

This maxim, when examined into, will be found nothing more than a

puerile remark, just like many other apothegms consecrated by their

antiquity. The moment of death has nothing in common with the lot

experienced by any man in life; a man may perish by a violent and

ignominious death, and yet, up to that moment, may have enjoyed all the

pleasures of which human nature is susceptible. It is very possible and

very common for a happy man to cease to be so; no one can doubt it; but

he has not the less had his happy moments.

What, then, can Solon's expression strictly and fairly mean? that a man

happy to-day is not certain of being so to-morrow! In this case it is a

truth so incontestable and trivial that, not merely is it not worthy of

being elevated into a maxim, but it is not worthy delivering at all.

SECTION II.

Well-being is a rare possession. May not the sovereign good in this

world be considered as a sovereign chimera? The Greek philosophers

discussed at great length, according to their usual practice, this

celebrated question. The reader will, probably, compare them to just so

many mendicants reasoning about the philosopher's stone.

The sovereign good! What an expression! It might as well have been

asked: What is the sovereign blue, or the sovereign ragout, or the

sovereign walk, or the sovereign reading?

Every one places his good where he can, and has as much of it as he can,

in his own way, and in very scanty measure. Castor loved horses; his

twin brother, to try a fall--

_Quid dem? quid non dem? renuis tu quod jubet alter.... Castor gaudet

equis, ovo prognatus eodem Pugnis, etc._

The greatest good is that which delights us so powerfully as to render

us incapable of feeling anything else; as the greatest evil is that

which goes so far as to deprive us of all feeling. These are the two

extremes of human nature, and these moments are short. Neither extreme

delight nor extreme torture can last a whole life. The sovereign good

and the sovereign evil are nothing more than chimeras.

We all know the beautiful fable of Crantor. He introduces upon the stage

at the Olympic games, Wealth, Pleasure, Health, and Virtue. Each claims

the apple. Wealth says, I am the sovereign good, for with me all goods

are purchased. Pleasure says, the apple belongs to me, for it is only on

my account that wealth is desired. Health asserts, that without her

there can be no pleasure, and wealth is useless. Finally, Virtue states

that she is superior to the other three, because, although possessed of

gold, pleasures, and health, a man may make himself very contemptible by

misconduct. The apple was conferred on Virtue.

The fable is very ingenious; it would be still more so if Crantor had

said that the sovereign good consists in the combination of the four

rivals, Virtue, Health, Wealth, and Pleasure; but this fable neither

does, nor can, resolve the absurd question about the sovereign good.

Virtue is not a good; it is a duty. It is of a different nature; of a

superior order. It has nothing to do with painful or with agreeable

sensations. A virtuous man, laboring under stone and gout, without aid,

without friends, destitute of necessaries, persecuted, and chained down

to the floor by a voluptuous tyrant who enjoys good health, is very

wretched; and his insolent persecutor, caressing a new mistress on his

bed of purple, is very happy. Say, if you please, that the persecuted

sage is preferable to the persecuting profligate; say that you admire

the one and detest the other; but confess that the sage in chains is

scarcely less than mad with rage and pain; if he does not himself admit

that he is so, he completely deceives you; he is a charlatan.

GOOD.

_Of Good and Evil, Physical and Moral._

We here treat of a question of the greatest difficulty and importance.

It relates to the whole of human life. It would be of much greater

consequence to find a remedy for our evils; but no remedy is to be

discovered, and we are reduced to the sad necessity of tracing out their

origin. With respect to this origin, men have disputed ever since the

days of Zoroaster, and in all probability they disputed on the same

subject long before him. It was to explain the mixture of good and evil

that they conceived the idea of two principles--Oromazes, the author of

light, and Arimanes, the author of darkness; the box of Pandora; the two

vessels of Jupiter; the apple eaten by Eve; and a variety of other

systems. The first of dialecticians, although not the first of

philosophers, the illustrious Bayle, has clearly shown how difficult it

is for Christians who admit one only God, perfectly good and just, to

reply to the objections of the Manichæans who acknowledge two Gods--one

good, and the other evil.

The foundation of the system of the Manichæans, with all its antiquity,

was not on that account more reasonable. Lemmas, susceptible of the most

clear and rigid geometrical demonstrations, should alone have induced

any men to the adoption of such a theorem as the following: "There are

two necessary beings, both supreme, both infinite, both equally

powerful, both in conflict with each other, yet, finally, agreeing to

pour out upon this little planet--one, all the treasures of his

beneficence, and the other all the stores of his malice." It is in vain

that the advocates of this hypothesis attempt to explain by it the cause

of good and evil: even the fable of Prometheus explains it better. Every

hypothesis which only serves to assign a reason for certain things,

without being, in addition to that recommendation, established upon

indisputable principles, ought invariably to be rejected.

The Christian doctors--independently of revelation, which makes

everything credible--explain the origin of good-and evil no better than

the partner-gods of Zoroaster.

When they say God is a tender father, God is a just king; when they add

the idea of infinity to that of love, that kindness, that justice which

they observe in the best of their own species, they soon fall into the

most palpable and dreadful contradictions. How could this sovereign, who

possessed in infinite fulness the principle or quality of human justice,

how could this father, entertaining an infinite affection for his

children; how could this being, infinitely powerful, have formed

creatures in His own likeness, to have them immediately afterwards

tempted by a malignant demon, to make them yield to that temptation to

inflict death on those whom He had created immortal, and to overwhelm

their posterity with calamities and crimes! We do not here speak of a

contradiction still more revolting to our feeble reason. How could God,

who ransomed the human race by the death of His only Son; or rather, how

could God, who took upon Himself the nature of man, and died on the

cross to save men from perdition, consign over to eternal tortures

nearly the whole of that human race for whom He died? Certainly, when we

consider this system merely as philosophers--without the aid of

faith--we must consider it as absolutely monstrous and abominable. It

makes of God either pure and unmixed malice, and that malice infinite,

which created thinking beings, on purpose to devote them to eternal

misery, or absolute impotence and imbecility, in not being able to

foresee or to prevent the torments of his offspring.

But the eternity of misery is not the subject of this article, which

relates properly only to the good and evil of the present life. None of

the doctors of the numerous churches of Christianity, all of which

advocate the doctrine we are here contesting, have been able to convince

a single sage.

We cannot conceive how Bayle, who managed the weapons of dialectics with

such admirable strength and dexterity, could content himself with

introducing in a dispute a Manichæan, a Calvinist, a Molinist, and a

Socinian. Why did he not introduce, as speaking, a reasonable and

sensible man? Why did not Bayle speak in his own person? He would have

said far better what we shall now venture to say ourselves. A father

who kills his children is a monster; a king who conducts his subjects

into a snare, in order to obtain a pretext for delivering them up to

punishment and torture, is an execrable tyrant. If you conceive God to

possess the same kindness which you require in a father, the same

justice that you require in a king, no possible resource exists by

which, if we may use the expression, God can be exculpated; and by

allowing Him to possess infinite wisdom and infinite goodness you, in

fact, render Him infinitely odious; you excite a wish that He had no

existence; you furnish arms to the atheist, who will ever be justified

in triumphantly remarking to you: Better by far is it to deny a God

altogether, than impute to Him such conduct as you would punish, to the

extremity of the law, in men.

We begin then with observing, that it is unbecoming in us to ascribe to

God human attributes. It is not for us to make God after our own

likeness. Human justice, human kindness, and human wisdom can never be

applied or made suitable to Him. We may extend these attributes in our

imagination as far as we are able, to infinity; they will never be other

than human qualities with boundaries perpetually or indefinitely

removed; it would be equally rational to attribute to Him infinite

solidity, infinite motion, infinite roundness, or infinite divisibility.

These attributes can never be His.

Philosophy informs us that this universe must have been arranged by a

Being incomprehensible, eternal, and existing by His own nature; but,

once again, we must observe that philosophy gives us no information on

the subject of the attributes of that nature. We know what He is not,

and not what He is.

With respect to God, there is neither good nor evil, physically or

morally. What is physical or natural evil? Of all evils, the greatest,

undoubtedly, is death. Let us for a moment consider whether man could

have been immortal.

In order that a body like ours should have been indissoluble,

imperishable, it would have been necessary that it should not be

composed of parts; that it--should not be born; that it should have

neither nourishment nor growth; that it should experience no change. Let

any one examine each of these points; and let every reader extend their

number according to his own suggestions, and it will be seen that the

proposition of an immortal man is a contradiction.

If our organized body were immortal, that of mere animals would be so

likewise; but it is evident that, in the course of a very short time,

the whole globe would, in this case, be incompetent to supply

nourishment to those animals; those immortal beings which exist only in

consequence of renovation by food, would then perish for want of the

means of such renovation. All this involves contradiction. We might make

various other observations on the subject, but every reader who deserves

the name of a philosopher will perceive that death was necessary to

everything that is born; that death can neither be an error on the part

of God, nor an evil, an injustice, nor a chastisement to man.

Man, born to die, can no more be exempt from pain than from death. To

prevent an organized substance endowed with feeling from ever

experiencing pain, it would be necessary that all the laws of nature

should be changed; that matter should no longer be divisible; that it

should neither have weight, action, nor force; that a rock might fall on

an animal without crushing it; and that water should have no power to

suffocate, or fire to burn it. Man, impassive, then, is as much a

contradiction as man immortal.

This feeling of pain was indispensable to stimulate us to

self-preservation, and to impart to us such pleasures as are consistent

with those general laws by which the whole system of nature is bound and

regulated.

If we never experienced pain, we should be every moment injuring

ourselves without perceiving it. Without the excitement of uneasiness,

without some sensation of pain, we should perform no function of life;

should never communicate it, and should be destitute of all the

pleasures of it. Hunger is the commencement of pain which compels us to

take our required nourishment. Ennui is a pain which stimulates to

exercise and occupation. Love itself is a necessity which becomes

painful until it is met with corresponding attachment. In a word, every

desire is a want, a necessity, a beginning of pain. Pain, therefore, is

the mainspring of all the actions of animated beings. Every animal

possessed of feeling must be liable to pain, if matter is divisible; and

pain was as necessary as death. It is not, therefore, an error of

Providence, nor a result of malignity, nor a creature of imagination.

Had we seen only brutes suffer, we should, for that, never have accused

nature of harshness or cruelty; had we, while ourselves were impassive,

witnessed the lingering and torturing death of a dove, when a kite

seized upon it with his murderous talons, and leisurely devouring its

bleeding limbs, doing in that no more than we do ourselves, we should

not express the slightest murmur of dissatisfaction. But what claim have

we for an exemption of our own bodies from such dismemberment and

torture beyond what might be urged in behalf of brutes? Is it that we

possess an intellect superior to theirs? But what has intellect to do

with the divisibility of matter? Can a few ideas more or less in a brain

prevent fire from burning, or a rock from crushing us?

Moral evil, upon which so many volumes have been written is, in fact,

nothing but natural evil. This moral evil is a sensation of pain

occasioned by one organized being to another. Rapine, outrage, etc., are

evil only because they produce evil. But as we certainly are unable to

do any evil, or occasion any pain to God, it is evident by the light of

reason--for faith is altogether a different principle--that in relation

to the Supreme Being and as affecting Him, moral evil can have no

existence.

As the greatest of natural evils is death, the greatest of moral evils

is, unquestionably, war. All crimes follow in its train; false and

calumnious declarations, perfidious violation of the treaties, pillage,

devastation, pain, and death under every hideous and appalling form.

All this is physical evil in relation to man, but can no more be

considered moral evil in relation to God than the rage of dogs worrying

and destroying one another. It is a mere common-place idea, and as false

as it is feeble, that men are the only species that slaughter and

destroy one another. Wolves, dogs, cats, cocks, quails, all war with

their respective species: house spiders devour one another; the male

universally fights for the female. This warfare is the result of the

laws of nature, of principles in their very blood and essence; all is

connected; all is necessary.

Nature has granted man about two and twenty years of life, one with

another; that is, of a thousand children born in the same month, some of

whom have died in their infancy, and the rest lived respectively to the

age of thirty, forty, fifty, and even eighty years, or perhaps beyond,

the average calculation will allow to each the above-mentioned number of

twenty-two years.

How can it affect the Deity, whether a man die in battle or of a fever?

War destroys fewer human beings than smallpox. The scourge of war is

transient, that of smallpox reigns with paramount and permanent fatality

throughout the earth, followed by a numerous train of others; and taking

into consideration the combined, and nearly regular operation of the

various causes which sweep mankind from the stage of life, the allowance

of two and twenty years for every individual will be found in general to

be tolerably correct.

Man, you say, offends God by killing his neighbor; if this be the case,

the directors of nations must indeed be tremendous criminals; for, while

even invoking God to their assistance, they urge on to slaughter immense

multitudes of their fellow-beings, for contemptible interests which it

would show infinitely more policy, as well as humanity, to abandon. But

how--to reason merely as philosophers--how do they offend God? Just as

much as tigers and crocodiles offend him. It is, surely, not God whom

they harass and torment, but their neighbor. It is only against man that

man can be guilty. A highway robber can commit no robbery on God. What

can it signify to the eternal Deity, whether a few pieces of yellow

metal are in the hands of Jerome, or of Bonaventure? We have necessary

desires, necessary passions, and necessary laws for the restraint of

both; and while on this our ant-hill, during the little day of our

existence, we are engaged in eager and destructive contest about a

straw, the universe moves, on in its majestic course, directed by

eternal and unalterable laws, which comprehend in their operation the

atom that we call the earth.

GOSPEL.

It is a matter of high importance to ascertain which are the first

gospels. It is a decided truth, whatever Abbadie may assert to the

contrary, that none of the first fathers of the Church, down to Irenæus

inclusively, have quoted any passage from the four gospels with which we

are acquainted. And to this it may be added, that the Alogi, the

Theodosians, constantly rejected the gospel of St. John, and always

spoke of it with contempt; as we are informed by St. Epiphanius in his

thirty-fourth homily. Our enemies further observe that the most ancient

fathers do not merely forbear to quote anything from our gospels, but

relate many passages or events which are to be found only in the

apocryphal gospels rejected by the canon.

St. Clement, for example, relates that our Lord, having been questioned

concerning the time when His kingdom would come, answered, "That will be

when what is without shall Resemble that within, and when there shall be

neither male nor female." But we must admit that this passage does not

occur in either of our gospels. There are innumerable other instances to

prove this truth; which may be seen in the "Critical Examination" of M.

Fréret, perpetual secretary of the Academy of Belles Lettres at Paris.

The learned Fabricius took the pains to collect the ancient gospels

which time has spared; that of James appears to be the first; and it is

certain that it still possesses considerable authority with some of the

Oriental churches. It is called "the first gospel." There remain the

passion and the resurrection, pretended to have been written by

Nicodemus. This gospel of Nicodemus is quoted by St. Justin and

Tertullian. It is there we find the names of our Lord's accusers--Annas,

Caiaphas, Soumas, Dathan, Gamaliel, Judas, Levi, and Napthali; the

attention and particularity with which these names are given confer upon

the work an appearance of truth and sincerity. Our adversaries have

inferred that as so many false gospels were forged, which at first were

recognized as true, those which constitute at the present day the

foundation of our own faith may have been forged also. They dwell much

on the circumstance of the first heretics suffering even death itself in

defence of these apocryphal gospels. There have evidently been, they

say, forgers, seducers, and men who have been seduced by them into

error, and died in defence of that error; it is, at least, therefore, no

proof of the truth of Christianity that it has had its martyrs who have

died for it.

They add further, that the martyrs were never asked the question,

whether they believed the gospel of John or the gospel of James. The

Pagans could not put a series of interrogatories about books with which

they were not at all acquainted; the magistrates punished some

Christians very unjustly, as disturbers of the public peace, but they

never put particular questions to them in relation to our four gospels.

These books were not known to the Romans before the time of Diocletian,

and even towards the close of Diocletian's reign, they had scarcely

obtained any publicity. It was deemed in a Christian a crime both

abominable and unpardonable to show a gospel to any Gentile. This is so

true, that you cannot find the word "gospel" in any profane author

whatever.

The rigid Socinians, influenced by the above-mentioned or other

difficulties, do not consider our four divine gospels in any other light

than as works of clandestine introduction, fabricated about a century

after the time of Jesus Christ, and carefully concealed from the

Gentiles for another century beyond that; works, as they express it, of

a coarse and vulgar character, written by coarse and vulgar men, who,

for a long time confined their discourses and appeals to the mere

populace of their party. We will not here repeat the blasphemies uttered

by them. This sect, although considerably diffused and numerous, is at

present as much concealed as were the first gospels. The difficulty of

converting them is so much the greater, in consequence of their

obstinately refusing to listen to anything but mere reason. The other

Christians contend against them only with the weapons of the Holy

Scripture: it is consequently impossible that, being thus always in

hostility with respect to principles, they should ever unite in their

conclusions.

With respect to ourselves, let us ever remain inviolably attached to our

four gospels, in union with the infallible church. Let us reject the

five gospels which it has rejected; let us not inquire why our Lord

Jesus Christ permitted five false gospels, five false histories of his

life to be written; and let us submit to our spiritual pastors and

directors, who alone on earth are enlightened by the Holy Spirit.

Into what a gross error did Abbadie fall when he considered as authentic

the letters so ridiculously forged, from Pilate to Tiberius, and the

pretended proposal of Tiberius to place Jesus Christ in the number of

the gods. If Abbadie is a bad critic and a contemptible reasoner, is the

Church on that account less enlightened? are we the less bound to

believe it? Shall we at all the less submit to it?

GOVERNMENT.

SECTION I.

The pleasure of governing must certainly be exquisite, if we may judge

from the vast numbers who are eager to be concerned in it. We have many

more books on government than there are monarchs in the world. Heaven

preserve me from making any attempt here to give instruction to kings

and their noble ministers--their valets, confessors, or financiers. I

understand nothing about the matter; I have the profoundest respect and

reverence for them all. It belongs only to Mr. Wilkes, with his English

balance, to weigh the merits of those who are at the head of the human

race. It would, besides, be exceedingly strange if, with three or four

thousand volumes on the subject of government, with Machiavelli, and

Bossuet's "Policy of the Holy Scripture," with the "General Financier,"

the "Guide to Finances," the "Means of Enriching a State," etc., there

could possibly be a single person living who was not perfectly

acquainted with the duties of kings and the science of government.

Professor Puffendorf, or, as perhaps we should rather say, Baron

Puffendorf, says that King David, having sworn never to attempt the life

of Shimei, his privy counsellor, did not violate his oath when,

according to the Jewish history, he instructed his son Solomon to get

him assassinated, "because David had only engaged that he himself would

not kill Shimei." The baron, who rebukes so sharply the mental

reservations of the Jesuits, allows David, in the present instance, to

entertain one which would not be particularly palatable to privy

counsellors.

Let us consider the words of Bossuet in his "Policy of the Holy

Scripture," addressed to Monseigneur the Dauphin. "Thus we see royalty

established according to the order of succession in the house of David

and Solomon, and the throne of David is secured forever--although, by

the way, that same little joint-stool called a 'throne,' instead of

being secured forever, lasted, in fact, only a very short time." By

virtue of this law, the eldest son was to succeed, to the exclusion of

his brothers, and on this account Adonijah, who was the eldest, said to

Bathsheba, the mother of Solomon, "Thou knowest that the kingdom was

mine, and all Israel had recognized my right; but the Lord hath

transferred the kingdom to my brother Solomon." The right of Adonijah

was incontestable. Bossuet expressly admits this at the close of this

article. "The Lord has transferred" is only a usual phrase, which means,

I have lost my property or right, I have been deprived of my right.

Adonijah was the issue of a lawful wife; the birth of his younger

brother was the fruit of a double crime.

"Unless, then," says Bossuet, "something extraordinary occurred, the

eldest was to succeed." But the something extraordinary, in the present

instance, which prevented it was, that Solomon, the issue of a marriage

arising out of a double adultery and a murder, procured the

assassination, at the foot of the altar, of his elder brother and his

lawful king, whose rights were supported by the high priest Abiathar and

the chief commander Joab. After this we must acknowledge that it is more

difficult than some seem to imagine to take lessons on the rights of

persons, and on the true system of government from the Holy Scriptures,

which were first given to the Jews, and afterwards to ourselves, for

purposes of a far higher nature.

"The preservation of the people is the supreme law." Such is the

fundamental maxim of nations; but in all civil wars the safety of the

people is made to consist in slaughtering a number of the citizens. In

all foreign wars, the safety of a people consists in killing their

neighbors, and taking possession of their property! It is difficult to

perceive in this a particularly salutary "right of nations," and a

government eminently favorable to liberty of thought and social

happiness.

There are geometrical figures exceedingly regular and complete in their

kind; arithmetic is perfect; many trades or manufactures are carried on

in a manner constantly uniform and excellent; but with respect to the

government of men, is it possible for any one to be good, when all are

founded on passions in conflict with each other?

No convent of monks ever existed without discord; it is impossible,

therefore, to exclude it from kingdoms. Every government resembles not

merely a monastic institution, but a private household. There are none

existing without quarrels; and quarrels between one people and another,

between one prince and another, have ever been, sanguinary; those

between subjects and their sovereigns have been sometimes no less

destructive. How is an individual to act? Must he risk joining in the

conflict, or withdraw from the scene of action?