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.
If gentleness of manners consists in not making use, in human transactions, of other means than those of conviction, persuasion, or seduction, it is clear that the most advanced society – that is, that in which intelligence has been most developed – should always participate more or less in this social advantage. There the mind rules, because it is strong; while material force disappears, because the body has less strength. Moreover, in societies very much advanced, where relations and interests are necessarily much multiplied, there is an indispensable want of means capable of acting in a universal and lasting manner, and applicable to all the details of life. These means are, unquestionably, moral and intellectual: the mind operates without destruction, while force dashes violently against obstacles, and breaks itself to pieces, if it cannot overturn them. Thus it is the cause of continual commotions, which cannot subsist in a society which has numerous and complicated relations, without throwing into confusion and destroying society itself.
We always observe in young nations a lamentable abuse of force. Nothing is more natural: the passions ally themselves with force, because they resemble it; they are energetical as violence, and rude as its shocks. When society has reached a great degree of development, the passions are divorced from force, and become allied with the intelligence; they cease to be violent, in order to become artful. In the first case, if it is the people who struggle, they make war on, they contend with, and destroy each other; in the second case, they contend with the arms of industry, commerce, and contraband. Governments attack, in the first case, by arms and invasions; and in the second by diplomacy. In the first epoch, warriors are every thing; in the second, they are nothing; they have not a very important part to play when negotiation, and not fighting, is required. When we look at ancient civilization, we observe a remarkable difference between the character of its manners and the gentleness of ours. Neither the Greeks nor Romans ever regarded this precious quality in the light in which we regard it, for the honor of European civilization. Those nations became enervated, but they did not become gentle; we may say that their manners were made effeminate, but they were not softened; for we see them make use of force on all occasions, when neither vigor of body nor energy of mind was required. There is nothing more worthy of observation than this peculiarity of ancient civilization, especially of that of Rome. Now this phenomenon, which at first sight appears to us to be very strange, has very deep causes. Besides the principal of these causes, which is, the want of an element of civilization such as that which modern nations have had in Christian charity, we shall find among the ancients, if we descend to the details of their social organization, certain causes which necessarily hindered this gentleness of manners being established among them.
In the first case, slavery, one of the constituent elements of their social and domestic organization, was an eternal obstacle to the introduction of this precious quality. The man who has the power of throwing another to the fishes, and of punishing with death the crime of breaking a glass; he who during a feast, to gratify his caprice, can take away the life of one of his brethren; he who can rest upon a voluptuous couch, surrounded by the most sumptuous magnificence, while he knows that hundreds of men, crowded together in dark vaults, work incessantly for his cupidity and his pleasures; he who can hear without emotion the lamentations of a crowd of unhappy beings imploring a morsel of bread to pass through the night's misery which is to unite their labors and fatigues of the evening with those of the morning, such a man may have effeminate, but he cannot have gentle manners; his heart may become enervated, but it will not cease to be cruel. This was precisely the situation of the free man in ancient society: the organization of which we have just stated the results was regarded as indispensable; they could not even conceive the possibility of any other order of things. What removed this obstacle? was it not the Catholic Church, by abolishing slavery, after having ameliorated the cruel lot of slaves? Those who revert to the 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, and 19th chapters of this work, with the notes appended to them, will find the truth of this demonstrated by incontestable reasons and documents.
In the second place, the right of life and death, given by the laws to the paternal power, introduced into families an element of severity which could not but produce injurious effects. Happily, the hearts of fathers were continually contending against the power thus granted by law: but if this feeling did not prevent some deeds the perusal of which makes us shudder, must we not suppose that, in the ordinary course of life, cruel scenes constantly reminded the members of families of this atrocious right with which the chief was invested? Will not he who is possessed of the power of killing with impunity, be frequently hurried into acts of cruel despotism? Now this tyrannical extension of the rights of paternal authority, carried far beyond the limits pointed out by nature, was taken away by the force of laws and manners which were much aided by the influence of Catholicity (see the 24th chap. of this work). To the two causes which I have just pointed out, may be added another perfectly analogous, viz. the despotism which the husband exercised over his wife, and the little respect which was paid to her. Public spectacles were, among the Romans, another element of severity and cruelty. What could be expected of a people whose principal amusement is to look coolly upon homicide – who took pleasure in witnessing the slaughter in the arena of hundreds of men fighting against each other, or against wild beasts?
As a Spaniard, I feel called upon here to insert a paragraph, in reply to the observations which will be made against me on this point: I allude to the Spanish bull-fights. I shall naturally be asked, Is it not in a Christian and Catholic country that the custom of making men fight against animals is preserved? The objection, however plausible it may seem, can be answered. In the first place, to avoid any misunderstanding, I declare that this popular amusement is, in my opinion, barbarous, and ought, if possible, to be completely extirpated. But after this full and explicit avowal, let me be permitted to make a few observations, to screen the honor of my country. In the first place, it must be remarked, that there is in the human heart a secret taste for risks and dangers; in order to make an adventure interesting, it is necessary that the hero should be encompassed with great and multiplied perils; if a history is to excite curiosity to a high degree, it must not be an uninterrupted chain of peaceful and happy events. We wish to find ourselves frequently in the presence of extraordinary and surprising facts; and, however unpleasant may be the avowal, our hearts, while they feel the tenderest compassion for the unfortunate, seem to require the contemplation of scenes of a more violent and exciting character. Hence the taste for tragedies: hence the love of scenes in which the actors incur great risks, in appearance or in reality. It is not my duty here to explain the origin of this phenomenon; it is enough for me here to point out its existence to show foreigners who accuse us of being barbarians, that the taste of the Spanish people for bull-fights is only the application to a particular case, of an inclination inherent everywhere in the heart of man. Those who, with respect to this custom of the Spanish people, affect so much humanity, would do well to answer the following questions: To what is owing the pleasure taken by the multitude in every exhibition, when the actors run any risk in one way or another? Whence comes it that all would willingly be present at the bloodiest battle, if they could do so without danger? Whence comes it that everywhere an immense multitude assembles to witness the agonies and the last convulsions of a criminal on the gibbet? Whence comes it, in fine, that foreigners, when at Madrid, render themselves accomplices in the barbarity of Spaniards by assisting at these bull-fights? I say this, not in any degree to excuse a custom which appears to me to be unworthy of a civilized people, but to show that in this point, as well as in almost all that relates to the Spanish people, there are exaggerations which ought to be reduced within reasonable limits. Let us add an important observation, which is the best excuse that can be made for this reprehensible exhibition: instead of fixing our attention on the spectacle itself, let us consider the evils that flow from it. Now, I ask, how many men die in Spain in bull-fights? The number is extremely small, and altogether insignificant in proportion to the frequency of these spectacles; so that if a comparison were made between the accidents which occur in consequence of this amusement and those that happen in other sports, such as horse-races and others of the same kind, we should perhaps find that bull-fights, however barbarous they may be in themselves, still do not deserve all the anathemas with which foreigners have loaded them. To return to our principal object, how, we ask, is it possible to compare an amusement which, perhaps, may not cost the life of one man during many years, to those terrible shows in which death was a necessary condition for the pleasure of the spectators? After the triumph of Trajan over the Dacians, the public games lasted twenty-three days, and the fearful number of six thousand gladiators was slain. Such were the amusements at Rome, not only of the populace, but of the highest classes; such were the horrible spectacles required by a people who added voluptuousness to the most atrocious cruelty. This is a most convincing proof of what I have said, viz. that manners may be effeminate without being gentle, and that the brutality of unbounded luxury is not inconsistent with the instinct of blood-thirsty ferocity.
It is impossible that such spectacles should be tolerated among modern nations, however corrupt their manners may be. The principle of charity has extended its empire too universally for such excesses to be renewed. This charity, it is true, does not induce men to do all the good to each other that they ought; but, at least, it prevents their coldly perpetrating evil, and assisting quietly at the slaughter of their brethren to gratify the pleasure of the moment. Christianity, at its birth, cast into society the seed of this aversion to homicide. Who is not aware of the repugnance of Christians for the shows of the Gentiles – a repugnance prescribed and kept alive by the admonitions of the early pastors of the Church? It was an acknowledged fact, that Christian charity prohibited the being present at games where homicide formed part of the spectacle. "As for us," said one of the apologists of the early ages, "we make little difference between committing murder and seeing it committed."21