Chapter XI: Book VII: Consequences of the Different Principles of the Three (2)

The picture Rousseau is "about to draw" has in it a certain Madame de Warens for a principal figure. (Apprentice Jean Jacques has left his master, and entered on a vagabond life.) This lady is a character very difficult for us Protestant Americans in our contrasted society to conceive as real or as possible. She kept a house of, what shall we call it? detention, for souls doubtfully in the way of being reclaimed from Protestant error into the bosom of the Roman-Catholic Church. She was herself a Roman-Catholic convert from Protestantism. She had forsaken a husband, not loved, and was living on a bounty from King Victor Amadeus of Sardinia. For Annecy, the home of Madame de Warens, our young Jean Jacques, sent thither by a Roman-Catholic curate, sets out on foot. The distance was but one day's walk; which one day's walk, however, the humor of the wanderer stretched into a saunter of three days. The man of fifty-four, become the biographer of his own youth, finds no loathness of self-respect to prevent his detailing the absurd adventures with which he diverted himself on the way. For example:--

Not a country-seat could I see, either to the right or left,
without going after the adventure which I was certain awaited me.
I could not muster courage to enter the mansion, nor even to knock,
for I was excessively timid; but I sang beneath the most inviting
window, very much astonished to find, after wasting my breath, that
neither lady nor miss made her appearance, attracted by the beauty
of my voice, or the spice of my songs,--seeing that I knew some
capital ones that my comrades had taught me, and which I sang in
the most admirable manner.

Rousseau describes the emotions he experienced in his first meeting with Madame de Warens:--

I had pictured to myself a grim old devotee--M. de Pontverre's
"worthy lady" could, in my opinion, be none other. But lo, a
countenance beaming with charms, beautiful, mild blue eyes, a
complexion of dazzling fairness, the outline of an enchanting neck!
Nothing escaped the rapid glance of the young proselyte; for that
instant I was hers, sure that a religion preached by such
missionaries could not fail to lead to paradise!

This abnormally susceptible youth had remarkable experiences, all within his own soul, during his sojourn, of a few days only, on the present occasion, under Madame de Warens's hospitable roof. These experiences, the autobiographer, old enough to call himself "old dotard," has, nevertheless, not grown wise enough to be ashamed to be very detailed and psychological in recounting. It was a case of precocious love at first sight. One could afford to laugh at it as ridiculous, but that it had a sequel full of sin and of sorrow. Jean Jacques was now forwarded to Turin, to become inmate of a sort of charity school for the instruction of catechumens. The very day after he started on foot, his father, with a friend of his, reached Annecy on horseback, in pursuit of the truant boy. They might easily have overtaken him, but they let him go his way. Rousseau explains the case on behalf of his father as follows:--

My father was not only an honorable man, but a person of the most
reliable probity, and endowed with one of those powerful minds that
perform deeds of loftiest heroism. I may add, he was a good father,
especially to me. Tenderly did he love me, but he loved his
pleasures also; and, since our living apart, other ties had, in a
measure, weakened his paternal affection. He had married again, at
Nyon; and though his wife was no longer of an age to present me
with brothers, yet she had connections; another family-circle was
thus formed, other objects engrossed his attention, and the new
domestic relations no longer so frequently brought back the
remembrance of me. My father was growing old, and had nothing on
which to rely for the support of his declining years. My brother
and I had something coming to us from my mother's fortune; the
interest of this my father was to receive during our absence. This
consideration did not present itself to him directly, nor did it
stand in the way of his doing his duty; it had, however, a silent,
and to himself imperceptible, influence, and at times slackened his
zeal, which, unacted upon by this, would have been carried much
farther. This, I think, was the reason, that, having traced me as
far as Annecy, he did not follow me to Chamberi, where he was
morally certain of overtaking me. This will also explain why, in
visiting him many times after my flight, I received from him on
every occasion a father's kindness, though unaccompanied by any
very pressing efforts to retain me.

Rousseau's filial regard for his father was peculiar. It did not lead him to hide, it only led him to account for, his father's sordidness. The son generalized and inferred a moral maxim for the conduct of life from this behavior of the father's,--a maxim, which, as he thought, had done him great good. He says:--

This conduct on the part of a father of whose affection and virtue
I have had so many proofs, has given rise within me to reflections
on my own character which have not a little contributed to maintain
my heart uncorrupted. I have derived therefrom this great maxim of
morality, perhaps the only one of any use in practice; namely, to
avoid such situations as put our duty in antagonism with our
interest, or disclose our own advantage in the misfortunes of
another, certain that in such circumstances, however sincere the
love of virtue we bring with us, it will sooner or later, and
whether we perceive it or not, become weakened, and we shall come
to be unjust and culpable in our acts without having ceased to be
upright and blameless in our intentions.

The fruitful maxim thus deduced by Rousseau, he thinks he tried faithfully to put in practice. With apparent perfect assurance concerning himself, he says:--

I have sincerely desired to do what was right. I have, with all the
energy of my character, shunned situations which set my interest in
opposition to the interest of another, thus inspiring me with a
secret though involuntary desire prejudicial to that man.

Jean Jacques at Turin made speed to convert himself, by the abjurations required, into a pretty good Catholic. He was hereon free to seek his fortune in the Sardinian capital. This he did by getting successively various situations in service. In one of these he stole, so he tells us, a piece of ribbon, which was soon found in his possession. He said a maid-servant, naming her, gave it to him. The two were confronted with each other. In spite of the poor girl's solemn appeal, Jean Jacques persisted in his lie against her. Both servants were discharged. The autobiographer protests that he has suffered much remorse for this lie of his to the harm of the innocent maid. He expresses confident hope that his suffering sorrow, already experienced on this behalf, will stand him in stead of punishment that might be his due in a future state. Remorse is a note in Rousseau that distinguishes him from Montaigne. Montaigne reviews his own life to live over his sins, not to repent of them.

The end of several vicissitudes is, that young Rousseau gets back to Madame de Warens. She welcomes him kindly. He says:--

From the first day, the most affectionate familiarity sprang up
between us, and that to the same degree in which it continued
during all the rest of her life. _Petit_--Child--was my name,
_Maman_--Mamma--hers; and _Petit_ and _Maman_ we remained, even
when the course of time had all but effaced the difference of our
ages. These two names seem to me marvellously well to express our
tone towards each other, the simplicity of our manners, and, more
than all, the relation of our hearts. She was to me the tenderest
of mothers, never seeking her own pleasure, but ever my welfare;
and if the senses had any thing to do with my attachment for her,
it was not to change its nature, but only to render it more
exquisite, and intoxicate me with the charm of having a young and
pretty mamma whom it was delightful for me to caress. I say quite
literally, to caress; for it never entered into her head to deny me
the tenderest maternal kisses and endearments, nor into my heart to
abuse them. Some may say that, in the end, quite other relations
subsisted between us. I grant it; but have patience,--I cannot tell
every thing at once.

With Madame de Warens, Rousseau's relations, as is intimated above, became licentious. This continued until, after an interval of years (nine years, with breaks), in a fit of jealousy he forsook her. Rousseau's whole life was a series of self-indulgences, grovelling, sometimes, beyond what is conceivable to any one not learning of it all in detail from the man's own pen. The reader is fain at last to seek the only relief possible from the sickening story, by flying to the conclusion that Jean Jacques Rousseau, with all his genius, was wanting in that mental sanity which is a condition of complete moral responsibility.

We shall, of course, not follow the "Confessions" through their disgusting recitals of sin and shame. We should do wrong, however, to the literary, and even to the moral, character of the work, were we not to point out that there are frequent oases of sweetness and beauty set in the wastes of incredible foulness which overspread so widely the pages of Rousseau's "Confessions." Here, for example, is an idyll of vagabondage that might almost make one willing to play tramp one's self, if one by so doing might have such an experience:--

I remember, particularly, having passed a delicious night without
the city on a road that skirted the Rhone or the Saone, for I
cannot remember which. On the other side were terraced gardens. It
had been a very warm day; the evening was charming; the dew
moistened the faded grass; a calm night, without a breeze; the air
was cool without being cold; the sun in setting had left crimson
vapors in the sky, which tinged the water with its roseate hue,
while the trees along the terrace were filled with nightingales
gushing out melodious answers to each other's song. I walked along
in a species of ecstasy, giving up heart and senses to the
enjoyment of the scene, only slightly sighing with regret at
enjoying it alone. Absorbed in my sweet reverie, I prolonged my
walk far into the night, without perceiving that I was wearied out.
At length I discovered it. I lay voluptuously down on the tablet of
a sort of niche or false door sunk in the terrace wall. The canopy
of my couch was formed by the over-arching boughs of the trees; a
nightingale sat exactly above me; its song lulled me to sleep; my
slumber was sweet, and my awaking still more so. It was broad day;
my eyes, on opening, fell on the water, the verdure, and the
admirable landscape spread out before me. I arose and shook off
dull sleep; and, growing hungry, I gayly directed my steps towards
the city, bent on transforming two _pieces de six blancs_ that I
had left, into a good breakfast. I was so cheerful that I went
singing along the whole way.

This happy-go-lucky, vagabond, grown-up child, this sentimentalist of genius, had now and then different experiences,--experiences to which the reflection of the man grown old attributes important influence on the formation of his most controlling beliefs:--

One day, among others, having purposely turned aside to get a
closer view of a spot that appeared worthy of all admiration, I
grew so delighted with it, and wandered round it so often, that I
at length lost myself completely. After several hours of useless
walking, weary and faint with hunger and thirst, I entered a
peasant's hut which did not present a very promising appearance,
but it was the only one I saw around. I conceived it to be here as
at Geneva and throughout Switzerland, where all the inhabitants in
easy circumstances are in the situation to exercise hospitality. I
entreated the man to get me some dinner, offering to pay for it. He
presented me with some skimmed milk and coarse barley bread,
observing that that was all he had. I drank the milk with delight,
and ate the bread, chaff and all; but this was not very restorative
to a man exhausted with fatigue. The peasant, who was watching me
narrowly, judged of the truth of my story by the sincerity of my
appetite. All of a sudden, after having said that he saw perfectly
well that I was a good and true young fellow that did not come to
betray him, he opened a little trap-door by the side of his
kitchen, went down and returned a moment afterwards with a good
brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains of a toothsome ham, and a
bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced my heart more than all
the rest. To these he added a good thick omelette, and I made such
a dinner as none but a walker ever enjoyed. When it came to pay,
lo! his disquietude and fears again seized him; he would none of my
money, and rejected it with extraordinary manifestations of
disquiet. The funniest part of the matter was, that I could not
conceive what he was afraid of. At length, with fear and trembling,
he pronounced those terrible words, _Commissioners_ and
_Cellar-rats_. He gave me to understand that he concealed his wine
because of the excise, and his bread on account of the tax, and
that he was a lost man if they got the slightest inkling that he
was not dying of hunger. Every thing he said to me touching this
matter, whereof, indeed, I had not the slightest idea, produced an
impression on me that can never be effaced. It became the germ of
that inextinguishable hatred that afterwards sprang up in my heart
against the vexations to which these poor people are subject, and
against their oppressors. This man, though in easy circumstances,
dared not eat the bread he had gained by the sweat of his brow, and
could escape ruin only by presenting the appearance of the same
misery that reigned around him.

A hideously false world, that world of French society was, in Rousseau's time. The falseness was full ripe to be laid bare by some one; and Rousseau's experience of life, as well as his temperament and his genius, fitted him to do the work of exposure that he did. What we emphatically call character was sadly wanting in Rousseau--how sadly, witness such an acted piece of mad folly as the following:--

I, without knowing aught of the matter,... gave myself out for a
[musical] composer. Nor was this all: having been presented to M.
de Freytorens, law-professor, who loved music, and gave concerts at
his house, nothing would do but I must give him a sample of my
talent; so I set about composing a piece for his concert quite as
boldly as though I had really been an adept in the science. I had
the constancy to work for fifteen days on this fine affair, to copy
it fair, write out the different parts, and distribute them with as
much assurance as though it had been a masterpiece of harmony.
Then, what will scarcely be believed, but which yet is gospel
truth, worthily to crown this sublime production, I tacked to the
end thereof a pretty minuet which was then having a run on the
streets.... I gave it as my own just as resolutely as though I had
been speaking to inhabitants of the moon.

They assembled to perform my piece. I explain to each the nature of
the movement, the style of execution, and the relations of the
parts--I was very full of business. For five or six minutes they
were tuning; to me each minute seemed an age. At length, all being
ready, I rap with a handsome paper _baton_ on the leader's desk the
five or six beats of the "_Make ready_." Silence is made--I gravely
set to beating time--they commence! No, never since French operas
began, was there such a _charivari_ heard. Whatever they might have
thought of my pretended talent, the effect was worse than they
could possibly have imagined. The musicians choked with laughter;
the auditors opened their eyes, and would fain have closed their
ears. But that was an impossibility. My tormenting set of
symphonists, who seemed rather to enjoy the fun, scraped away with
a din sufficient to crack the tympanum of one born deaf. I had the
firmness to go right ahead, however, sweating, it is true, at every
pore, but held back by shame; not daring to retreat, and glued to
the spot. For my consolation I heard the company whispering to each
other, quite loud enough for it to reach my ear: "It is not
bearable!" said one. "What music gone mad!" cried another. "What a
devilish din!" added a third. Poor Jean Jacques, little dreamed
you, in that cruel moment, that one day before the King of France
and all the court, thy sounds would excite murmurs of surprise and
applause, and that in all the boxes around thee the loveliest
ladies would burst forth with, "What charming sounds! what
enchanting music! every strain reaches the heart!"

But what restored every one to good humor was the minuet. Scarcely
had they played a few measures than I heard bursts of laughter
break out on all hands. Every one congratulated me on my fine
musical taste; they assured me that this minuet would make me
spoken about, and that I merited the loudest praises. I need not
attempt depicting my agony, nor own that I well deserved it.

Readers have now had an opportunity to judge for themselves, by specimen, of the style, both of the writer and of the man Jean Jacques Rousseau. The writer's style they must have felt, even through the medium of imperfect anonymous translation, to be a charming one. If they have felt the style of the man to be contrasted, as squalor is contrasted with splendor, that they must not suppose to be a contrast of which Jean Jacques himself, the confessor, was in the least displacently conscious. Far from it. In a later part of his "Confessions," a part that deals with the author as one already now acknowledged a power in the world of letters, though with all his chief works still to write, Rousseau speaks thus of himself (he was considering at the time the ways and means available to him of obtaining a livelihood):--

I felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished my
genius, and destroyed my talents, which were less in my pen than in
my heart, and solely proceeded from an elevated and noble manner of
thinking.... It is too difficult to think nobly when we think for a
livelihood.

Is not that finely said? And one need not doubt that it was said with perfect sincerity. For our own part, paradoxical though it be to declare it, we are wholly willing to insist that Rousseau did think on a lofty plane. The trouble with him was, not that he thus thought with his heart, rather than with his head,--which, however, he did,--but that he thought with his heart alone, and not at all with his conscience and his will. In a word, his thought was sentiment rather than thought. He was a sentimentalist instead of a thinker. One illustration of the divorce that he decreed for himself, or rather--for we have used too positive a form of expression--that he allowed to subsist, between sentiment and conduct, will suffice. It was presently to be his fortune, as author of a tract on education (the "Emile"), to change the habit of a nation in the matter of nurture for babes. French mothers of the higher social class in Rousseau's time almost universally gave up their infants to be nursed at alien bosoms. Rousseau so eloquently denounced the unnaturalness of this, that from his time it became the fashion for French mothers to suckle their children themselves. Meantime, the preacher himself of this beautiful humanity, living in unwedded union with a woman (not Madame de Warens, but a woman of the laboring class, found after Madame de Warens was abandoned), sent his illegitimate children, against the mother's remonstrance, one after another, to the number of five, to be brought up unknown at the hospital for foundlings! He tells the story himself in his "Confessions." This course on his own part he subsequently laments with many tears and many self-upbraidings. But these, alas, he intermingles with self-justifications, nearly as many,--so that at last it is hard to say whether the balance of his judgment inclines for or against himself in the matter. A paradox of inconsistencies and self-contradictions, this man,--a problem in human character, of which the supposition of partial insanity in him, long working subtly in the blood, seems the only solution. The occupation finally adopted by Rousseau for obtaining subsistence, was the copying of music. It extorts from one a measure of involuntary respect for Rousseau, to see patiently toiling at this slavish work, to earn its owner bread, the same pen that had lately set all Europe in ferment with the "Emile" and "The Social Contract."

From Rousseau's "Confessions," we have not room to purvey further. It is a melancholy book,--written under monomaniac suspicion on the part of the author that he was the object of a wide-spread conspiracy against his reputation, his peace of mind, and even his life. The poor, shattered, self-consumed sensualist and sentimentalist paid dear in the agonies of his closing years for the indulgences of an unregulated life. The tender-hearted, really affectionate and loyal, friend came at length to live in a world of his own imagination, full of treachery to himself. David Hume, the Scotchman, tried to befriend him; but the monomaniac was incapable of being befriended. Nothing could be more pitiful than were the decline and the extinction that occurred of so much brilliant genius, and so much lovable character. It is even doubtful whether Rousseau did not at last take his own life. The voice of accusation is silenced, in the presence of an earthly retribution so dreadful. One may not indeed approve, but one may at least be free to pity, more than he blames, in judging Rousseau.

Accompanying, and in some sort complementing, the "Confessions," are often published several detached pieces called "Reveries," or "Walks." These are very peculiar compositions, and very characteristic of the author. They are dreamy meditations or reveries, sad, even sombre, in spirit, but "beautiful exceedingly," in form of expression. Such works as the "Rene" of Chateaubriand, works but too abundant since in French literature, must all trace their pedigree to Rousseau's "Walks." We introduce two specimen extracts. The shadow of Rousseau's monomania will be felt thick upon them:--

It is now fifteen years since I have been in this strange
situation, which yet appears to me like a dream; ever imagining
that, disturbed by indigestion, I sleep uneasily, but shall soon
awake, freed from my troubles, but surrounded by my friends....

How could I possibly foresee the destiny that awaited me?... Could
I, if in my right senses, suppose that one day, the man I was, and
yet remain, should be taken, without any kind of doubt, for a
monster, a poisoner, an assassin, the horror of the human race, the
sport of the rabble, my only salutation to be spit upon, and that a
whole generation would unanimously amuse themselves in burying me
alive? When this strange revolution first happened, taken by
unawares, I was overwhelmed with astonishment; my agitation, my
indignation, plunged me into a delirium, which ten years have
scarcely been able to calm: during this interval, falling from
error to error, from fault to fault, and folly to folly, I have, by
my imprudence, furnished the contrivers of my fate with
instruments, which they have artfully employed to fix it without
resource....

* * *

Every future occurrence will be immaterial to me; I have in the
world neither relative, friend, nor brother; I am on the earth as
if I had fallen into some unknown planet; if I contemplate any
thing around me, it is only distressing, heart-rending objects;
every thing I cast my eyes on conveys some new subject either of
indignation or affliction; I will endeavor henceforward to banish
from my mind all painful ideas which unavailingly distress me.
Alone for the rest of my life, I must only look for consolation,
hope, or peace in my own breast; and neither ought nor will,
henceforward, think of any thing but myself. It is in this state
that I return to the continuation of that severe and just
examination which formerly I called my Confessions; I consecrate my
latter days to the study of myself, and to the preparation of that
account which I must shortly render up of my actions. I resign my
thoughts entirely to the pleasure of conversing with my own soul;
that being the only consolation that man cannot deprive me of. If
by dint of reflection on my internal propensities, I can attain to
putting them in better order, and correcting the evil that remains
in me, these meditations will not be utterly useless; and though I
am accounted worthless on earth, shall not cast away my latter
days. The leisure of my daily walks has frequently been filled with
charming contemplations, which I regret having forgot; but I will
write down those that occur in future; then, every time I read them
over, I shall forget my misfortunes, disgraces, and persecutors,
in recollecting and contemplating the integrity of my own heart.

Rousseau's books in general are now little read. They worked their work, and ceased. But there are in some of them passages that continue to live. Of these, perhaps quite the most famous is the "Savoyard Curate's Confession of Faith," a document of some length, incorporated into the "Emile." This, taken as a whole, is the most seductively eloquent argument against Christianity that perhaps ever was written. It contains, however, concessions to the sublime elevation of Scripture and to the unique virtue and majesty of Jesus, which are often quoted, and which will bear quoting here. The Savoyard Curate is represented speaking to a young friend as follows:--

I will confess to you further, that the majesty of the Scriptures
strikes me with admiration, as the purity of the gospel hath its
influence on my heart. Peruse the works of our philosophers with
all their pomp of diction; how mean, how contemptible, are they,
compared with the Scripture! Is it possible that a book at once so
simple and sublime should be merely the work of man? Is it possible
that the Sacred Personage, whose history it contains, should be
himself a mere man? Do we find that he assumed the tone of an
enthusiast or ambitious sectary? What sweetness, what purity, in
his manners! What an affecting gracefulness in his delivery! What
sublimity in his maxims! What profound wisdom in his discourses!
What presence of mind, what subtilety, what truth, in his replies!
How great the command over his passions! Where is the man, where
the philosopher, who could so live and die, without weakness and
without ostentation? When Plato described his imaginary good man
loaded with all the shame of guilt, yet meriting the highest reward
of virtue, he described exactly the character of Jesus Christ: the
resemblance was so striking that all the Fathers perceived it.

What prepossession, what blindness, must it be to compare the son
of Sophroniscus to the Son of Mary! What an infinite disproportion
there is between them! Socrates, dying without pain or ignominy,
easily supported his character to the last; and if his death,
however easy, had not crowned his life, it might have been doubted
whether Socrates, with all his wisdom, was any thing more than a
vain sophist. He invented, it is said, the theory of morals.
Others, however, had before put them in practice; he had only to
say what they had done, and reduce their examples to precepts.
Aristides had been _just_ before Socrates defined justice; Leonidas
gave up his life for his country before Socrates declared
patriotism to be a duty; the Spartans were a sober people before
Socrates recommended sobriety; before he had even defined virtue,
Greece abounded in virtuous men. But where could Jesus learn, among
his compatriots, that pure and sublime morality of which he only
has given us both precept and example? The greatest wisdom was made
known amidst the most bigoted fanaticism, and the simplicity of the
most heroic virtues did honor to the vilest people on the earth.
The death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends,
appears the most agreeable that could be wished for; that of Jesus,
expiring in the midst of agonizing pains, abused, insulted, cursed
by a whole nation, is the most horrible that could be feared.
Socrates, in receiving the cup of poison, blessed indeed the
weeping executioner who administered it; but Jesus, in the midst of
excruciating tortures, prayed for his merciless tormentors. Yes, if
the life and death of Socrates are those of a sage, the life and
death of Jesus are those of a God. Shall we suppose the evangelic
history a mere fiction? Indeed, my friend, it bears not the marks
of fiction; on the contrary, the history of Socrates, which nobody
presumes to doubt, is not so well attested as that of Jesus Christ.
Such a supposition, in fact, only shifts the difficulty without
removing it; it is more inconceivable that a number of persons
should agree to write such a history, than that one only should
furnish the subject of it. The Jewish authors were incapable of the
diction, and strangers to the morality contained in the gospel, the
marks of whose truth are so striking and inimitable that the
inventor would be a more astonishing character than the hero.

So far in eloquent ascription of incomparable excellence to the Bible and to the Founder of Christianity. But then immediately Rousseau's Curate proceeds:--

And yet, with all this, the same gospel abounds with incredible
relations, with circumstances repugnant to reason, and which it is
impossible for a man of sense either to conceive or admit.

The compliment to Christianity almost convinces you,--until suddenly you are apprised that the author of the compliment was not convinced himself!

Jean Jacques Rousseau, in the preface to his "Confessions," appealed from the judgment of men to the judgment of God. This judgment it was his habit, to the end of his days, thanks to the effect of his early Genevan education, always to think of as certainly impending. Let us adjourn our final sentence upon him, until we hear that Omniscient award.

XVII.

THE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS.

A cenotaph is a monument erected to the memory of one dead, but not marking the spot in which his remains rest. The present chapter is a cenotaph to the French Encyclopaedists. It is in the nature of a memorial of their literary work, but it will be found to contain no specimen extracts from their writings.

Everybody has heard of the Encyclopaedists of France. Who are they? They are a group of men who, during the eighteenth century, associated themselves together for the production of a great work to be the repository of all human knowledge,--in one word, of an encyclopaedia. The project was a laudable one; and the motive to it was laudable--in part. For there was mixture of motive in the case. In part, the motive was simple desire to advance the cause of human enlightenment; in part, however, the motive was desire to undermine Christianity. This latter end the encyclopaedist collaborators may have thought to be an indispensable means subsidiary to the former end. They probably did think so--with such imperfect sincerity as is possible to those who set themselves, consciously or unconsciously, against God. The fact is, that the Encyclopaedists came at length to be nearly as much occupied in extinguishing Christianity, as in promoting public enlightenment. They went about this their task of destroying, in a way as effective as has ever been devised for accomplishing a similar work. They gave a vicious turn of insinuation against Christianity to as many articles as possible. In the most unexpected places, throughout the entire work, pitfalls were laid of anti-Christian implication, awaiting the unwary feet of the reader. You were nowhere sure of your ground. The world has never before seen, it has never seen since, an example of propagandism altogether so adroit and so alert. It is not too much to say further, that history can supply few instances of propagandism so successful. The Encyclopaedists might almost be said to have given the human mind a fresh start and a new orbit. The fresh start is, perhaps, spent; the new orbit has at length, to a great extent, returned upon the old; but it holds true, nevertheless, that the Encyclopaedists of France were for a time, and that not a short time, a prodigious force of impulsion and direction to the Occidental mind. It ought to be added that the aim of the Encyclopaedists was political also, not less than religious. In truth, religion and politics, Church and State, in their day, and in France, were much the same thing. The "Encyclopaedia" was as revolutionary in politics as it was atheistic in religion.

The leader in this movement of insurrectionary thought was Denis Diderot. Diderot (1713-1784) was born to be an encyclopaedist, and a captain of encyclopaedists. Force inexhaustible, and inexhaustible willingness to give out force; unappeasable curiosity to know; irresistible impulse to impart knowledge; versatile capacity to do every thing, carried to the verge, if not carried beyond the verge, of incapacity to do any thing thoroughly well; quenchless zeal and quenchless hope; levity enough of temper to keep its subject free from those depressions of spirit and those cares of conscience which weigh and wear on the over-earnest man; abundant physical health,--gifts such as these made up the manifold equipment of Diderot for rowing and steering the gigantic enterprise of the "Encyclopaedia" triumphantly to the port of final completion, through many and many a zone of stormy adverse wind and sea, traversed on the way. Diderot produced no signal independent and original work of his own; probably he could not have produced such a work. On the other hand, it is simply just to say that hardly anybody but Diderot could have achieved the "Encyclopaedia." That, indeed, may be considered an achievement not more to the glory, than to the shame, of its author; but whatever its true moral character, in whatever proportion shameful or glorious, it is inalienably and peculiarly Diderot's achievement; at least in this sense, that without Diderot the "Encyclopaedia" would never have been achieved.

We have already, in discussing Voltaire, adverted sufficiently to Mr. John Morley's volumes in honor of Diderot and his compeers. Diderot is therein ably presented in the best possible light to the reader; and we are bound to say, that, despite Mr. Morley's friendly endeavors, Diderot therein appears very ill. He married a young woman, whose simple and touching self-sacrifice on her husband's behalf, he presently requited by giving himself away, body and soul, to a rival. In his writings, he is so easily insincere, that not unfrequently it is a problem, even for his biographer, to decide when he is expressing his sentiments truly and when not; insomuch that, once and again, Mr. Morley himself is obliged to say, "This is probably hypocritical on Diderot's part," or something to that effect. As for filthy communication out of his mouth and from his pen,--not, of course, habitual, but occasional,--the subject will not bear more than this mention. These be thy gods, O Atheism! one, in reading Mr. Morley on Diderot, is tempted again and again to exclaim. To offset such lowness of character in the man, it must in justice be added that Diderot was, notwithstanding, of a generous, uncalculating turn of mind, not grudging, especially in intellectual relations, to give of his best to others, expecting nothing again. Diderot, too, as well as Voltaire, had his royal or imperial friends, in the notorious Empress Catherine of Russia, and in King Stanislaus of Poland. He visited Catherine once in her capital, and was there munificently entertained by her. She was regally pleased to humor this gentleman of France, permitting him to bring down his fist in gesture violently on the redoubtable royal knee, according to a pleasant way Diderot had of emphasizing a point in familiar conversation. His truest claim to praise for intellectual superiority is, perhaps, that he was a prolific begetter of wit in other men.

D'Alembert (Jean le Rond, 1717-1783) was an eminent mathematician. He wrote especially, though not at first exclusively, on mathematical subjects, for the "Encyclopaedia." He was, indeed, at the outset, published as mathematical editor of the work. His European reputation in science made his name a tower of strength to the "Encyclopaedia,"--even after he ceased to be an editorial coadjutor in the enterprise. For there came a time when D'Alembert abdicated responsibility as editor, and left the undertaking to fall heavily on the single shoulder, Atlantean shoulder it proved to be, of Diderot. The celebrated "Preliminary Discourse," prefixed to the "Encyclopaedia," proceeded from the hand of D'Alembert. This has always been esteemed a masterpiece of comprehensive grasp and lucid exposition. A less creditable contribution of D'Alembert's to the "Encyclopaedia" was his article on "Geneva," in the course of which, at the instance of Voltaire, who wanted a chance to have his plays represented in that city, he went out of his way to recommend to the Genevans that they establish for themselves a theatre. This brought out Rousseau in an eloquent harangue against the theatre as exerting influence to debauch public morals. D'Alembert, in the contest, did not carry off the honors of the day. D'Alembert's "Eloges," so called, a series of characterizations and appreciations written by the author in his old age, of members of the French Academy, enjoy deserved reputation for sagacious intellectual estimate, and for clear, though not supremely elegant, style of composition.

Diderot and D'Alembert are the only men whose names appear on the title-page of the "Encyclopaedia;" but Voltaire, Rousseau, Turgot, Helvetius, Duclos, Condillac, Buffon, Grimm, D'Holbach, with many others whom we must not stay even to mention, contributed to the work.

The influence of the "Encyclopaedia," great during its day, is by no means yet exhausted. But it is an influence indirectly exerted, for the "Encyclopaedia" itself has long been an obsolete work.

There is a legal maxim that the laws are silent, when a state of war exists. Certainly, amid the madness of a Revolution such as, during the closing years of the eighteenth century, the influence of Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopaedists, with Beaumarchais, reacting against the accumulated political and ecclesiastical oppressions of ages, precipitated upon France, it might safely be assumed that letters would be silent. But the nation meantime was portentously preparing material for a literature which many wondering centuries to follow would occupy themselves with writing.

XVIII.