No doubt, there is in man a monstrous mixture of good and evil; I know that it is not given him to attain in this life to that ineffable degree of perfection which consists in a perfect conformity with Divine truth and holiness—a perfection which he will not be able even to conceive until the moment when, stripped of his mortal body, he will be plunged into the pure ocean of light and love. But we cannot be permitted to doubt that man, in this earthly abode, in the land of misery and darkness, can, nevertheless, attain to the universal, delicate, and profound state of morality which I have just described; and, however much the present corruption of the world may be a too legitimate subject of affliction, it must be allowed that we still find, in our own days, a considerable number of honorable exceptions in the multitude of persons who conform to the strict rule of gospel morality in their conduct, their wishes, and even in their thoughts and inmost affections. To attain to this degree of morality (and observe, I do not say of evangelical perfection, but of mere morality), it is necessary that the religious principle should be visibly present to the eyes of the soul, that it should act continually upon her, urging on or restraining her in an infinite variety of circumstances which, in the course of life, occur to mislead from the path of duty. The life of man is, as it were, a chain composed of an infinite variety of acts, which cannot be constantly in accordance with reason and the eternal law, unless it remains constantly in the hands of a fixed and universal regulator. And let it not be said that such a state of morality is a beau idéal, the existence of which would bring such confusion into the acts of the soul, and complication of the whole life, as in the end to make it insupportable. No, this is not a mere fancy; it is a reality which is frequently seen by our eyes, not only in the cloister and the sanctuary, but amid the confusion and distractions of the world. That which establishes a fixed rule cannot bring confusion into the acts of the soul, or complicate the affairs of life. Quite the contrary; instead of confusion, it serves to distinguish and illuminate; instead of complicating, it puts in order and simplifies. Establish this rule, and you will have unity; and with unity general order.
Catholicity is always distinguished by its extreme vigilance with respect to morality, by its care in regulating all the acts of life, and even the most secret movements of the heart. Superficial observers have declaimed against the prolixity of moralists—against the minute and detailed study which they make of human actions considered under a moral aspect; they should have observed, that if Catholicity is the religion in the bosom of which has appeared so great a number of moralists, by whom all human actions have been examined in the greatest detail, it is because this religion has for its object to moralize for the whole man, as it were, in all his relations with God, with his neighbor, and with himself. It is clear that such an enterprise requires a more profound and attentive examination than would be necessary, if it had only to give to man an imperfect morality, stopping at the surface of actions, and not penetrating to the bottom of the heart. With respect to Catholic moralists, and without attempting to excuse the excess into which some among them have fallen, either by too great subtility, or by a spirit of party and dispute (excesses which cannot be imputed to the Catholic Church, since she has testified her displeasure when she has not expressly condemned them), it must be observed, that this abundance, this superfluity, if you will, of moral studies, has contributed more than people think to direct minds to the intimate study of man, by furnishing a multitude of facts and observations to those who have subsequently wished to devote themselves to this important science. Now, can there be a more worthy or more useful object for our labors? In another part of this work, I propose to develop the relations of Catholicity with the progress of science and literature; I shall not, therefore, enter more fully on the matter now. Still I may be allowed briefly to observe, that the development and education of the human mind have been principally theological; and that on this point, as well as on many others, philosophers are more indebted to theologians than they seem to imagine.
Let us return to the comparison of the Protestant and Catholic influence on the formation and preservation of a sound public conscience. We have showed that Catholicity, having constantly maintained the principle of authority which Protestantism rejects, has given to moral ideas a force and influence which Protestantism could not. Protestantism, indeed, by its nature and fundamental principles, has never given to these ideas any other support than they might have derived from a school of philosophy. But you will perhaps ask me, do you not acknowledge the force of these ideas; a force peculiar to them, and inherent in their nature, and which frequently changes the face of the world, by deciding its doctrines? Do you not know that they always, in the end, force a passage, in spite of every obstacle, and of all resistance? Have you forgotten the teaching of all history; and do you pretend to deprive human thought of that vital, creative force, which renders man superior to all that surrounds him? Such is the common panegyric on the strength of ideas; thus we see them transformed every moment into all-powerful beings, whose magical wand is capable of changing every thing at their pleasure.
However this may be, I am full of respect for human thought, and allow that there is much truth in what is called the force of an idea; yet I must beg leave to offer a few observations to these enthusiasts, not directly to combat their opinion, but to make some necessary modifications. In the first place, ideas, in the point of view in which we are now considering them, must be divided into two orders; some flattering our passions, the others checking them. It cannot be denied that the former have an immense expansive force. They have a motion of their own; they act in all places; they exert a rapid, violent power; one would say that they overflow with life and activity. The latter have great difficulty in making their way; they advance slowly, they cannot pursue their career without an institution to secure their stability. And why? Because it is not the ideas themselves which act in the former case, but the passions which accompany them, and assume their names; thus masking what is repulsive in them at first sight. In the latter case, on the contrary, it is the truth that speaks. Now, in this land of misfortune, the truth is but little attended to; for it leads to good; and the heart of man, as the Scripture says, is inclined to evil from his youth. Those who vaunt so much the native force of ideas, should point out to us, in ancient or modern history, one idea which, without going out of its own circle, that of the purely philosophical order, is entitled to the glory of having materially contributed to the amelioration of individuals and society.
It is commonly said that the force of ideas is immense; that once shown among men, they will fructify sooner or later; that once deposited in the bosom of humanity, they will remain there as a precious legacy, and contribute wonderfully to the improvement of the world, to the perfection towards which the human race advances. No doubt these assertions contain some truth; as man is an intelligent being, all that immediately affects his mind must certainly influence his destiny. Thus no great change is worked in society without being first realized in the order of ideas; all that is established contrary to our ideas, or without them, must be weak and passing. But it is by no means to be supposed that every useful idea contains in itself a conservative force capable of dispensing with all institutions; that is to say, with support and defence, even during times of social disorder: between these two propositions there is a gulf which cannot be closed without contradicting all history. Now humanity, considered by itself, and given up to its own strength, as it appears to philosophers, is not so safe a depositary as people wish to suppose. Unhappily we have melancholy proofs of this truth: we see too clearly that the human race, far from being a faithful trustee, has but too much imitated the conduct of a foolish spendthrift. In the cradle of the human race, we find great ideas on the unity of God, on man, on relations of man with God and their fellowmen. These ideas were certainly true, salutary, and fruitful: and yet, what did man do with them? Did he not lose them by modifying, mutilating, and distorting them in the most deplorable way? Where were they when Jesus Christ came into the world? What had humanity done with them? One nation alone preserved them; but in what way? Fix your attention on the chosen people, the Jews, and you will see that there was a continual struggle between truth and error; you will see that, by an inconceivable blindness, they incessantly inclined to idolatry; they had a constant tendency to substitute the abominations of the Gentiles for the sublime law of Mount Sinai. And do you know how the truth was preserved among this people? Observe it well; it was supported by the strongest institutions that can be imagined; it was armed with all the means of defence with which an inspired legislator could surround it. It will be said that they were a hard-hearted nation, in the language of the Scriptures; unhappily, since the fall of our first parent, this hardness of heart is become the patrimony of humanity; the heart of man is inclined to evil from his youth; ages before the existence of the Jews, God had covered the earth with the waters of heaven, and had blotted out man from the face of the world; for all flesh had corrupted its way. We must conclude from this, that the preservation of great moral ideas requires powerful institutions; it is evident, therefore, that they cannot be abandoned to the fickleness of the human mind without being disfigured, or even lost. I will say, moreover, that institutions are not only necessary to teach, but also to apply them. Moral ideas, especially those which openly contradict the passions, are never reduced to practice without great efforts; now the ideas themselves do not suffice to make these great efforts, and means of action are required capable of connecting ideas with facts; this is one of the reasons of the impotence of philosophical schools when they attempt to construct any thing. They are often powerful in destroying; momentary action is enough for this, and this action may be easily acquired in a moment of enthusiasm. But when they wish to establish and reduce their conceptions to practice, they are impotent; their only resource is what is called the force of ideas. Now, as ideas constantly vary and change—an inconstancy of which these schools themselves afford the first example—it happens that what we hear them announce one moment as an infallible means of human progress, is the next reduced to a mere object of curiosity.
These last observations anticipate the objection that may be urged against us with respect to the immense force which printing has given to ideas. But this is so far from being a preserver, that it may be said to be the best destroyer of all opinions. If we measure the immense orbit which the human mind has passed through since that important discovery, we shall see that the consummation of opinions (if I may be allowed the expression) is increased in a prodigious degree. The history of the human race, especially since the press has become periodical, appears to be the representation of a rapid drama, where the decorations change every moment, where the scenes succeed each other, scarcely allowing the spectator to catch any of the author's words. Half of this century has not yet passed away, and already it seems as if many centuries had elapsed, so great has been the number of schools which have been born and are dead, of reputations which, after being raised to the highest pitch of renown, have been soon forgotten. This rapid succession of ideas, so far from contributing to increase their force, necessarily renders them weak and unproductive. The natural order in the progress of ideas is this: at first to make their appearance, then to be realized in an institution representing them, and in fine to exert their influence on facts by means of an institution in which they are personified. Now, it is necessary that during these transformations, which essentially require time, ideas should preserve their credit, if they are to produce any favorable result. But when they succeed each other too rapidly, time is wanting for their successive transformations; new ideas strive to discredit the old ones, and consequently to render them useless. This is the reason why the strength of ideas, that is, of philosophy, was never so little to be relied on as now, to produce any thing durable and consistent in the moral order: in this respect, the gain to modern society may well be questioned. More is conceived, but less matured; what the mind gains in extent, it loses in depth, and the pretension in theory makes a sad contrast with the impotence of practice. Of what importance is it that our predecessors were not so ready as we are in improvising a discussion on great social and political questions, if they nevertheless organized and founded such admirable institutions? The architects who raised the astonishing monuments of ages which we call barbarous, were certainly not so learned or so cultivated as those of our time; and yet who has the boldness even to commence what they have finished? Thus it is in the social and political order. Let us remember that great thoughts are produced rather by intuition than by reasoning; in practice, success depends more upon the invaluable quality called tact, than upon enlightened reflection; and experience often teaches that he who knows much, sees little. The genius of Plato would not have been the best guide for Solon or Lycurgus; and all the knowledge of Cicero would not have succeeded in doing what was done by the tact and good sense of two unlettered men like Romulus and Numa.[20]
[CHAPTER XXXI.]
ON GENTLENESS OF MANNERS IN GENERAL.
A certain general gentleness of manners, which in war prevents great atrocities, and in peace renders life more quiet and agreeable:—such is one of the valuable qualities which I have pointed out as forming the distinguishing characteristics of European civilization. This is a fact which does not require proof; we see and feel it everywhere when we look around; it is evident to all who open the pages of history, and compare our times with any others. Wherein does this gentleness of manners in modern times consist? what is the cause of it? what has favoured it? what has opposed it? These interesting questions directly apply to our present subject; for they lead straight to the examination of other questions, such as the following: has Catholicity contributed in any way to this gentleness of manners; or, on the other hand, has it opposed or retarded it? in fine, what part has Protestantism played in the work, for good or evil? First of all, we must determine wherein gentleness of manners consists. Although we have here to deal with an idea which every one sees, or rather feels, we must still endeavor to explain and analyze it by a definition as complete and exact as possible. Gentleness of manners consists in the absence of force; so that manners will be more or less gentle according as force is less or more employed. Thus, we must not confound gentle with charitable manners; the latter work good, the former only exclude the idea of force. We must also distinguish gentle manners from those that are pure, and conformable to reason and justice. Immorality is often gentle, when, instead of resorting to force, it makes use of seduction and stratagem. This gentleness of manners consists in directing the human mind, not by violence which constrains the body, but by reasons which address themselves to the intellect, or by appeals to the passions. Thus it is that gentle manners are not always under the influence of reason; but their rule is always intellectual, although they are often made the slaves of the passions by golden chains of their own formation.