I am not aware, in the multitude of questions which have presented themselves to me, and which it has been indispensable for me to examine, that I have resolved any in a manner not in conformity with the dogmas of the religion which I was desirous of defending. I am not aware that, in any passage of my book, I have laid down erroneous propositions, or expressed myself in ill-sounding terms. Before publishing my work, I submitted it to the examination of ecclesiastical authority; and without hesitation, I complied with the slightest hint on its part, purifying, correcting, and modifying what had been pointed out as worthy of purification, correction, or modification. Notwithstanding that, I submit my whole work to the judgment of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church; as soon as the Sovereign Pontiff, the Vicar of Jesus Christ upon earth, shall pronounce sentence against any one of my opinions, I will hasten to declare that I consider that opinion erroneous, and cease to profess it.
[NOTES.]
The History of the Variations is one of those works which exhaust their subject, and which do not admit of reply or addition. If this immortal chef-d'œuvre be read with attention, the cause of Protestantism, with respect to faith, is forever decided: there is no middle way left between Catholicity and infidelity. Gibbon read it in his youth, and he became a Catholic, abandoning the Protestant religion in which he had been brought up. When, at a later period, he left the Catholic Church, he did not become a Protestant, but an unbeliever. My readers will perhaps like to learn from the mouth of this famous writer what he thought of the work of Bossuet, and the effect which was produced on him by its perusal. These are his words: "In the History of the Variations, an attack equally vigorous and well-directed," says he, "Bossuet shows, by a happy mixture of reasoning and narration, the errors, mistakes, uncertainties, and contradictions of our first reformers, whose variations, as he learnedly maintains, bear the marks of error; while the uninterrupted unity of the Catholic Church is a sign and testimony of infallible truth. I read, approved, and believed." (Gibbon's Memoirs.)
It has been wished to represent Luther to us as a man of lofty ideas, of noble and generous feelings, and as a defender of the rights of the human race. Yet he himself has left us in his writings the most striking testimony of the violence of his character, of his disgusting rudeness, and his savage intolerance. Henry VIII., king of England, undertook to refute the book of Luther called De Captivitate Babylonica; and behold the latter, irritated by such boldness, writes to the king, and calls him sacrilegious, mad, senseless, the grossest of all pigs and of all asses. It is evident that Luther paid but little regard to royalty; he did the same with respect to literary merit. Erasmus, who was perhaps the most learned man of his age, or who at least surpassed all others in the variety of his knowledge, in the refinement and éclat of his mind, was not better treated by the furious innovator, in spite of all the indulgence for which the latter was indebted to him. As soon as Luther saw that Erasmus did not think proper to be enrolled in the new sect, he attacked him with so much violence, that the latter complained of it, saying, "that in his old age he was compelled to contend against a savage beast, a furious wild boar." Luther did not confine himself to mere words; he proceeded to acts. It was at his instigation that Carlostad was exiled from the states of the Duke of Saxony, and was reduced to such misery, that he was compelled to carry wood, and do other similar things, to gain his livelihood. In his many disputes with the Zwinglians, Luther did not belie his character; he called them damned, fools, blasphemers. As he lavished such epithets on his dissenting companions, we cannot be astonished that he called the doctors of Louvain beasts, pigs, Pagans, Epicureans, Atheists; and that he makes use of other expressions which decency will not allow us to cite; and that, launching forth against the Pope, he says, "He is a mad wolf, against whom every one ought to take arms, without waiting even for the order of the magistrates; in this matter there can be no room left for repentance, except for not having been able to bury the sword in his breast;" adding, "that all those who followed the Pope ought to be pursued like bandit-chiefs, were they kings or emperors." Such was the spirit of tolerance which animated Luther. And let it not be imagined that this intolerance was confined to him; it extended to all the party of the innovators, and its effects were cruelly felt. We have an unexceptionable witness of this truth in Melancthon, the beloved disciple of Luther, and one of the most distinguished men that Protestantism has had. "I find myself under such oppression," wrote Melancthon to his friend Camerarius, "that I seem to be in the cave of the Cyclops; it is almost impossible for me to explain to you my troubles; and every moment I feel myself tempted to take flight." "These are," he says, in another letter, "ignorant men, who know neither piety nor discipline; behold what they are who command, and you will understand that I am like Daniel in the lions' den." How, then, can it be maintained that such an enterprise was guided by a generous idea, and that it was really attempted to free the human mind? The intolerance of Calvin, sufficiently shown by the single fact mentioned in the text, is manifested in his works at every page, by the manner in which he treats his adversaries. Wicked men, rogues, drunkards, fools, madmen, furies, beasts, bulls, pigs, asses, dogs, and vile slaves of Satan. Such are the polite terms which abound in the writings of the famous reformer. And how many wretched things of the same kind could I not relate, if I did not fear to disgust my readers!