Essays, or discourses, vol. 1 (of 4)

by Benito Jerónimo Feijoo

XXXVI. I have taken notice of a thing which is a little remarkable, and that is, that great virtues are less perceptible than small ones. This is derived from the exercise of them not being so frequent, and the value of them, not being generally understood. The going regularly to church, exterior modest deportment, taciturnity and fasting, are virtues, which strike the eyes of every one, because they are daily practised, and every body knows them. There are other virtues, that are more substantial, and which spring from more noble roots, that the vulgar are unacquainted with, because they are carried about by those who are masters of them, like ladies who go abroad incog. without the ostentatious parade and show of equipage. There are men (would to God there were more of them!) who with an open carriage, and the free correspondence and intercourse of an ordinary life, and who do not seem the least sensible or affected with mysterious niceties, that nourish within their breasts, a robust virtue and solid piety, impenetrable to the most furious batteries of the three enemies of the soul. Let Sir Thomas More, that just, wise, and prudent Englishman, whom I have always regarded with profound respect, and a tenderness approaching to devotion; I say let this man serve as an example to all men, and stand as a pattern to future ages, of all the virtues and excellencies I have been describing.

XXXVII. If we view the exterior part of the life of Sir Thomas More, we only see an able politician, simple in his manners, engaged in a department of the state, and attentive to the affairs of the king and kingdom, always suffering himself to be wafted by the gale of fortune, without soliciting honours, and without refusing to accept of them; in private life, open, courteous, gentle, cheerful, and even fond of a convivial song, frequently partaking in the halls of mirth, of the jovial relaxations of the mind, and in the circulation of wit and pleasantry; always innocent, but never shewing the least symptom of austerity. His application in literature was directed, indifferently and alternately, to the study of sacred and profane learning, and he made great advances in both the one and the other. His great application to, and proficiency in the living languages of Europe, represent him as a genius desirous of accommodating himself to the world at large. His works, except such as he composed in prison during the last year of his life, seemed more to savour of politics than religion. I speak of the subject of them, not of the motive with which he wrote them. In his description of Utopia, which was truly ingenious, delicate, and entertaining, he lets his pen run so much on the interests of the state, as makes it seem as if he was indifferent about the concerns of religion.

XXXVIII. Who, in this image or description of Sir Thomas More, would recognize that glorious martyr of Christ, and that generous hero, whose constancy to the obligations of his religion could not be bent or warped, neither by the threats or promises of Henry VIII. nor a hard imprisonment of fourteen months, nor the persuasions and intreaties of his wife, nor by the sad prospect of seeing his family and children reduced to misery and beggary, nor by the privation of all human comfort, in taking from him all his books, nor finally by the terrors of a scaffold placed before his eyes? So certain is it, that the qualities of great souls are not to be discovered, but by the touch-stone of great occasions and hard trials, and may be compared to large flints, which only manifest their smooth or shining surfaces by the execution of hard blows.

XXXIX. Sir Thomas More was the same while he was a prisoner of state, as when he was High Chancellor of England; the same in adverse, as in prosperous fortune; the same ill treated, as in high favour; the same in the prison, as seated at the head of the Court of Chancery; but adversity, manifested and made visible his whole heart, of which the greatest and best part had before lain hid. This great man, used to give to his own virtues an air of humanity and condescension, which in the eyes of the vulgar abated their splendour; but in proportion as it obscured the lustre of them to their view, it augmented it in the sight of all men of discernment and penetration. It once happened when he was High Chancellor, that a gentleman, who had a suit depending before him, made him a present of two silver bottles: it was inconsistent with his dignity or integrity to accept the present; and how did Sir Thomas conduct himself? Did he fall into a passion against the suitor for having offered an affront to his reputation? Did he punish the criminal audacity of the man, for attempting to corrupt and make venal the functions of his duty? Did he manifest before his domestics any disinterested delicacy, or appear scandalized at the temptation? No; he did none of all this, because nothing of this sort was correspondent to the nobleness or generous turn of his mind. He received the bottles with a good grace, and immediately gave orders to one of his servants to fill them with the best wine he had in his cellar, and carry them back to the gentleman, together with this courteous message, That it gave him great pleasure to have an opportunity of obliging him, and that any sort of wine he had in his house was much at his service. Expressing, by this prudent seeming insensibility or want of apprehension, that he supposed that was the purpose for which the gentleman sent the bottles. In this manner, he joined integrity to gentleness of reproof, and correction with courteous behaviour; and by so much the less parade he made of his own purity, by so much the more was the confusion of the gentleman diminished.

XL. It is clear, that the heroic constancy with which he supported his adherence to his religion, was not the effect of a strained violence on his nature, but proceeded from innate virtue, which acts in all things, and on all occasions, according to the habitual dispositions of the mind; for always, to the very crisis of his suffering, he preserved the native cheerfulness of his disposition. He did not appear less festive, nor less tranquil in chains, than he had before appeared in the banquet room. During the time of his trial he was all composure, and when it was drawing near a conclusion, and those iniquitous judges, who had already sacrificed their consciences to the will of their sovereign, were on the point, to please and flatter him, of delivering that innocent man, as a victim to his resentment, the barber came to shave him, and just as he was going to begin his work, Sir Thomas recollected himself, and said Hold, as the King and I at present are contending to whom this head belongs, in case it should be adjudged to him, it would be wrong for me to rob him of the beard, so you must desist. Being about to ascend the scaffold, and finding himself feeble, he begged one who was near to aid him in getting up the ladder, saying to him at the same time, Assist me to get up, for be assured I shan’t trouble you to help me down again. O eminent virtue! O spirit truly sublime, who mounted the scaffold with the same festive cheerfulness, that he would sit down to a banquet! Let men of little minds and narrow souls contemplate this example, and learn to know, that true virtue does not consist in the observance of forms and scrupulous niceties.

SECT. V.

XLI. O how many antipodes in morality to Sir Thomas More are to be found in every state! for both in the east and the west, you will meet with many of those ridiculous scarecrows, who lead a kind of hermetic life, and are called sanctified or holy men; but those of this day do not mortify themselves so much, but offend other people more, than those of former times were used to do. With a displeasing gravity, and forbidding look that amounts to sour sternness; a conversation so opposite to the cheerful, that it borders on the extreme of clownish surliness; a zeal so harsh and severe, that it degenerates into cruelty; a scrupulous observance of rites and ceremonies, that approaches to superstition; and by the mere want or absence of a few vices; I say, that with the help of these appearances, they, without more cost or trouble, set themselves up as patterns or images of ultimate perfection; and they are truly images in the strict sense of the word, for their whole value consists in their external shape and figure; and I besides call them images, because they are not endued or informed with a true, but with the sham semblance of a spirit. I repeat again that they are images, because they are hard as marble, and insensible and unfeeling as the trunks of trees. In the morality that directs them, gentleness of manners, affability, and pity, are blotted out of the catalogue of virtues. I have not even yet said enough. Those two sensible characteristics of charity, pointed out by St. Paul, that is to say, patience and benevolence, are so foreign to their dispositions, that they are inclined to consider them as signs of relaxation of discipline, or at least of lukewarmness. They assume the figure of saints, without possessing more sanctity than the stock or stone images of such, and would number themselves among the blessed, wanting the requisites which the gospel expresses to constitute them such, and make them deserving of being inserted in that catalogue, which are meekness, compassion, and a conciliatory spirit. Beati mites, beati misericordes, beati pacifici.

XLII. It is also certain, that virtue is tinctured with, or wears a different hue, according to the genius or disposition of the subject in whom it exists, and on this account, in different individuals it appears in different colours. Notwithstanding this, we ought in the mixture or combination, to distinguish what is derived solely from virtue, and what is produced by the intervention of constitution. There are men of a harsh, choleric, unpleasant cast of mind, who at the same time are virtuous; but their virtue on this account is not harsh, choleric, and displeasing, but rather in its operations, by means of its innate good qualities, corrects those defects. The misfortune is, that these defects of temper, confound the understanding and pervert the judgment; and in consequence of this perversion of the judgment, virtue is prevented from amending the defects of the genius. A virtuous man, who is of an impetuous, violent disposition, and inclining to the morose, when placed in command, is easily brought to think; he finds himself in circumstances where prudence dictates that he should use rigour; whereas one of an excessive gentle and mild genius, can never persuade himself that contingent is arrived. Both one and the other discharge and preserve their consciences, and the public are the sufferers by their mistakes, but in a very different degree, according to the diversity of the employments or destinations of such people. The very gentle man is most pernicious in external policy, and the rigorous in internal. An excess of clemency, and forbearing to put in execution criminal laws, in cases where the offences committed are injurious to the public at large, is a very great evil. In matters that concern the reformation, or internal amendment of souls, rigour is not only useless, but prejudicial, because the fear of temporal punishment does not make penitents, but hypocrites; it only removes the external execution of vice, and concentrates the evil intention within the soul, where it produces a new sin, in the hatred it excites against the judge.

SECT. VI.

XLIII. I have observed, that for the sincere conversion or turning of mens hearts, benignity and gentle treatment has done miracles, in cases where rigour has been found ineffectual. Two illustrious examples of this sort, which in different ages have been exhibited on the theatre of France, occur to me at present. The first is that of Peter Abelard, a most subtle logician, and famous broacher of heresies in the twelfth century. The adventures of this man were extraordinary, and he for the most part experienced adverse fortune. He suffered many persecutions, some of which were unjust ones; but neither the just nor the unjust were capable of subduing his mind, or mitigating the contentious vivacity of his spirit. His errors, after innumerable debates, were condemned by the council of Sens, at which St. Bernard assisted. He appealed from the sentence to Pope innocent the Second, who confirmed the decision of the council; and added to it, that his books should be burnt, and the author imprisoned for life. Abelard had an infinite number of enemies, many of whom were not so from their zeal to religion, but from many other very different motives. As an augmentation of his misfortunes, there was scarce any one who did not exclaim against him, and cry aloud for the execution of the sentence. In this deplorable situation of Abelard, there was only one man who had generosity enough to take the favourable side of the question, and interest himself on his behalf. This was that most pious and wise person St. Peter the Venerable, abbot of the great monastery of Cluny, who solicited and obtained of the Pope, Abelard’s pardon. He also reconciled him with St. Bernard, which amounted to the same thing as indemnifying him against the public hatred. Besides this, as a remedy for all his reverses of fortune, he offered him an asylum in his monastery of Cluny, which monastery received him in its arms like a loving father, and gave him the habit of a monk.