OF all the enlightened and humane spirits to which the philosophic eighteenth century gave birth, and who were quickened into activity by the great movement which originated in France in its last quarter, not one, assuredly, was actuated by a purer and more exalted feeling than Jean Antoine Gleïzès—the most enthusiastic, perhaps, of all the apostles of humanity and of refinement. He was born at Dourgne, in the (present) department of the Tarn. His father was advocate to the old provincial parliament. His mother’s name was Anna Francos. After attending preliminary schools, he applied himself to the study of medicine—urged, says his biographer, more by love of his species than by predilection for the profession. His intense horror of the vivisectional experiments in the physiological torture-dens soon compelled him to abandon his intended career: the experience, however, gained during his brief medical course he was able to utilize more than once in his after life for the benefit of his neighbours.
The earlier period of the Revolution had been hailed by him, still very young as he then was, as the hopeful beginning of a new era; when its direction, unhappily, fell into the hands of fanatical leaders, who, following too much the examples of the old régimes, thought, by wholesale executions, to clear the way for the establishment of a universal republic and of lasting peace. The youthful enthusiast, whose whole soul revolted from the very idea of bloodshed and of suffering, withdrew despairing into solitude, and devoted himself to scientific and literary studies, and to calm contemplation of Nature.
In 1794, at the age of 21, Gleïzès married Aglae de Baumelle, daughter of a writer of some repute. At this time he seems to have entertained the hope of instructing his countrymen, by engaging in public teaching; but, disappointed in a scheme for the inauguration of a course of historical lectures in the central school of his department, he retired altogether from the active business of the world, and settled down in a happy and peaceful home, in a small château belonging to his wife, at the foot of the Pyrenees near Mezières. It was here, amidst the magnificent solitudes of Nature, that in 1798, in his twenty fifth year, he determined upon abandoning for ever the diet of blood and slaughter. Until the moment of his death, forty-five years later, his diet consisted solely of milk, fruits, and vegetables.
So great was his scrupulousness, that there might be no possibility or mistake Gleïzès prepared his own food; and he always ate alone (his wife being unable or unwilling to follow his loftier aims), since he could not endure either the smell or the sight of the ordinary dishes. And this intense aversion it was, indeed, that compelled him to forego in great measure his intercourse with the world, or, at all events, to shun the ordinary celebrations of social “festivity.”
Full of enthusiastic belief that the transparent truth and sublimity of his creed could not fail to commend themselves to the better spirits of the age amongst his countrymen, Gleïzès addressed himself to some of the more thoughtful of his contemporaries; amongst others to Lamartine, Lamennais, and Chateâubriand. Lamartine—the author of the Fall of an Angel, in which he gives expression to his akreophagistic sympathies—responded, if not with the enthusiasm that might justly have been expected from the author of that poem, at least in a friendly spirit. The others kept silence. This indifferentism of those who should have been the first to lend the support of their names naturally affected him; and made much more sensible the intellectual and moral isolation of his existence. He was not left quite alone, however. There were found three or four minds of a loftier reach who had the courage of their convictions, and followed them out to their logical conclusion. These were Anquetil (the author of Recherches sur les Indes), Charles Nodier, Girod de Chantrans, and Cabantous, dean of the Faculty of Letters at Toulouse. His brother, Colonel Gleïzès, a member of the Academy of Sciences of the same university, also declared for the reformation. It is superflous to say that these converts were all men of superior moral calibre to their contemporaries, however high they might be exalted by popular estimates of worth.
Deeply sensible as he was of the profound selfishness and indifferentism of the world surrounding him upon the subject which to him had all the interest and importance of a new religion, he yet constantly displayed the benevolence of his disposition, and the beneficence of his morality, in his efforts for the good of all with whom he came in contact, and particularly in respect to his domestics and his tenants, amongst whom his memory was long held in reverence. “His exalted nature,” states his brother, “glowed with enthusiasm for everything true and good.” His “life-sorrow” seems to have been the want of sympathy on the part of his wife, to whom, nevertheless, he proved an indulgent husband.
His first book, Les Mélancolies d’un Solitaire, appeared in the year 1794, in 1800 his Nuits Elysiennes, and four years later his Agrestes; all more or less advocating the truth. A long interval elapsed before he again essayed an appeal to the world. His Christianisme Expliqué: ou l’Unité de Croyance pour tous les Chrétiens (Christianity Explained: or, Unity of Belief for all Christians) was published in 1830. Seven years later it appeared under the title of “Christianity Explained: or, the True Spirit of that Religion Misinterpreted up to the Present Day.” In this work, says his estimable editor and translator Herr Springer, “he sought to prove, from the standing-point of a protestant christian, that Christ’s mission had for its end the abolition of the murder of animals (Thiermord), and that the whole significance of his teaching lay in the words spoken at the institution of the ‘Supper,’ that is to say, the substitution of bread instead of flesh, and wine instead of blood.” This undertaking, it is needless to remark, admirable as was its motive, could hardly, from the nature of the case, be successful.
His last work was his Thalysie: ou La Nouvelle Existence, the first part of which was published at Paris in 1840, the second in 1842. He survived this his final appeal to the world on behalf of the new reformation but a few months. He had reached the proverbial limit of human existence; but that his life was shortened by disappointment and the bitter weariness of hope deferred, “by that sorrow which perpetually gnaws at the heart of the unrecognised reformer” (as his biographer well expresses it), we have too much reason to believe. The Thalysie—his magnum opus—excited, it appears, little interest, or even notice, upon its first appearance. It found one sympathising critic in M. Cabantous, to whom reference has been already made, who delivered a course of lectures upon it from his professorial chair. A few years later a Parisian advocate, M. Blot-Lequène, wrote a treatise in terms of strong recommendation of its principles; and Eugène Stourm, editor of The Phalanx, also eloquently advocated its claims upon the public notice. At length it was criticised in the Révue des Deux Mondes by Alphonse Esquiros, known to English readers by his contributions to that Review on English life and manners. We are hardly surprised that the criticism was conceived in the usual supercilious and prejudiced spirit.
No attempt appears to have been made to re-publish the New Existence until Herr Springer undertook the task for his countrymen. His German version, with an interesting notice of the life and labours of Gleïzès, was published at Berlin in 1872. Criticising a flippant article in The Food Journal in the same year, Herr Springer eloquently rebukes the easy and arrogant tone—so successful in appealing to popular prejudices—and observes: “Gleïzès at last published his eminent work, which, as Weilhaüser says, he has written with the blood of his own heart. If it be eccentric, as Mr. Jerrold asserts, it has only the eccentricity of a gospel of humanity. Gleïzès was so eccentric as to write the following lines, which were found amongst his posthumous papers: ‘God, pure Source of Light, in order to obey thy commands I wrote this book. Be gracious to protect and to support my efforts; for the humble creature which raises its voice from its grain of sand may, perhaps, be speechless to-morrow, and deep silence reign in the desert.’ Yes; Mr. Jerrold is right: that theory was to its author a religion. In the Thalysie we are instructed in the highest questions concerning the health and happiness of mankind. Surpassing all naturalists and philosophers, he explained to us the great mystery of Nature—that robbery and murder [in its full meaning] arose only by corruption, and by alienation from the original laws of creation, and that man, instead of favouring the corruption, as he has done till now, would be able to abolish it. In this way, and in contradiction to the hollow phrases of optimism and the depressing contemplation of pessimism, Gleïzès restores the peace of our mind, and bestows upon us the hope for a future reign of Wisdom and Love.”[223]
In the preface to the Thalysie Gleïzès thus expresses his convictions, his hopes, and the general purpose of his labours:—