Chapter IV: Part 4

But it is principally over the enjoyments of friendship that piety spreads a new charm; bounds, limits, cannot agree with the sentiment which is as infinite as thought, it would not subsist, at least would be troubled with continual anxiety; we should not consider without terror the revolution of years and the rapid course of time, if those benevolent opinions, which enlarge for us the future, did not come to our assistance. Thus, when we find ourselves separated from the objects of our affection, lonely meditations bring them back to aid the general idea of happiness, which, more or less, distinctly terminates our view; then the tender melancholy, in which one is lost, is changed into pleasing emotions: and you have, above all, need of those precious opinions, you, who, timid in a bustling world, or discouraged by disappointments, find yourself a solitary wanderer on the earth, because you partake not of the passions which agitate the greater part of mankind! You want a friend, and you only see pecuniary associations; you want a comforter, and you only see the ambitious, strangers to all those who have not power or a distinguished reputation; a tender confident is at least necessary, and the active scenes of society disperses the affections and diminishes every interest. In short, when you have this friend, this confident, this comforter; when you have acquired it by the most tender union; when you live in a son, a husband, or a cherished wife, what other idea, but that of a God, can come to your relief, when the frightful image of a separation presents itself to your thoughts? It is, indeed, in such moments that we embrace with transport all those opinions which tend to foster the idea of continuity and duration? How gladly then we lend an ear to those words of comfort which are so perfectly consonant with the desires and the wants of our soul! What association of ideas, so frightful as that of the eternal annihilation of life and love? How can we unite to that soft division of interests and of sentiments, to that charm of our days; how can we unite to so much of existence and happiness, the internal persuasion and habitual image of a death without hope, a destruction without return? How can we offer only the idea of oblivion to those affectionate minds, who have centred all their self-love, all their ambition in the object of their esteem and tenderness; and who, after having renounced themselves, are, as it were, deposited entirely in the bosom of another, to subsist there by the same breath of life and the same destiny? In short, near the tomb, which, perhaps, they will one day bedew with their tears, how can they pronounce the overwhelming words, forever!—forever!—Oh! horrors of horrors, both for the mind and feelings! and if it be necessary that the contemplations of a man of feeling approach a moment to the frightful confines, let a benevolent cloud at least cover the dark abyss! Tears and sorrow still afford some comfort, when we give them to a beloved shade, when we can mix with our griefs the name of a God, and when this name appears to you the cement of all nature: but if in the universe all was deaf to our voice; if no echoes were to repeat our plaints; if the shades of eternal darkness had hid from us the object of our love, and if they were advancing to drag us into the same night; if he is the most unhappy being, he who survives, and cannot even hope, that what death has severed will again be united; if, when his whole soul was filled with the recollection of a loved object, he could not say, he is in some place, his heart so affectionate, his soul so pure and heavenly waits for me, and calls me perhaps to be near that unknown Being, whom we have, with common consent, adored; and if, instead of a thought so dear, it was necessary, without any doubt, to consider the earth as a sepulchre forever shut—my heart dies within me—unable to contend with the dreadful images, the universe itself seems to dissolve, and overwhelm us in its downfall. O source of so many hopes, sublime idea of a God! abandon not the man who has sensibility; Thou art his courage, Thou art his futurity, Thou art his life; leave him not desolate, and, above all, defend him from the ascendency of a barren and fatal philosophy, which would afflict his heart by pretending to comfort it.

Well, I make another effort, and I address myself to you, who boast of being enlightened by a fresh ray of wisdom. I am lost in the most profound grief; a father, a mother, who guided me by their counsels, and watched over me by their tenderness, these protecting parents have just been taken from me; a son, a daughter, both my comfort and pride, have been cut off in the prime of youth; a faithful companion, whose words, sentiments, and actions, were the support of my life, has vanished from my arms;—a moment of strength remains with me, I come to you, ye philosophers; what have you to say?—“Seek for dissipation, turn your thoughts to some other object, an abyss not to be fathomed separates thee for ever from the objects of thy tenderness; and these recollections, which pierce thee through with so many sorrows, they are only a form of vegetation, the last play of organized matter.” Alas! have you ever loved, and can you pronounce tranquilly these cruel words! Banish far from me such consolations, I dread them more than my anguish. And thou, O daughter of heaven, lovely and mild religion, what wouldst thou say? Hope, hope; “what God gave thee—He can again restore.” What a difference between these two languages! One abases, the other exalts us! It is left to men to choose, amongst their different guides, or rather to determine, whether they prefer darkness to light, death to life; whether they prefer blighting winds to refreshing dews; the frost of winter to the charms of spring; and the insensible stone to the most brilliant gifts of animated nature.

I will say it: the world, without the idea of a God, would be only a desert, embellished by a few delusions;—yet man, disenchanted by the light of reason, would find nothing throughout but subjects of sadness. I have seen them, the dreams of ambition, the allurements of fame, and the vain shews of grandeur; and even when the illusion was most dazzling, my heart always retired into itself, and was attracted to an idea more grand, to a consolation more substantial; I have experienced, that the idea of the existence of a Supreme Being threw a charm over every circumstance of life; I have found, that this sentiment alone was able to inspire men with true dignity: for every thing which is merely personal is of little value, all that places some an inch high above others; it is necessary, in order to have any reason to glory, that, at the same time we exalt ourselves, we elevate human nature; we must refer it to that sublime intelligence, which seems to have dignified it with some of its attributes. We then hardly perceive those trivial distinctions which are attached to transitory things, on which vanity exercises her sway; it is then that we leave to this queen of the world her rattle and toys, and that we search elsewhere another portion; it is then also that virtue, exalted sentiments, and grand views, appear the only glory of which man ought to be jealous.

CHAP. VI.
_The same Subject continued. The Influence of Virtue on Happiness._

It is not sufficient to have demonstrated, that religion, so necessary to feeling minds, agrees perfectly with the moral nature of men; it is still necessary to observe, that the habitual exercise of virtue, enjoined as a duty in the name of God, is not in opposition with happiness; and after having considered a truth so important, I will prove, that it is not contrary to what has been said in the first chapter of this work, on the impossibility of making men attentive to public order, only by the motive of personal interest.

We cannot deny, that virtue often obliges us to conquer our appetites, and struggle with our passions; but if these conflicts, and the victory which attends them, lead to more solid and durable satisfactions, than those which folly and vice portrays the image of, they would misconceive the restrictions of morality, who perpetually united the idea of self-denial with that of a sacrifice.

We cannot fix our attention on the various objects of desire which occupy the thoughts of men, without seeing clearly, that if they abandoned themselves, unrestrained, to all their wild propensities, they would often stray far from the state of happiness which forms the object of their wishes. Any of the blessings, strewed here and there in our path, cannot fill the void of life. Are they the gratifications of the senses which captivate us? Their duration is determined by our weakness; and we cannot break loose from the immutable limits opposed by nature. Are they the advantages dependent on opinion that we look for, such as honour and praise; or the exterior splendour, which fortune gives? You will soon perceive, that quickly after they are obtained the charm is flown; they resemble Proteus in the fable, who only appeared a God at a distance. Men then have more need than is supposed of an interest independent of their senses and imagination; and this interest we find in the duties morality inculcates and establishes.

In all times, in all circumstances, we have a choice between good and evil: thus, virtue may be continually in a state of action, and we may find the application of it even in the most apparently indifferent relations of life, because virtue only has the privilege of connecting little things to a great object; and that it can only be encouraged by conscience, which, in accompanying all our actions and meditations, seems to augment our existence, and procure those satisfactions which are not known to the crowd who do not act from principle.

Sensual pleasures, the desires of vanity, the longings of ambition, would soon extinguish themselves, if they were not fed by the continual activity of society, which produces new scenes, and displays every moment some changes of decoration. Virtue, satisfied with its views, has not need of a succession of similar desires; its paths are varied, but the end is ever the same.

We cannot search for the enjoyments of life in the imaginary advantages of opinion, without allowing others to construct the laws on which our happiness is founded; and of course discord must result, which leaves us a prey to every kind of emotion. Virtue has not any associates in her counsels, she judges herself of all that is good; and in this respect a virtuous man is the most independent of all beings, for it is from himself alone that he receives commands, and expects approbation. Yes, the obscure man, who does good in secret, is more master of his destiny, than the being ever will be who seems loaded with all the favours of fortune, and has need, that fashion and transient gratifications come to determine his taste, and give laws to his vanity, to enable him to enjoy them

The little passions of the world, trying to render us happy, lead us on from one illusion to another, and the last boundary always appears at a distance. Virtue, very different, has its recompenses within itself: it is not in events nor in uncertain success that it places contentment; it is even in our resolution, in the calmness which accompanies it, and the secret sentiment which precedes it.

Recollection ever composes the principal happiness of virtue, whilst worldly vanity is tormented by the remembrance of what is gone for ever; and with regard to the passions in general, the past is but a gloomy shadow, out of which proceed, from time to time, sorrow and remorse.

The intervals which occur between the starts of violent passions, are almost always filled by sadness and apathy; we all know, according to the laws of nature, that lively and ardent sensations produce languor the moment the tumult is over. Virtue, in the enjoyment of those pleasures peculiar to itself, knows nothing of those irregular emotions, because all its principles are firm, and it acts round its own centre; besides, it also invites us continually to set a just value on that happiness which is most proper for us; it dictates its first laws in the bosom of domestic life, and employs all its strength to sustain, by the ties of duty, our most rational and simple affections.

Virtue, which is the offspring of religion, is of the greatest use in delivering men from the tormenting solicitude of doubt, by presenting a general system of conduct; and above all, by marking fixed points to direct them, by telling them what to love, choose, and do. Thus, whilst men, carried away by their imagination, continually allow that they are deceived by phantoms, and lend the most glowing colours to those which have just escaped them, virtue sets no value but on what it possesses, and knows not regret. It would seem, at the first glance, that the desires and caprices of the imagination cannot agree with any kind of restraint; however, it is not less true, that these trifling forerunners of our will have need of a guide, and often of a master; our first inclinations and sentiments are frequently uncertain, weak, and wavering; it is of consequence to our happiness, that this trembling stalk should be fixed and supported; and such is the service virtue renders to the human mind.

We see not any uniformity in the conduct of those who are not influenced by motives of duty; they have too many things to regulate, too many to decide about every instant, when convenience is their only guide: to simplify the management of ourselves, we should submit to the government of a principle, which may be easily applied to most of our deliberations.

In short, virtue has this great advantage, that it finds its happiness in a kind of respect for the rights and claims of the different members of the community, and that all its sentiments seem to unite themselves to the general harmony. The passions, on the contrary, are almost always hostile; the vain man desires that others should grace his triumphs; the proud wishes them to feel their inferiority; the ambitious, that they keep clear of his pursuit; the imperious, that they bend to him. It is the same of the different competitions, which an excessive love of praise, high reputation, or fortune, gives birth to; in the path they choose every one would wish to go alone, or advance before all the rest, and occupied about their own interest, they clash inconsiderately with those of others. Virtue, very different in following its course, fears neither rivals nor competitors; it does not jostle with any one, the road is spacious, and all may walk at their ease; it is an orderly alliance, of which morality is the knot, drawing together, by the same motives and hopes held in common, that chain of duties and sentiments which unite the virtues of men to the ideal model of all perfection.

Virtue, which guards us from the snares of our senses, and checks our blind desires, is besides the basis of the most precious wisdom; but it is not the interest of a day, or the pleasures of a moment, that it protects, it is the whole of life, that it takes under its superintendency; it is, to speak metaphorically, the vindicator of futurity, the representative of duration, and becomes, to the feelings, what foresight is to the mind. We must then, with respect to private manners, consider virtue as a prudent friend, taught by the experience of all ages, who directs our steps, and never lets the flambeau waver, whose salutary light ought to guide them. Our tumultuous passions dispute the honour of partaking the government: it is necessary a master should assign to each its proper limits, one who can keep in peace all these petty domestic tyrants; which reminds us of the image of Ulysses, arriving suddenly in the midst of the hundred kings who had taken possession of his palace.

Virtue, some will say, severe in its judgments, and austere in its forms, would it not deprive us of the greatest happiness, the pleasure of being beloved? I reply, that virtue, in its most improved state, has not this character; I represent it to myself as a just sentiment of order, far from banishing all other comforts, it leads to them: thus, benevolence and forbearance, which agree so well with human weakness; the social spirit so consistent with our nature; urbanity in discourse and manner; that amiable expression of a heart, which seeks to unite itself with others; all these qualities, very far from being strangers to virtue, are its attendants and brightest ornament.

Virtue allies itself to all the ideas which can give extent to our mind, and early in life accustoms us to discern relations, and to sacrifice frequently our present affections to distant considerations; it is, of all our sentiments, that which carries us farthest out of ourselves, and consequently has the nearest resemblance with abstract thinking. It is then, through the assistance of virtue, that a man acquires all his knowledge of his strength and all his grandeur. Vice, on the contrary, concentres us in a little space; it seems to be conscious of its own deformity, and fears all that surrounds it; it endeavours to fix on a single object, on a single moment, and would wish to have power to draw into a point our whole existence.

I must still add, that virtue, by uniting a motive to all our actions, and by directing towards an end all our sentiments, habituates our mind to order, and justness of conception; and prevents our wandering in too great a space: thus I have often thought, that it was not only by his vices, that an immoral man is dangerous in the administration of public affairs; we ought to fear him also as unable to comprehend a whole, and for his want of capacity to rally all his thoughts and direct them towards any general principle: every kind of harmony is unknown to him, every rule is become a burthen; he is busy, but only by starts; and it is by accident that a man, always versatile, stumbles on what is right.

It may then truly be said, that morality serves as ballast to our sentiments, its aid enables us to go on without being agitated continually by the caprices of our imagination, without being obliged to turn back at the first appearance of an obstacle.

Virtue then enlarges the mind, gives dignity to the character, and invests it with every thing becoming. Of all the qualities of men, the most rare, the most apt to create respect, is, that elevation of thought, sentiment, and manners; that majestic consistency of character which truth alone can preserve, but which the least exaggeration, the most trivial affectation, would disconcert or banish. This resembles not pride, and still less vanity, as one of its ornaments is, that it never seeks for the homage of others: the man endowed with real dignity, is placed above even his judges; he accounts not with them, he lives under the government of his conscience, and, proud of such a noble ruler, he does not wish for any other dependence: but as this grandeur is entirely within himself, it ceases to exist, when he dictates to others what he expects from them; it can only be restrained in its just limits by virtues which do not pretend to dazzle.

It is to the same principle, that men owe that noble respect for virtue, the most graceful ornament of a great soul; they owe to it also that simplicity in thinking and speaking, that happy habit of a conscience not in want of being on its guard. A man truly honest considers disguise as a detractor, and desires to appear as he really is; it is not his interest to conceal his weaknesses, for in a generous heart they are almost always united to something good; and perhaps frankness would have become the policy of his mind, if it had not been one of the qualities of his character.

There is, in every virtue, a kind of beauty which charms us without reflection: our moral sense, when it is improved by education, is pleased with that social harmony which the sentiments of justice preserves. These enjoyments are unknown to men, whose selfishness renders them insensible to every kind of concord, and they appear to me to deserve our contempt in one essential point; it is, that they profit by the respect others have for order, without being willing to subject themselves to the same rules, and without declaring publicly their intention; it seems to me, that, in this view, a defect of morality is indeed a breach of the laws of hospitality.

In short, talents, those faculties of the mind which belong more immediately to nature, can never be applied to great things without the aid of morality; there is no other way of uniting the interest of men, and of attaining their love and respect. Honesty resembles the ancient idioms, according to which you must know how to speak, when you wish to be understood by the generality; and a language is never well known, but by constant practice. The understanding is sometimes sufficient to acquire an ascendency in circumscribed relations; you there take men one by one; and you often engage them by proportioning yourself to their depth: but on a vast theatre, and principally in public administration, where we have need of captivating men in a body, it is necessary to search for a band which will embrace all; and it is only by a union of talents and virtue that this chain can be formed. And when I see the homage paid by a nation to virtuous characters; when I remark the almost instinctive judgment which assists in discerning them; when I see that they praise and love only what they can connect to pure virtue, and noble intention, I return to my favourite sentiment, and believe I recognize in these emotions the stamp of a hand divine.

After having tried to give a feeble sketch of the various recompenses and different satisfactions which seem to appertain to regularity of principles, and propriety of conduct, you will perhaps ask, if you have not a right to conclude from these reflections, that we can attach men to morality by the mere motive of personal interest; I have already mentioned, that I intended to answer such an objection, and now is the time to do it.

Virtue, in its most improved state; virtue, such as we have just represented, is not the work of a moment; it is necessary that it should be called forth and strengthened by degrees; but it would be nipped when it first begins to unfold itself, if we destroyed the simple opinions which serve to educate it, if we overturned the only end which can be perceived by all minds; and if we weakened the sentiments which connect it with those who respect the laws of morality, and who promote this cultivation by their commendations and esteem.

Besides, it is not virtue only, but virtue united to different motives, which contributes to our happiness. This observation is very important, and with great facility you may be made to feel the full force of it. Employment is generally reckoned the surest source of agreeable impressions of which we are susceptible; but its charm would vanish, if it did not lead to some recompense, if it did not show, in perspective, an increase of wealth, an enjoyment for our self-love, a chance for fame, or some other advantages of which we are desirous. Vainly, say some, that the exercise of our faculties is of itself a pleasure; certainly, because that it offers to our view a train of prospects which succeed each other. But there must always be a strong motive to direct us to the right road, and make us set off; our bark must be driven by the wind; in short, every kind of labour requires encouragement, although this labour, proportioned to our strength, may be more favourable to happiness then sloth and idleness; and this truth would strike us still more, if we had ability to analyze a sentiment with sufficient attention, to distinguish clearly the happiness which is annexed to action and employment, from that which necessarily relates to the end and to the motive of that action.

The reflections, which I have just made, may be applied to virtue; we can easily, in studying its different effects, perceive, that it is an excellent guide in the course of life; but we discover, at the same time, that it has need, as well as employment, of a spur, a simple encouragement on a par with our understanding: it is in religion that virtue finds this encouragement, and we shall not be able to separate it from the motives and hopes it presents, without disconcerting every connexion it has with human happiness.

It will be easy to perceive the great benefit which must arise from morality; but at the same time it must be remarked, that to follow its dictates with confidence and firmness, knowledge and strong powers of reflection are necessarily required in the study of so compounded a truth: we are then in want of a motive to excite our first effort, which subjects us to self-denial, and determines us to struggle with courage against the dominion of the present moment.

In short, even when, by the art of sophistry, some philosophers have, at length, thrown into confusion the true principles of order and happiness; when, by the force of address, they have led us to doubt about the kind and degree of power which it is necessary to assign to religion, it should not, however, be the legislators of the nation who ought to lend an ear to their subtle distinctions.

Metaphysical sentiments and ideas are not proper for statesman, but in their own defence; to assist them to guard themselves from the ascendency of brilliant errors, and to confirm the respect due to useful truths: but when they have to guide minds, when they wish to excite activity, it is always, if they are wise, the most simple idea that they will make use of; and they will be very careful not to despise those habitual principles, to which time, still more then knowledge, has given a sanction. These are so many lessons, which long experience seems to have gradually disengaged from every thing foreign to natural morality and the secret sentiments of men.

CHAP. VII.
_On Religious Opinions, in their Relation with Sovereigns._

Many nations, either by choice, or necessity, have deposited their wills in the hands of an individual; and have thus erected a perpetual monument to the spirit of discord, and injustice, which has so frequently reigned amongst men. It is true, that from time to time they have wished to recollect that they were capable of knowing themselves their true interest; but monarchs mistrusting their inconstancy, have taken care to fortify the springs of authority, by surrounding themselves with standing armies; and they have only left them the power of being disgusted with slavery: soldiers and taxes have supported each other; and through the assistance of this corresponding action, they have become masters and directors of every thing. How much good and evil depend on them? We then necessarily wish them to possess a vigorous morality, proportioned to their immense duties; but what force will your morality have, if they perceive at last, that it is not supported by a divine sanction; if they consider it as a human institution, which they have power to break, and which they are in the habit of modifying? At least they will have the liberty, like other men, to examine if their private interest agrees with that of the public, and their conduct will depend on the result of this calculation.

I will acknowledge, that at the point of elevation, where kings find themselves placed, they ought not to be acquainted with those passions which proceed from our petty competitions; but how many other sentiments have they not to repress? And with what celerity it is necessary to do it; since they do not experience any contradiction, they are not, like us, obliged to reflect and consider! Besides, though sovereigns are supposed to be sheltered by their situation, from the irritations of self-love, and from the desires of fortune and advancement, they are not, however, disengaged from every passion of this kind; it is towards other princes that they feel them; and envy, ambition, and revenge, become often very dangerous, as they associate with these passions those of the nation they govern, by means of a war. It is then that, freed from religious ties, and sure of not accounting with any body, they would find morality a very ingenious invention, to render the maintenance of public order more easy, and to preserve the subordination which secures their power; but, would not acknowledge such a master for themselves, and would dispense with bowing to its dictates.

You will say, undoubtedly, that a virtuous king would be recompensed by the applause of his subjects: but I have already shown, that the influence of public opinion would be very weak, if the principles of morality, which serve to guide this opinion, were not supported by religion. We should also observe, that elogiums and applause, homage so encouraging to private men, have not an equal power over princes, who cannot, like individuals, consider this suffrage as an earnest, or forerunner of exaltation; it is by the continual view of the advantages and triumphs of others, that the desire of respect and distinction is continually kept alive; and it may, perhaps, proceed a little from the stimulation of envy, or at least from those jarring pretentions, and from those struggles of self-love, of which society alone is the theatre. Princes without rivals are not subject to the same impressions; and the flattery they have so early imbibed, and the praises which are lavished on them from the simple motive of hope, all serve to render them less sensible to deserved applause; in short, this exaggerated praise soon becomes a dull monotony, which extinguishes, by its uniformity, that emulation which a just homage sometimes inspires. There would be then great danger in reposing too much on the power of public opinion, if we were to consider it as a check able to replace with princes the compressing force of religion.

I must now make an essential remark: those who surround a monarch, often mislead his judgment by the nature and the application of the elogiums which they lavish on him. The praise of men, in a monarchy, always has a taint of slavery: thus, in such countries, a look, a word from the prince, which seems to efface, for an instant, the distance that separates him from his subjects, delights them; and their enthusiasm in those moments serves to persuade the monarch, that it is sufficient for him to smile, to render his people happy: dangerous illusion, sad effect of servility: in short, in consequence of the character which is impressed by an habitual yoke, men are pleased with exalting the power of him to whom they are obliged to submit; they love to see their servile companions multiplied; and as the greater part of them have seldom any access to the prince, vanity persuades them, that in affecting to partake of the royal grandeur, they contract a kind of familiarity with it; therefore, without reflecting whether it will be more in the power of the sovereign to make them happy, when, by enlarging his dominions, he shall have more subjects, and of course more duties to fulfil, they celebrate, above all, the conquering warrior, and thus invite princes to prefer the pursuit of military glory to every other; and, as the multitude can quickly comprehend this kind of merit; as the gaining of a battle is a simple idea, easily conceived by men of every condition and turn of mind, it happens, by this reasoning, that these triumphs are the most highly extolled; and even that men, on account of them, can excuse every other failure, broken treaties, violated oaths, alliances abandoned—In short, such is the mad folly of our praise, that the tranquillity of the state, the repose of the people, the mild benefits of peace, appear no more than the last consequence of the labours and the success of a monarch; and even history frequently represents this fortunate time, as the days of obscurity in which heroes of blood and carnage are educated; kings, discontented with their destiny, are warriors through ambition, and happy by the victories, to which we annex our first honours, and the most noble wreaths of fame.

It is thus, however, that the prevailing opinion, and the rumour of renown, can sometimes deceive princes, though inconsistent with the instructions of morality and the legislation of yore, which point out the true interest of the people as the first object of a sovereign’s anxious solicitude; and instead of a sounding name, and dazzling qualities, enforce those requisite to form the guardian and protector of the felicity of the public; duties of a vast extent, and which are discharged by the secret labours of paternal vigilance, still more than by the noise of the drum and the instruments of destruction.

Let us consider, however, the influence the opinion of the world will have on sovereigns, in directing only our views towards the interior functions of administration. An essential observation presents itself at first to the mind: it is, that the thirst for glory is especially felt when a great abuse is to be reformed, and when we can hope to make regularity succeed to confusion; but when this task is fulfilled, and that it is only necessary to preserve and support what is good, the love of renown has not sufficient aliment, and it is then that the virtue of princes becomes the only faithful guardian of the public interest. A reign, such as we have formed an idea of, would carry away from the following ones every subject of dazzling splendour; and it would be necessary that new troubles and fears re-animated the sentiment of admiration, to give it its ancient ascendency and original force.

We should be able also, and this picture would be very different, to figure to ourselves a period, when, by the successive degradation of character, the opinion of the public would no longer indicate the way to fame, nor resound to excite ambition; the recompenses it offers would not be a motive sufficiently powerful to influence men. Thus, in a country, in a metropolis, where covetousness seemed triumphant, where every body would appear to pursue that fortune which is only acquired by intrigue, and the vices of those who bestow it, respect for the real interest of the people, and attention to lighten their burthens, would no longer purchase renown. In like manner, in a country where despotism reigns, and the people are accustomed to prostrate themselves before power, they would acknowledge no other idol; we should not there be able to acquire a contemporary fame by elevation of character, by tempering with wisdom the exercise of authority, and allowing the citizens to enjoy that degree of freedom, which does not degenerate into licentiousness. It is then morality, and morality alone, which comes at all times, and in all circumstances, to resist the revolutions of habit and opinion, of which history furnishes examples, and of which men are ever susceptible.

I ought not to neglect another very important consideration: princes, by the elevation of their rank, and influence on the national manners, find that they are in that singular situation, where one is more called to direct the reigning opinion, than to receive instruction and encouragement from it: thus we are impelled to wish, that a monarch should have principles which flow from his heart, and which depend on his reflections, from which he may be able to derive, at all times, a force properly his own, a natural courage. It is necessary for a prince to investigate and decide on his own conduct; and a sublime morality should nourish in his heart an ideal model of perfection, with which he can continually compare the opinions of the world and the private judgment of his conscience.

In short, and this last reflection which I have made will apply, in a general manner, to the preceding remarks; the opinion of the public, the just complaints of the people, are sometimes a long while in reaching the prince; they ring in the kingdom before he hears the rumour; they wander round the palace, but the whispers do not reach him; vanity, pride, and every vice excludes them; the old courtiers sneer, and the insignificant pursuers of credit or favour amuse themselves by indulging their turn for ridicule. The ministers, who are followed by the clamour, are often importuned by it; and when it reaches their master, find some method to weaken its impression, attributing these commotions to private passions, and giving the name of cabal to a just indignation against vice. Yes, such is the unhappy fate of princes, that the peace of a state is often tottering, before the opinion of the world reaches them, and discovers the truth; a new consideration, very proper to convince us, that the power of opinion can never equal in utility those grand principles of morality, which, by the aid of religion, are fixed, in the hearts of men, to give them laws, without distinction of birth, rank, or dignity.

But if, from sovereigns, we carry our views to those who share their confidence, we shall perceive still more the absolute necessity of an active and governing morality. Ministers, without virtue, are more to be feared than sovereigns indifferent to public good; newly come out of the crowd they know better than the monarch the selfish use that they can make of all the passions and vices; and as they are connected with society, as they have a continual relation with the different orders of the state, their corruptions are propagated, and their dangerous influence spreads to a great distance. Attacked, nevertheless, by the public, they become still more mischievous in their means of warding off danger, for despairing of disguise before the attentive eyes of a whole people, they turn their address against the prince; they study, they pry into his weaknesses, and artfully encourage those which may protect or cover the defects of their character; they apply themselves, at the same time, to adorn immorality with every grace which can render it amiable, and they endeavour to make virtue hateful, by delineating it as austere, imperious, unsociable, and almost incompatible with our morals and manners: it is thus that ministers, not restrained by principles, occasion not only the misery of a country whilst their influence lasts, but they poison the source of public felicity, by weakening in the monarch his sentiments of duty, diverting his good dispositions, and discouraging, if I may say so, his natural virtues.

In short, the picture which I have just drawn will produce another important observation: the prince, after having wandered out of the path of true glory, may return, when he pleases, to the love of virtue and greatness; all the avenues are open to him, all hearts ready to welcome him, we have an inclination to love him, and desire to esteem him, whom fate has placed at the head of the nation; and who, invested with the majesty which he borrows from a long train of ancestors, exhibits himself surrounded by all the enchantments of a diadem; we adopt with pleasure any interpretation which can excuse his conduct; we impute to ill counsels the faults which he has committed; and we are eager to enter with him into a new contract of esteem and hope. It is not the same with ministers; a like indulgence is not due to them, because they cannot throw the blame on others, and all their actions proceed from themselves; when they have once lost the opinion of the public, their depravity will increase daily; because, to maintain their post they are obliged to redouble their intrigues and dissimulation.

I have maturely reflected: the religion of princes, of ministers, of government in general, is the first source of the happiness of the people; we despise it, because it is not our invention, and we often give the preference to those artifices of the mind, which seduce us as being our own work; and perhaps they are wanted, after having lost sight of this sure and faithful guide, this companion of true genius, which, like it, prefers easy and simple means. Yes, this exalted virtue, resembling superior abilities, rejects equally those weak resources and inventions, which derive not their origin from an elevated sentiment or grand thought; and, whilst one obliges a statesman to respect honour, justice, and truth, the other discovers the union of these principles with the just means which strengthen authority, and with the true glory and durable success of politics; in short, whilst one renders him anxious about the happiness of the people, the other shows how, from the bosom of this happiness, they would see rise insensibly an agreement of interests and of wills, of whose extensive use we are still ignorant.

If we wish to dwell a moment on the private happiness of princes, we shall readily perceive, that they have a real want of the encouragement religion affords. Their distinguished authority appears, indeed, to their mind, a singular privilege; they believe this power should extend to every thing, and they indiscretly endeavour to accelerate the moments of enjoyment; but as they cannot change the law of nature, it happens, that in delivering themselves up to every thing which seduces their imagination, they experience as quickly the sad langour of indifference, and the oppression of apathy.

Kings, in the exercise of their intellectual faculties are exposed to the same extremes; providence having placed them on the pinnacle of fortune, they consequently have not been led from one view to another, and know not those gradations which actuate their subjects in the name of vanity, self-love, or fortune.—Alas! we obey so quickly, and their desires are so soon gratified, that their taste and inclinations cannot be renewed with the quickness necessary to enable them to fill the irksome void which so frequently occurs. If the magnificent end which religion offers were to be obscured, and if, henceforth, we were to consider it as a fallacious illusion, unworthy of our attention, kings would soon attain to that term when the future would appear to their mind a barren uniformity, a space without colour or form.

The numerous duties of princes, undoubtedly, afford a continual source of satisfaction; but it is necessary that they should be able to connect all their obligations to a grand idea, the only one which can constantly animate their actions and thoughts, who have need of neither favour nor advancement from their fellow-creatures. And how much would it contribute to their happiness sometimes, to imagine themselves between this world, in which they are weary of their own power, and that magnificent future; the sublime contemplation of which would carry them, with a new charm, to the exercise of their authority! What pleasure then would flow from this authority, the source of so much good!—What pleasure would they not find in more closely imitating the divine beneficence, the most comfortable of all ideas, and what a moment for him, when particularly conscious of the presence of the exalted friend of the whole human race, he should be able to reflect, in the morning, on the people he was going to make happy; and in the evening, on those he had actually done good to. What a difference between these delicious moments, whose influence the nation feels, and those insignificant levees, only known to courtiers, in which the monarch is the spectacle, and tastes the sad pleasure of seeing so many men cringing before his own image. What a difference, even between these rapturous sensations, and those raised by flattery, or the dazzling parade which surrounds him, in the midst of which he cannot discern himself, whether he is a great man, or only a king.

In short, we ought to acknowledge, that the more extensive the horizon, which opens before sovereigns, the greater is the number of duties presented to their reflections, the more they must feel the want of that sustaining power so infinitely superior to their own strength: they are conscious of the disproportion which exists between the extent of their authority and the means entrusted to human nature; and it is only by supporting themselves against that mysterious pillar, erected by religion, that they can be firm, and consider without affright, that Providence has called them to regulate and direct the destiny of a whole empire. It was when profoundly meditating on the existence of a God; reflecting on the influence and various relations of such a grand thought, that Marcus Aurelius discovered all the extent of his duties, and felt, at the same time, the courage and the will to fulfil them. The happy and constant agreement of his actions and principles made his reign an illustrious example of wisdom and morality.

We must confess, that it is to virtue, supported by every sentiment which it imprints on the human heart, that we should wish to confide the sacred deposit of public happiness; this alone is always faithful and vigilant, surpasses the spur of praise, and, by the ascendency of a great example, leads men to the knowledge of every thing they ought to admire.

CHAP. VIII.
_An Objection drawn from the Wars and from the Commotions which Religion
has given Rise to._

I shall present, at first, this objection in all its force, or rather I will not seek to weaken it; it would be needless to recal to the memory of men all the evils that have happened during a long series of years, with which we have reason to reproach the blind and savage zeal of religious fanaticism. Every one has present to his mind those multiplied acts of intolerance which have sullied the annals of history; every one knows the scenes of discord, of war, and fury, which theological controversies have caused amongst men; they have been informed of the fatal consequences which these enterprizes have brought in their train, and which the rare virtues of a great king have not been able to justify. In short, to maintain, in all ages, a remembrance of the fatal abuses which have been committed in the name of the God of Peace, it would be sufficient to describe those direful days, when some different tenet produced a sentence of proscription, and the frightful signal of the most cruel frenzies.

It is thus then, that in all times, by an absurd tyranny, or by a ferocious enthusiasm, triumphs have been contrived for the eager detractors of religion. Let us examine, however, if the deductions that they wish to draw from these errors of the human mind, are founded on reason and justice.

I shall not stop to observe, that religion has oftener been the pretext, than the true motive, of the unhappy convulsions of which it appears at present the sole origin; or stop to recal the various political advantages, which could only arise from such a grand principle of action; those august testimonies are commemorated in history: I shall only borrow the support of reason, and shall bound my discussion to a few simple reflections.

Do you think, that by relating the different abuses of authority we could prove the advantage of anarchy? Could we decry every species of jurisprudence, by recounting all the ills which have been produced by chicane? Should we be able to throw an odium on the sciences, by recalling all the fatal discoveries which are owing to our researches? Would it be proper to stifle every kind of self-love and activity, by reciting the different crimes which covetousness, pride, and ambition have given rise to? And ought we, then, to desire to annihilate religion, because fanaticism has made an instrument of it to distress the human species? All these questions are similar, and all should be resolved in the same manner: thus we may say with respect to them, that in all our interests and passions, it is by acquired knowledge, and the light of reason, that right is separated from wrong; but we ought never to confound their proximity with a real identity.

Fanaticism and religion have not any connection, though very often these ideas are found united. It is not the worship of the common Father of men; it is not the morality of the gospel, whose precepts lead to goodness and forbearance, which inspires the spirit of persecution; we should attribute it to a blind madness, resembling all those wild errors and crimes which dishonour humanity. But since, at present, the excesses to which men abandon themselves do not induce us to condemn, as a misfortune, all the sentiments of which the criminal passions are only the extreme, why do we wish to refuse religion the gratitude which is its due, because sometimes it has given birth to hatred and unhappy divisions? It would be necessary rather to remark, that intolerant zeal is, of all the errors of the human mind, that on which the progress of our knowledge appears to have had most influence. In fact, whilst fanaticism, gradually weakened, seems to be now verging to its decline, the disorders connected with the common passions of ambition, love of wealth, and thirst of pleasure, remain in all their force. However, what sentiment, what predominant idea, has a greater claim to pardon for its mistakes than devotion? By what an infinite number of benefits the pure spirit of religion makes amends for the abuses which spring from the false interpretation of its precepts. It is to this spirit, as we have shown, that men owe the stability of public order and the firm principles of justice: it procures the indigent the succours of charity, and virtue its encouragement; oppressed innocence its only refuge, and sensibility its dearest hopes. Yes, the pure spirit of religion surrounds us on every side, it makes the charm, of solitude, the band of society, the invigorater of intimate affections; and can we calumniate it and wish to destroy it, on recollecting the tyrannic opinions of some priests and sovereigns, whose principles and conduct we now detest?

I shall further remark, and ask why men denounce a sentence of reprobation against religion, and give as the motive, the ancient wars of which it has been the origin; whilst they never contest the importance of commerce, though rivers of blood have been continually shed for the smallest advantage on this account? Can they be so mistaken in their judgment, as to compare a few pecuniary advantages, which one political state never enjoys, but at the expence of another, with those, as precious as they are universal, of which religion is the origin and support?

In short, among the various arguments that are employed to attack these opinions, the most frivolous, undoubtedly, is that which derives all its force from the errors and faults of which the present times do not furnish any example. What should we say if, at the moment when a superb edifice was firm on its foundation, we should be exhorted to level it with the ground, by a relation of all the accidents its erection occasioned?

Throwing then a painful retrospect on the period of history, when religion was made the pretext of wars and cruelty; let us oppose to the return of those sanguinary scenes, let us oppose to the spirit of intolerance all the force of wisdom, and the instructions of that religion which they pretend to serve by a blind zeal. But far from freeing us from the respect which we owe to such salutary opinions, which men have abused, let us take advantage of experience, as a new defence against the wanderings of our imaginations, and the surprises of our passions[2].

CHAP. IX.
_Another Objection examined. The Sabbath._