Protestantism and Catholicity

After having explained the mysterious personality of the Germans, and shown that, far from being an element of civilization, it was a source of disorder and barbarism; it is besides necessary to examine the difference which exists between the civilization of Europe and other civilizations, with respect to the feeling of dignity; it is necessary to determine with precision what modifications have been undergone by a feeling, which, considered by itself, is, as we have seen, common to all men. In the first place, there is no foundation for this assertion of M. Guizot, that the feeling of personal independence, the taste for liberty, displaying itself at all hazards, with scarcely any other object than its own satisfaction, was unknown to Roman society. It is clear that in such a comparison, it is not meant to allude to the feeling of independence in the savage state, in the state of barbarism; for as well might it be said that civilized nations could not have the distinctive character of barbarism. But laying aside that circumstance of ferocity, we will say that the feeling was very active, not only among the Romans, but also among the other most celebrated nations of antiquity. "When you find in ancient civilization," says M. Guizot, "liberty, it is political liberty, the liberty of the citizen. It is not with his personal liberty that the man is prepossessed, it is with his liberty as a citizen; he belongs to an association, he is devoted to an association, he is ready to sacrifice himself for an association." I will not deny that this spirit of sacrifice for the benefit of an association did exist among ancient nations; I acknowledge also that it was accompanied by remarkable peculiarities, which I intend to explain further on; yet it may be doubted whether the taste for liberty, with scarcely any other object than its own satisfaction, was not more active with ancient nations than with us. Indeed, what was the object of the Phœnicians, the Greeks of the Archipelago and of Asia Minor, the Carthaginians, when they undertook those voyages which, for such remote times, were as bold and perilous as those of our most intrepid sailors? Was it, indeed, to sacrifice themselves for an association that they sought new territories with so much ardour, in order to amass there money, gold, and all kinds of articles of value? Were they not led by the desire of acquiring to gratify themselves? Where, then, is the association? Where do you find it here? Do you see any thing but the individual, with his passions and tastes, and his ardour in satisfying them? And the Greeks – those Greeks so enervated, so voluptuous, so spoiled by pleasures, had they not the most lively feeling of personal independence, the most ardent desire of living with perfect freedom, with no other object but to gratify themselves? Their poets singing of nectar and of love; their free courtesans receiving the homage of the most illustrious citizens, and making sages forget their philosophical moderation and gravity; and the people celebrating their festivals amid the most fearful dissoluteness; did they also only sacrifice on the altars of association? Had they not the desire of gratifying themselves? With respect to the Romans, perhaps it would not be so easy to demonstrate this, if we had to speak of what are called the glorious times of the Republic; but we have to deal with the Romans of the empire, with those who lived at the time of the irruption of the barbarians; with those Romans, greedy of pleasures, and devoured by that thirst for excess of which history has preserved such shameful pictures. Their superb palaces, their magnificent villas, their delicious baths, their splendid festive halls, their tables loaded with riches, their effeminate dresses, their voluptuous dissipation; do they not show us individuals who, without thinking of the association to which they belonged, only thought of gratifying their own passions and caprices; lived in the greatest luxury, with every delicacy and all imaginable splendour; had no care but to enjoy society, to lull themselves asleep in pleasure, to gratify all their passions, and give way to a burning love of their own satisfactions and amusements?

It is not easy, then, to imagine why M. Guizot exclusively attributes to the barbarians the pleasure of feeling themselves men, the feeling of personality, of human spontaneousness in its free development. Can we believe that such sentiments were unknown to the victors of Marathon and Platæa, to those nations who have immortalized their names by so many monuments? When, in the fine arts, in the sciences, in eloquence, in poetry, the noblest traits of genius shone forth on all sides, had they not among them the pleasure of feeling themselves men, the feeling and the power of the free development of all their faculties? and in a society where glory was so passionately loved, as we see it was among the Romans, in a society which shows us men like Cicero and Virgil, and which produced a Tacitus, who still, after nineteen centuries, makes every generous heart thrill with emotion, was there no pleasure in feeling themselves men, no pride in appreciating their own dignity? Was there no feeling of the spontaneousness of man in his own free development? How can we imagine that the barbarians of the north surpassed the Greeks and Romans in this respect? Why, then, these paradoxes, this confusion of ideas? Of what avail are these brilliant expressions meaning nothing? Of what use are these observations, of a false delicacy, where the mind at first sight discovers vagueness and inexactitude; and where it finds, after a complete examination, nothing but incoherency and revery?

CHAPTER XXII.

HOW THE INDIVIDUAL WAS ABSORBED BY ANCIENT SOCIETY

IF we profoundly study this question, without suffering ourselves to be led into error and extravagance, by the desire of passing for deep observers; if we call to our aid a just and cool philosophy, supported by the facts of history, we shall see that the principal difference between the ancient civilizations and our own with respect to the individual is, that, in antiquity, man, considered as man, was not properly esteemed. Ancient nations did not want either the feeling of personal independence, or the pleasure of feeling themselves men; the fault was not in the heart, but in the head. What they wanted was the comprehension of the dignity of man; the high idea which Christianity has given us of ourselves, while, at the same time, with admirable wisdom, it has shown us our infirmities. What ancient societies wanted, what all those, where Christianity does not prevail, have wanted, and will continue to want, is the respect and the consideration which surround every individual, every man, inasmuch as he is a man. Among the Greeks the Greeks are every thing; strangers, barbarians, are nothing: in Rome, the title of Roman citizen makes the man; he who wants this is nothing. In Christian countries, the infant who is born deformed, or deprived of some member, excites compassion, and becomes an object of the tenderest solicitude; it is enough that he is man, and unfortunate. Among the ancients, this human being was regarded as useless and contemptible; in certain cities, as for example at Lacedæmon, it was forbidden to nourish him, and, by command of the magistrates charged with the regulation of births, horrible to relate! he was thrown into a ditch. He was a human being; but what matter? He was a human being who would be of no use; and society, without compassion, did not wish to undertake the charge of his support. If you read Plato and Aristotle, you will see the horrible doctrine which they professed on the subject of abortion and infanticide; you will see the means which these philosophers imagined, in order to prevent the excess of population; and you will be sensible of the immense progress which society has made, under the influence of Christianity, in all that relates to man. Are not the public games, those horrible scenes where hundreds of men were slaughtered to amuse an inhuman multitude, an eloquent testimony to the little value attached to man, when he was sacrificed with so much barbarism for reasons so frivolous?

The right of the strongest was exercised among the ancients in a horrible manner; and this is one of the causes to which must be attributed the state of annihilation, so to speak, in which we see the individual with respect to society. Society was strong, the individual was weak; society absorbed the individual, and arrogated to itself all imaginable rights over him; and if ever he made opposition to society, he was sure to be crushed by it with an iron hand. When we read the explanation which M. Guizot gives us of this peculiarity of ancient civilizations, we might suppose that there existed among them a patriotism unknown to us; a patriotism which, carried to exaggeration, and stripped of the feeling of personal independence, produced a kind of annihilation of the individual in presence of society. If he had reflected deeply on the matter, M. Guizot would have seen that the difference is not in the feelings of antiquity, but in the immense fundamental revolution which has taken place in ideas; hence he would easily have concluded, that the difference observed in their feelings must have been owing to the differences in the ideas themselves. Indeed, it is not strange that the individual, seeing the little esteem in which he was held, and the unlimited power which society arrogated to itself over his independence and his life, (for it went so far as to grind him to powder, when he opposed it,) on his side formed an exaggerated idea of society and the public authority, so as to annihilate himself in his own heart before this fearful colossus. Far from considering himself as a member of an association the object of which was the safety and happiness of every individual, the benefits of which required from him some sacrifices in return, he regarded himself as a thing devoted to this association, and compelled, without hesitation, to offer himself as a holocaust on its altars. Such is the condition of man; when a power acts upon him, for a long time, unlimitedly, his indignation is excited against it, and he rejects it with violence; or else he humbles, he debases, he annihilates himself before the strong influence which binds and prostrates him. Let us see if this be not the contrast which ancient societies constantly afford us; the blindest submission and annihilation on the one hand, and, on the other, the spirit of insubordination, of resistance, showing itself in terrible explosions. It is thus, and thus only, that it is possible to understand how societies, whose normal condition was confusion and agitation, present us with such astonishing examples as Leonidas with his three hundred Spartans perishing at Thermopylæ, Sævola thrusting his hand into the fire, Regulus returning to Carthage to suffer and die, and Marcus Curtius, all armed, leaping into the chasm which had opened in the midst of Rome. All these phenomena, which at first sight appear inexplicable, are explained when we compare them with what has taken place in the revolutions of modern times. Terrible revolutions have thrown some nations into confusion; the struggle of ideas and interests, inflaming their passions, has made them forget their true social relations, during intervals of greater or less duration. What has happened? At the same time that unlimited freedom was proclaimed, and the rights of individuals were incessantly extolled, there arose in the midst of society a cruel power, which, concentrating in its own hands all public authority, inflicted on them the severest blows. At such periods, when the formidable maxim of the ancients, the salus populi, that pretext for so many frightful attempts was in full force, there arose, on the other hand, that mad and ferocious patriotism which superficial men admire in the citizens of ancient republics.

Some writers have lavished eulogiums on the ancients, and, above all, on the Romans. It seemed as if, to gratify their ardent wishes, modern civilization must be moulded according to the ancient. They made absurd attempts; they attacked the existing social system with unexampled violence; they labored to destroy, or at least to stifle, Christian ideas concerning the individual and society, and they sought their inspiration from the shades of the ancient Romans. It is remarkable that, during the short time that the attempt lasted, there were seen, as in ancient Rome, admirable traits of strength, of valor, of patriotism, in fearful contrast with cruelties and crimes without example. In the midst of a great and generous nation there appeared again, to affright the human race, the bloody spectres of Marius and Sylla; so true it is that man is everywhere the same, and that the same order of ideas in the end produces the same order of events. Let the Christian ideas disappear, let old ones regain their force, and you will see that the modern world will resemble the ancient one. Happily for humanity, this is impossible. All the attempts hitherto made to produce such a result have been necessarily of short continuance, and such will be the case in future. But the bloody page which these criminal attempts have left in history offers an abundant subject for reflection to the philosopher who desires to become thoroughly acquainted with the intimate and delicate relations between ideas and facts. There he will see fully exhibited the vast scheme of social organization, and he will be able to appreciate at its just value the beneficial or injurious influence of the various religious and the different philosophical systems.

The periods of revolutions, that is to say, those stormy times when governments are swallowed up one after another like edifices built upon a volcanic soil, have all this distinctive character, the tyranny of the interests of public authority over private interests. Never is this power feebler, or less lasting; but never is it more violent, more mad. Every thing is sacrificed to its safety or its vengeance; the shade of its enemies pursues it and makes it continually tremble; its own conscience torments it and leaves it no repose; the weakness of its organization, its instable position, warn it at every step of its approaching fall, and in its impotent despair it makes the convulsive efforts of one dying in agony. What, then, in its eyes are the lives of citizens, if they excite the slightest, the most remote suspicion? If the blood of thousands of victims could procure for it a moment of security, and add a few days to its existence, "Perish my enemies," it says; "this is required for the safety of the state, that is, for mine!" Why this frenzy, this cruelty? It is because the ancient government, having been overturned by force, and the new having been enthroned in the same way, the idea of right has disappeared from the sphere of power. Legitimacy does not protect it, even its novelty betrays its little value; every thing forebodes its short existence. Stripped of the reason and justice which it is obliged to invoke in its own support, it seeks for both in the very necessity of power, a social necessity, which is always visible, and it proclaims that the safety of the people is the supreme care. Then the property and lives of individuals are nothing; they are annihilated in the presence of the bloody spectre which arises in the midst of society; armed with force, and surrounded by guards and scaffolds, it says, "I am the public power; to me is confided the safety of the people; it is I who watch over the interests of society."

Now, do you know what is the result of this absolute want of respect for the individual, of this complete annihilation of man in presence of the alarming power which claims to represent society? It is that the feeling of association reappears in different directions; no longer a feeling directed by reason, foresight, and beneficence, but a blind, instinctive feeling, which urges man not to remain alone, without defence, in the midst of a society which is converted into a field of battle and a vast conspiracy; men then unite either to sustain power, when, influenced by the whirlwind of revolution, they are identified with it, and regard it as their only rampart, or to overturn it, if, some motive having urged them into the opposite ranks, they see their most terrible enemy in the existing power, and a sword continually suspended over their heads. These men belong to an association, are devoted to an association, are ready to sacrifice themselves for it, for they cannot live alone; they know, they comprehend, at least instinctively, that the individual is nothing; for as the restraints that maintain social order have been broken, the individual no longer has a tranquil sphere where he can live in peace and independence, confident that a power founded on legitimacy and guided by reason and justice watches over the preservation of public order and the respect due to individual rights. Then timid men are alarmed and humbled, and begin to represent that first scene of servitude where the oppressed is seen to kiss the hand of the oppressor, and the victim to reverence the executioner. Daring men resist and contend, or rather, conspiring in the dark, they prepare terrible explosions. No one then belongs to himself; the individual is absorbed on all sides, either by the force which oppresses or by that which conspires. The tutelary divinity of individuals is justice; when justice vanishes, they are no more than imperceptible grains of dust carried away by the wind, or drops of water in the stormy waves of ocean. Imagine to yourself societies where this passing frenzy does not prevail, it is true, but which are yet devoid of true ideas on the rights and duties of individuals, and of those of public authority; societies where there are some wandering, uncertain, obscure, imperfect notions thereon, stifled by a thousand prejudices and errors; societies under which, nevertheless, public authority is organized under one form or another, and has become consolidated, thanks to the force of habit, and the absence of all other government better calculated to satisfy urgent necessities; you will then have an idea of the ancient societies, we should rather say, societies without Christianity, and you will understand the annihilation of the individual before the force of public power, either under an Asiatic despotism or the turbulent democracy of the ancient republics. And what you will then see will be precisely what you have observed in modern societies at times of revolution, only with this difference, that in these the evil is transitory and noisy, like the ravages of the tempest, while among the ancients it was the normal state, like the vitiated atmosphere which injures and corrupts all that breathe it.

Let us examine the cause of these two opposite phenomena, the lofty patriotism of the Greeks and Romans, and the state of prostration and political degradation in which other nations lay, and in which those still lie who are not under the influence of Christianity; what is the cause of this individual abnegation which is found at the bottom of two feelings so contrary? and why do we not find among any of those nations that individual development which is observed in Europe, and which with us is connected with a reasonable patriotism, from which the feeling of a legitimate personal independence is not excluded? It is because in antiquity man did not know himself, or what he was; it is because his true relations with society were viewed through a thousand prejudices and errors, and consequently were very ill understood. This will show that admiration for the patriotism, disinterestedness, and heroic self-denial of the ancients has been sometimes carried too far, and that these qualities, far from revealing in the men of antiquity a greater perfection of the individual, a superior elevation of mind to that of the men of modern times, rather indicate ideas less elevated and feelings less independent than our own. Perhaps some blind admirers of the ancients will be astonished at these assertions. Let them consider the women of India throwing themselves on the funeral-pile after the death of their husbands, and slaves putting themselves to death because they could not survive their masters, and they will see that personal self-denial is not an infallible sign of elevation of mind. Sometimes man does not understand his own dignity; he considers himself devoted to another being, absorbed by him, and then he regards his own existence only as a secondary thing, which has no object but to minister to the existence of another. We do not wish to underrate the merit which rightly belongs to the ancients; we do not wish to lower their heroism, as far as it is just and laudable, any more than we wish to attribute to the moderns an egotistical individuality, which prevents their sacrificing themselves for their country: our only object is to assign to every thing its place, by dissipating prejudices which are excusable up to a certain point, but do lamentable mischief by falsifying the principal features of ancient and modern history.

This annihilation of the individual among the ancients arose also from the weakness and imperfection of his moral development, and from his want of a rule for his own guidance, which compelled society to interfere in all that concerned him, as if public reason was called upon to supply the defect of private reason. If we pay attention, we shall observe that in countries where political liberty was the most cherished, civil liberty was almost unknown. While the citizens flattered themselves that they were very free, because they took part in the public deliberations, they wanted that liberty which is most important to man, that which we now call civil liberty. We may form an idea of the thoughts and manners of the ancients on this point, by reading one of their most celebrated writers, Aristotle. In the eyes of this philosopher, the only title which renders a man worthy of the name of citizen, seems to be the participation in the government of the republic; and these ideas, apparently very democratic and calculated to extend the rights of the most numerous class, far from proceeding, as one would suppose, from an exaggeration of the dignity of man, was connected in his mind with a profound contempt for man himself. His system was to reserve all honor and consideration for a very limited number; the classes of citizens who were thus condemned to degradation and nullity were all laborers, artisans, and tradesmen. (Pol. l. vii. c. 9, 12; l. viii. c. 1, 2; l. iii. c. 1.) This theory supposed, as may be seen, very curious ideas on individuals and society, and is an additional confirmation of what I have said respecting the eccentricities, not to say monstrosities, which we see in the ancient republics. Let us never forget that one of the principal causes of the evil was the want of an intimate knowledge of man; it was the little value which was placed upon his dignity as man; the individual, deprived of guides to direct him, could not conciliate esteem; in a word, there was wanting the light of Christianity, which was alone capable of illuminating the chaos.

The feeling of the dignity of man is deeply engraven on the heart of modern society; we find everywhere, written in striking characters, this truth, that man, by virtue of his title of man, is respectable and worthy of high consideration; hence it is that all the schools of modern times that have foolishly undertaken to exalt the individual, at the imminent risk of producing fearful perturbations in society, have adopted as the constant theme of their instructions, this dignity and nobility of man. They thus distinguish themselves in the most decided manner from the democrats of antiquity; the latter acted in a narrow sphere, without departing from a certain order of things, without looking beyond the limits of their own country; in the spirit of modern democrats, on the contrary, we find a tendency to invade all branches, an ardent propagandism which embraces the whole world. They never invoke mean ideas; man, his reason, his imprescriptible rights, these are their perpetual theme. Ask them what is their design, and they will tell you that they desire to level all things, to avenge the sacred cause of humanity. This exaggeration of ideas, the pretext and motive for so many crimes, shows us a valuable fact, viz. the immense progress which Christianity has given to ideas with relation to the dignity of our nature. When they have to mislead societies which owe their civilization to Christianity, they find no better means than to invoke the dignity of human nature. The Christian religion, the enemy of all that is criminal, could not consent to see society overturned, under the pretence of defending and raising the dignity of man; this is the reason why a great number of the most ardent democrats have indulged in insults and sarcasms against religion. On the other hand, as history loudly proclaims that all our knowledge and feeling of what is true, just, and reasonable on this point, is due to the Christian religion, it has been recently attempted to make a monstrous alliance between Christian ideas and the most extravagant of democratic theories. A celebrated man has undertaken this enterprise; but true Christianity, that is, Catholicity, rejects these adulterous alliances; it ceases to acknowledge its most eminent apologists when they have quitted the path of eternal truth. De Lamennais now wanders in the darkness of error, embracing a deceitful shadow of Christianity; and the voice of the supreme Pastor of the Church has warned the faithful against being dazzled by the illusion of a name illustrious by so many titles.16