There is nothing more fatal to woman, nothing more apt to degrade her, than that which is injurious to modesty; and yet we see that the unlimited power granted to man over woman contributed to this degradation, and reduced her, among certain nations, to be nothing but a slave. Losing sight of the manners of other nations, let us consider those of the Romans for a moment. Among them the formula, ubi tu Cayus ego Caya, seemed to indicate a subjection so slight, that it might almost be called an equality; but in order to appreciate this equality, it is enough to recollect that, at Rome, a husband could put his wife to death by his own authority, and that not only in the case of adultery, but for offences infinitely less serious. In the time of Romulus, Egnacius Menecius was acquitted of a similar crime, although his wife had done nothing more than drink wine from a cask. These traits describe a nation, whatever importance you may besides think proper to attach to the solicitude of the Romans to prevent their matrons from becoming addicted to wine. When Cato directed an embrace, as a proof of affection, among relations, for the purpose, as Pliny relates, of ascertaining whether the women smelt of wine, an temetum olerent, it is true he showed his strictness; but it was an unworthy outrage offered to the honor of the women themselves whose virtue it pretended to preserve. There are some remedies worse than the disease.
The antichristian philosophy must have had considerable influence on the desire to find among the barbarians the origin of the elevation of the female character in Europe, and of some other principles of our civilization. Indeed as soon as you discover the source of these admirable qualities in the forests of Germany, Christianity is stripped of a portion of its honors; and what was its own and peculiar glory is divided among many. I will not deny that the Germans of Tacitus are sufficiently poetical; but it is difficult to believe that the real Germans were so to any extent. Some passages inserted in the text add great force to our conjecture; but what appears to me eminently calculated to dissipate all these illusions is, the history of the invasion by the barbarians, above all that which has been written by eye-witnesses. The picture, far from continuing poetical, then becomes disgusting in the extreme. This interminable succession of nations passes before the eyes of the reader, like an alarming vision in an evil dream; and certainly the first idea which occurs to us at the sight of this picture is, not to seek for any of the qualities of modern civilization in these invading hordes; but the great difficulty is, to know how this chaos has been reduced to order, and how it has been possible to produce from such barbarism the noblest and most brilliant civilization that has ever been seen on earth. Tacitus appears to be an enthusiast; but Sidonius, who wrote at no great distance from the barbarians, who saw them, and suffered from meeting them, does not partake of this enthusiasm. "I find myself," he said, "among long-haired nations, compelled to hear the German language, and to applaud, at whatever cost, the song of the drunken Burgundian, with hair plastered with rancid grease. Happy your eyes who do not see them; happy your ears who do not hear them?" If space permitted, it would be easy for me to accumulate a thousand passages which would evidently show what the barbarians were, and what could be expected from them in all respects. It is as clear as the light of day, that it was the design of Providence to employ these nations to destroy the Roman empire, and change the face of the world. The invaders seem to have had a feeling of their terrible mission. They march, they advance, they know not whither they go; but they know well that they go to destroy. Attila called himself the scourge of God. The same barbarian himself defined his formidable duty in these words: "The star falls, the sea is moved; I am the hammer of the earth. Where my horse passes, the grass never grows." Alaric, marching towards the capital of the world, said: "I cannot stop; there is some one urges me, who excites me to sack Rome." Genseric prepares a naval expedition; his troops are on board, he himself embarks: no one knows the point towards which he will direct his sails. The pilot approaches the barbarian, and asks him; "My lord, against what nations will you wage war?" "Against those who have provoked the anger of God," replies Genseric.
If Christianity, in the midst of this catastrophe, had not existed in Europe, civilization would have been lost and annihilated, perhaps forever. But a religion of light and love was sure to triumph over ignorance and violence. Even during the times of the calamities of the invasion, that religion prevented many disasters, owing to the ascendency which it began to exercise over the barbarians; the most critical moment being past, the conquerors having become in some degree settled, she immediately employed a system so vast, so efficacious, so decisive, that the conquerors found themselves conquered, not by arms, but by charity. It was not in the power of the Church to prevent the invasion; God had decreed it, and His decree must be accomplished. Thus the pious monk who went to meet Alaric approaching Rome, could not stop him on his march, because the barbarian answered him, that he could not stop,—that there was some one who urged him on, and that he advanced against his own will. But the Church awaited the barbarians after the conquest, knowing that Providence would not abandon His own work, that the hope of the future lot of nations was left in the hands of the spouse of Jesus Christ; on this account does Alaric advance on Rome, sack, and destroy it; but on a sudden, finding himself in presence of religion, he stops, becomes mollified, and appoints the Churches of St. Peter and St. Paul as places of refuge. A remarkable fact, and an admirable symbol of the Christian religion preserving the universe from total ruin.
The great benefit conferred on modern society by the formation of a pure and correct public conscience, would acquire extraordinary value in our eyes, if we compared our moral ideas with those of all other nations, ancient and modern; the result of such an examination would be, to show in how lamentable a manner good principles become corrupted, when they are confided to the reason of man. I will content myself, however, with a few words on the ancients, in order to show how correct I was in saying that our manners, however corrupt they may be, would have appeared a model of morality and dignity to the heathens.
The temples consecrated to Venus in Babylon and Corinth are connected with abominations such as to be even incomprehensible. Deified passion required sacrifices worthy of it; a divinity without modesty required the sacrifice of modesty; and the sacred name of Temple was applied to asylums of the most unbridled licentiousness. There was not a veil even for the greatest crimes. It is known how the daughters of Chypre gained a dowry for their marriage; all have heard of the mysteries of Adonis, Priapus, and other impure divinities. There are vices which, as it were, want a name among the moderns; or if they have one, it is accompanied by the recollection of a terrible chastisement inflicted on some criminal cities. In reading the histories of antiquity descriptive of the manners of their times, the book falls from our hands. On this subject we must be content with these few hints, calculated to awaken in the minds of our readers the recollection of what has a thousand times excited their indignation in reading the history and studying the literature of pagan antiquity. The author is compelled to be satisfied with a recollection: he abstains from a description.
It is now so common to exalt beyond measure the power of ideas, that some persons will perhaps consider exaggerated what I have said with respect to their want of power, not only to influence society, but even to preserve themselves, while, remaining in the mere sphere of ideas, they do not become realized in institutions, which are their organ, and at the same time their rampart and defence.
I am very far, as I have clearly stated in the text, from denying or calling in question what is called the power of ideas: I only mean to show that, alone and by themselves, ideas have little power; and that science, properly so called, as far as the organization of society is concerned, is a much less important thing than is generally supposed. This doctrine has an intimate connection with the system followed by the Catholic Church, which, while constantly endeavoring to develop the human mind by means of the propagation of the sciences, has nevertheless assigned to them a secondary part in the regulation of society. While religion has never been opposed to true science, never, on the other hand, has she ceased to show a certain degree of mistrust with respect to all that was the exclusive production of human thought; and observe that this is one of the chief differences between religion and the philosophy of the last age; or, we should rather say, it was the cause of their violent antipathy. Religion did not condemn science; on the contrary, she loved, protected, and encouraged it; but at the same time she marked out its limits, warned it that it was blind on some points, announced to it that it would be powerless in some of its labors, and that in others its action would be destructive and fatal. Philosophy, on the contrary, loudly proclaimed the sovereignty of science, declared it to be all-powerful, and deified it; it attributed to it strength and courage to change the face of the world, and wisdom and foresight enough to work this change for the good of humanity. This pride of knowledge, this deification of thought, is, if you observe closely, the foundation of Protestant doctrine. All authority being taken away, reason is the only competent judge, the intellect receives directly and immediately from God all the light which is necessary. This is the fundamental doctrine of Protestantism, that is to say, the pride of the mind.